Doug looked as though somebody had struck him.
“I didn't know.”
Bentley stood motionless in the kitchen doorway.
“You told him about Maddie?”
Doug looked at the boy.
“I thought he was family.”
“You told him?”
His voice rose.
“I didn't know who he was.”
Bentley moved backward.
I stepped between them.
“Doug, sit down.”
“I don't need to sit.”
“You do.”
Perhaps it was my tone. Perhaps the sight of Detective Ortiz standing behind me persuaded him.
Either way, he sat.
Bentley did not.
He remained near the hallway, arms tight across his chest.
Ortiz took the chair opposite Doug.
“Tell me exactly what happened.”
Doug rubbed both palms over his face.
“Wednesday afternoon. Maybe three-thirty. Guy called the rental number.”
“Your cell?”
“Yes.”
“Caller ID?”
“Blocked.”
“What did he say?”
“That he was Amber's brother and hadn't heard from her. Said their mother was worried.”
“Did he use Amber's last name?”
“Yes.”
“Which one?”
Doug hesitated.
“Collins.”
Ortiz nodded slightly.
“What else?”
“He asked whether she still lived here.”
“And you confirmed it.”
“Yes.”
“Then?”
“He asked if her kids were still with her.”
Doug's voice grew quieter.
“I said yes.”
“You described them?”
“Not exactly.”
Bentley interrupted.
“You said boy and girl.”
Doug looked at him.
“Yes.”
“How did he react?”
“I don't remember.”
“Think.”
Doug closed his eyes.
“He paused.”
Ortiz leaned forward.
“After you mentioned the girl?”
“I think so.”
“What did he say?”
Doug stared at the table.
“He asked how old she was.”
I felt my stomach knot.
“And you told him?”
“Three.”
Bentley turned away.
Doug's face reddened.
“I didn't know.”
No one answered.
He looked at me.
“Ma, I swear.”
“I believe you didn't know.”
Relief flickered across his face too soon.
“That doesn't make it harmless.”
The relief vanished.
Ortiz continued.
“Did he ask anything about Amber's schedule?”
“Yes.”
“What?”
“When she was usually home.”
Doug stared at his hands.
“I told him she worked early shifts.”
My anger flared.
“You gave a stranger a tenant's work schedule?”
“He said he was her brother.”
“That does not make it appropriate.”
“I know that now.”
“You should've known it then.”
Doug pushed away from the table.
“I made a mistake.”
Bentley laughed once.
It was a harsh sound, completely unlike him.
“A mistake?”
Doug looked at him.
Bentley's eyes were wet.
“You turned off our water.”
“Bentley—”
“You told him where we live.”
“I didn't give him the address. He already had it.”
“You told him about Maddie.”
Doug opened his mouth.
Nothing came out.
Bentley's voice shook.
“And then you brought papers to kick us out.”
“I'm cancelling those.”
“Because Miss Arlene made you.”
Doug looked down.
That silence was answer enough.
Bentley walked upstairs.
I nearly followed, but Ortiz caught my eye.
Give him a minute.
Doug stared at the floor.
“I'm not a monster.”
“No one called you one,” I said.
“He thinks I am.”
“He thinks adults keep making decisions that leave him carrying the consequences.”
That hurt him.
Good.
Some pain teaches what explanations cannot.
Ortiz asked for Doug's phone. He handed it over.
She photographed the call log and took down the number of the rental listing.
Then her own phone rang.
She checked the screen.
“It's Amber.”
She stepped into the living room.
I could hear only fragments at first.
“Yes.”
“No, he's safe.”
A pause.
“Amber, I need you to answer something.”
Another pause.
“The note in the backpack.”
Ortiz became very still.
“Yes. Red stairs.”
She listened for nearly a minute.
Then looked toward me.
Something in her expression changed.
“Are you certain?”
Another long silence.
“All right.”
She ended the call and returned to the kitchen.
“What?” I asked.
Ortiz didn't answer immediately.
Doug stood.
“Is something wrong?”
“Amber wants to speak to Bentley.”
“He just went upstairs.”
“I know.”
I studied her.
“What aren't you saying?”
Ortiz glanced toward the ceiling.
“There's more to the key.”
Of course there was.
“There is always more.”
She lowered her voice.
“The storage unit Travis wants isn't just connected to stolen equipment.”
“What else?”
“Evidence from an unsolved homicide.”
Doug stopped moving.
I stared at her.
“Whose homicide?”
“A man named Marcus Bell.”
The name meant nothing to me.
“Who was he?”
“One of Travis's business partners.”
“And Amber knew him?”
“Yes.”
“Did Travis kill him?”
“We never had enough evidence to charge him.”
“But you think he did.”
Ortiz's expression stayed professional.
“I think the contents of that storage unit may answer the question.”
“And Travis thinks Bentley knows where the key is.”
“Yes.”
“Does he?”
Ortiz hesitated.
“Amber believes so now.”
I looked toward the stairs.
“He was three.”
“She didn't simply hide it in his backpack.”
“What did she do?”
“She hid it inside a toy Bentley refused to sleep without.”
The blue race car.
I remembered his face when the memory returned.
“What happened to the toy?”
“Amber thought it had been lost.”
“Thought?”
“She remembered tonight where she last saw it.”
I waited.
Ortiz continued.
“At her mother's house.”
“Where is that?”
“About forty minutes from here.”
“Is her mother still there?”
“No. She died two years ago.”
“What happened to the house?”
“Sold.”
A chill moved through me.
“Who owns it now?”
“We're finding out.”
Footsteps sounded on the stairs.
Bentley appeared.
He had clearly been listening.
“What was in the race car?”
Ortiz looked at him.
“You heard us.”
“Yes.”
She pulled out a chair.
“Come sit.”
“I don't want to.”
“All right.”
He stayed standing.
“Your mother thinks she hid a key inside your blue race car.”
“To what?”
“A storage unit.”
“Where?”
“We're still working on that.”
“What was inside?”
Ortiz glanced at me.
Bentley saw it.
“Stop doing that.”
“Doing what?”
“Looking at adults before answering me.”
The accuracy stung.
Ortiz nodded.
“You're right.”
She turned back to him.
“The storage unit may contain evidence about crimes your father was involved in.”
“What crimes?”
“Thefts. Possibly something worse.”
“Murder?”
Doug inhaled.
Ortiz didn't flinch.
“Possibly.”
Bentley took that in with frightening calm.
Then he asked, “Did Mom see him do it?”
Ortiz's eyes narrowed slightly.
“Why would you ask that?”
“Because why else would Dad try to kill her?”
No one answered.
Bentley stared at us.
“That's why, isn't it?”
Ortiz stood.
“Bentley, your mother witnessed part of what happened.”
“What part?”
“She saw Travis and Marcus arguing at the storage facility. Later she saw Travis come home with blood on his clothes.”
Bentley's face drained.
“Did she see him kill him?”
“No.”
“But she thought he did.”
“Yes.”
“And Dad knew she knew.”
“Yes.”
Bentley looked toward the floor.
Then, almost inaudibly, he said, “That's why he took us downstairs.”
Ortiz froze.
“What?”
Bentley gripped the stair rail.
“The basement.”
He squeezed his eyes shut.
“I remember him yelling at Mom.”
“What was he saying?”
“I don't know.”
“Take your time.”
“I said I don't know.”
He pressed both hands against his temples.
Then another memory surfaced.
“He kept saying, ‘Where is it?’”
Ortiz and I exchanged a glance.
“The key,” I whispered.
Bentley opened his eyes.
“He was looking for the key.”
“Yes,” Ortiz said.
“And Mom had already given it to me.”
“That's what we believe.”
Bentley became very pale.
“He knew.”
“What?”
“He knew she gave me something.”
Ortiz stepped closer.
“How do you know?”
“Because he asked me.”
“When?”
“In the basement.”
“What did he say?”
Bentley's breaths came faster.
“He asked what Mom gave me.”
I approached carefully.
“You don't have to keep going.”
“I told him nothing.”
His eyes filled.
“I lied.”
“You were three.”
“I lied to him.”
Ortiz's voice softened.
“That may have saved your mother's life.”
Bentley shook his head.
“No.”
“What?”
He looked directly at her.
“It made him mad.”
The kitchen became completely silent.
“What happened next?” Ortiz asked.
Bentley trembled.
“He took me by the arm.”
He rubbed the same wrist he had touched repeatedly since Travis appeared.
“And?”
“He put me under the stairs.”
My stomach twisted.
“Was there a closet?”
He nodded.
“He shut the door.”
“Were you hurt?”
“I don't think so.”
“What did you hear?”
Bentley's face crumpled.
“Mom screaming.”
I reached for him.
He stepped into me before I could decide whether to hug him.
For the first time since I had known him, Bentley cried like the child he was.
Not silently.
Not politely.
His entire body shook.
I held him while Ortiz looked away and Doug covered his mouth with one hand.
When Bentley finally pulled back, embarrassment came immediately.
“Sorry.”
“No.”
I held his shoulders.
“Never apologize for that.”
He wiped his face with his sleeve.
Ortiz waited.
Then Bentley said something none of us expected.
“The car isn't at Grandma's house.”
Ortiz stared.
“What?”
“The blue car.”
“You remember where it is?”
He nodded.
“Where?”
Bentley looked toward Doug.
Then at me.
“In this house.”
I frowned.
“My house?”
He nodded.
“That doesn't make sense.”
“Yes, it does.”
His voice steadied as the memory formed.
“When we first moved here, Mom gave me a box of my old stuff. She said Grandma kept it.”
“When?”
“Last year.”
“Was the race car inside?”
“I think so.”
“Where did it go?”
Bentley turned toward the hallway.
“Mr. Ray's room.”
I stared at him.
“Ray died before you moved here.”
“I know. Your storage room upstairs.”
Understanding arrived.
The spare bedroom had become a place where I kept Ray's tools, old Christmas decorations, boxes of photographs and anything too emotionally complicated to throw away.
Months earlier, Amber had asked whether she could store two boxes there temporarily while replacing a broken closet shelf.
I had forgotten they were still there.
“Stay downstairs,” I said.
Ortiz stopped me.
“I'll go with you.”
We climbed together.
Bentley followed anyway.
The back storage room smelled of cedar, cardboard and the faint machine-oil scent that still clung to Ray's old toolbox.
I switched on the light.
Boxes lined one wall.
Most belonged to me.
Two did not.
AMBER — WINTER CLOTHES had been written across one in black marker.
The second had no label.
Bentley pointed.
“That one.”
Ortiz pulled on gloves.
She opened the flaps.
Children's clothes lay on top.
Old sneakers.
A dinosaur blanket.
School art.
Then Bentley reached past her.
“There.”
A blue plastic race car rested against the bottom corner.
Paint had worn away from its roof.
One wheel was missing.
Bentley picked it up.
Ortiz almost stopped him, then thought better of it.
“It was mine.”
He turned it over.
A tiny screw held the plastic chassis together.
“You need a screwdriver,” he said.
I crossed to Ray's toolbox.
My hand closed around the small Phillips-head driver he used for eyeglasses and radio parts.
I gave it to Ortiz.
She loosened the screw.
The bottom panel lifted.
Inside the hollow toy body was a brass key wrapped in faded tissue.
Nobody spoke.
Ortiz removed it carefully.
Stamped into the metal were two characters.
B17.
Her face changed.
“You recognize it?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“The address on the note isn't a house.”
She pulled the folded paper from the evidence bag and looked at it again.
“It's an old commercial warehouse on State Road 32.”
“What does B17 mean?”
“Building B. Unit seventeen.”
Bentley stared at the key.
“So Dad wants that?”
“Yes.”
“And now we have it.”
Ortiz nodded.
Something moved outside.
A faint metallic scrape.
I turned toward the window.
The backyard lay mostly dark.
Then the basement bulkhead door opened.
Slowly.
Ortiz reached beneath her coat.
“Get Bentley downstairs.”
My heart hammered.
“Who is that?”
She didn't answer.
She was already moving toward the hall.
Then the lights went out.
Every lamp in the duplex died at once.
Bentley grabbed my arm.
From below us came the unmistakable sound of a door opening.
The basement door.
Travis hadn't driven away to disappear.
He had been waiting for us to find the key.
Click here to continue reading: PART 9: The Basement Door Opened in the Dark, and Travis Finally Faced Bentley With Police Only Seconds Away From Reaching Us
For Nine Mornings Bentley Knocked at 7:10, and Every Polite Request Made the Silence Next Door Feel Stranger
Part 8 of 15
