Chapter 5: The Diary She Hid Under The Mattress
Chris and I went back to the house later that day—with two police officers, just in case. The place looked normal at first glance: toys lined up on the shelf, Sarah’s crayon drawings taped to the fridge, her rain boots by the door. But her bedroom was empty.
Her clothes gone. Her favorite stuffed rabbit gone. Her school bag tossed on the floor, pages ripped out and scattered.
"She didn’t pack this," Chris said, kicking a torn notebook page with his boot. "They cleared it out fast."
We searched the whole room: inside the closet, behind the dresser, under the desk. Nothing. Until I lifted the mattress.
There it was—her pink diary, the one she’d decorated with glitter stickers and said she kept "secret from everyone but Daddy."
Most pages were drawings of rainbows and horses and stick-figure us holding hands. But the last four were written in shaky, messy letters:
*Mom says I cost too much money. Grandpa says if I cry again, he’ll lock me in the basement.*
*They said you don’t want me anymore. That’s why you’re always gone on trips.*
*Last night he pushed me down the stairs. Mom said it was my fault for being slow.*
*Please come get me. I’m scared.*
I sat on the floor and cried. For the first time in years, I couldn’t hold it back.
Then Chris called me over to Melissa’s desk. He’d pried open the bottom drawer—the one she always kept locked, saying it held "important papers."
"Look at this," he said.
Stacks of cash. Thousands of dollars. All in small bills. And a note scrawled in Roger’s sharp handwriting: Payment due Friday. No more delays, or she pays the price.
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