Chapter 2 - THE CHILD BEFORE THE SECRET
I wanted answers.
The paramedic told me to wait.
“Your son first.”
Correct.
Perrin sat on an emergency-department bed with his stuffed dog tucked beneath one arm while Dr. Maya Chen examined his knees, wrists, back, and head.
No fracture.
No concussion.
No serious dehydration.
Bruises.
Scrapes.
Fear.
The empty bottle from the hidden room suggested someone had expected him to remain there long enough to need water.
That detail mattered.
Police photographed the room.
The broken panel.
Perrin’s clothing.
The bottle.
Rhea’s fingerprints would not prove much inside a house where she lived.
Her conduct would depend on video, witnesses, and Perrin’s carefully obtained statement.
I did not question him repeatedly.
Detective Mara Ellis warned me.
“Four-year-olds can be influenced accidentally. Let the forensic interviewer handle specifics.”
So I stopped asking about Serena.
It nearly killed me.
Perrin kept looking toward the hospital door.
“Rhea coming?”
“No.”
“Promise?”
“Yes.”
That promise I could make.
A temporary protective condition already kept her away while investigators reviewed the confinement allegation.
“Dad?”
“Yes?”
“Can Mom come?”
My chest tightened.
“I don’t know where Mom is.”
He frowned.
“You don’t?”
“No.”
He looked confused.
That hurt.
A child who knew something his father did not.
Dr. Chen completed the physical exam.
The red marks on Perrin’s knees matched a hard landing.
There was mild bruising on his upper arm.
Could Rhea have grabbed him?
Possible.
Could normal childhood play cause it?
Also possible.
No exaggeration.
The forensic interviewer arrived.
I watched through permitted observation with Detective Ellis.
Perrin was given crayons.
No leading questions.
“Tell me about the little room.”
“Rhea put me.”
“How?”
“She throwed me.”
“Show me with the doll.”
He demonstrated being pushed through an opening.
“What did she say?”
“Disappear.”
“Anything else?”
“Daddy never find.”
“Were you in there before?”
Perrin nodded.
My stomach dropped.
“When?”
He shrugged.
“Long time.”
Children measure time terribly.
“What happened then?”
“She said secret.”
“What secret?”
Perrin became quiet.
Then:
“Mom.”
My heartbeat changed.
The interviewer did not react.
“Tell me about Mom.”
“I saw her.”
“Where?”
Perrin pointed vaguely.
“House.”
“Which house?”
“Not Daddy house.”
“Who was there?”
“Rhea.”
“Anyone else?”
Perrin whispered:
“Lady sleeping.”
“Was that Mom?”
He nodded.
“How did you know?”
“She has song.”
“What song?”
Perrin hummed three notes.
My knees weakened.
Serena used to sing the same melody while rocking him.
An old lullaby her mother taught her.
Could Rhea have known it?
Yes.
Could Perrin remember it independently?
Maybe.
Still not proof.
Then he said:
“Mom opened eyes.”
I stopped breathing.
The interviewer asked:
“What happened?”
“Rhea said no Mommy.”
“Then?”
“Door close.”
“Did you see Mom again?”
Perrin shook his head.
That was all.
No address.
No date.
No full explanation.
Only a child’s memory.
Detective Ellis turned toward me.
“When was Serena declared dead?”
“Three years ago.”
“Did you see her body?”
The question hit harder than expected.
“No.”
“Why?”
“The vehicle burned.”
“Who handled identification?”
“Authorities.”
“Which jurisdiction?”
“North Ridge County.”
“Who informed you?”
I opened my mouth.
Then stopped.
The first person who called me after the crash had not been police.
It had been Rhea.
At the time she was Serena’s closest friend.
The woman who sat beside me at the funeral.
The woman wearing my engagement ring now.
Detective Ellis saw my face.
“What?”
“Rhea told me first.”
The detective wrote nothing for several seconds.
Then:
“We’re going to pull the original case.”
My phone buzzed.
An unknown number.
One text.
Do not let Perrin tell them about the white house.
I showed Detective Ellis.
She stared at the message.
Then at me.
“Who knows he mentioned another house?”
May you like
“No one outside this room.”
That was when the investigation stopped being a frightened child’s impossible story.
