Chloe’s breath came in short gasps. “You’re insane.”

“Am I?” Irene reached out and brushed a strand of hair from Chloe’s face. “You had nightmares for years. You wet the bed until you were fourteen. You flinched every time a man raised his voice. That wasn’t imagination, Chloe. That was memory. And I buried it for you — in this room. Every photo, every date, every notation. I took the pain and put it in these walls so you could live.”

“I’d rather stay in the guest house,” Chloe replied.

Chloe felt the floor tilt. “You’re lying.”

She had been cleaning out the garage — against Irene’s suggestion — when a rusted toolbox fell from a high shelf. Inside, beneath a cracked leather glove, lay a single brass key with a tag marked

Chloe didn’t blink. She had known. Her father, Richard, had spent the last three years of his life in a fog of opioids and guilt. In the end, he had given everything to Irene — not out of love, Chloe suspected, but out of fear.

“I’m staying in the guest house. But I’m not afraid of you anymore. — C.”

The basement of the main house had always been locked. Irene said it was flooded, unstable. Chloe had believed her.