By the second morning, I had learned that being alone was not the same as having privacy.
Privacy felt peaceful.
This felt like being responsible for every inch of the house.
I woke before sunrise with my neck aching from sleeping on the floor. For a few seconds I couldn't remember why I was downstairs.
Then I saw the chair wedged beneath the doorknob.
The knife was still on the table.
My phone showed no missed calls from Mom.
I checked anyway.
Nothing.
Breakfast was half a banana and one slice of bread.
I wanted cereal but decided milk was more valuable than cereal because I could use it with other things.
That was the kind of thought I had started having.
At eleven years old, I was making food decisions based on what might still exist three weeks later.
I wrote breakfast in the notebook.
Then I wrote the amount of money I had left.
The notebook had stopped feeling like homework.
It felt like another lock.
If I wrote everything down, nobody could tell me later that it hadn't happened.
Around ten, Derek sent another message.
Lake good?
I sat on the kitchen floor staring at it.
I considered calling him.
Mom had specifically said not to.
But she wasn't answering me.
I typed:
Can you call me?
Before I sent it, my phone rang.
Mom.
I answered immediately.
"Did you tell Derek to call you?" she asked.
"No."
"Did you message him?"
"He messaged me."
"What did you say?"
"Nothing."
Her shoulders relaxed.
I noticed that.
Not relief because I was safe.
Relief because I had kept her secret.
"Did you find someone to stay here?"
"I'm still working on it."
"You said that yesterday."
"We just arrived."
"You've been there all night."
"Maya, I am not doing this every time I call."
My eyes burned.
"I don't want to be here alone."
"You are perfectly capable of taking care of yourself."
"What if somebody comes to the house?"
"Don't open the door."
"What if something breaks?"
"Call me."
"You don't answer."
"I am on vacation. I am not going to carry my phone every second."
I looked at the notebook.
"How often should I eat?"
Silence.
"What kind of question is that?"
"Because there isn't enough food."
"I gave you money."
"I bought food."
"Then eat it."
"It won't last."
She rubbed her forehead.
"Be resourceful, Maya."
I hated that word immediately.
Resourceful.
Independent.
Mature.
They were words adults used when they wanted a child to solve an adult's problem without complaining.
"Can you send more money?"
"I'll see what I can do."
"How?"
"We'll figure it out."
"When?"
She glanced away from the screen.
I heard Derek in the background.
"Breakfast reservation," he called.
Mom lowered her voice.
"I have to go."
"Mom."
"What?"
"Please come home."
Her face became still.
For one second, I believed she might.
Then she said, "Absolutely not."
The call ended.
I did not cry that time.
I wrote everything down.
At lunchtime I ate bread with peanut butter.
In the afternoon I tried distracting myself with television, but every show seemed to contain families. Somebody was always calling somebody for dinner. Somebody was asking permission to go somewhere. Somebody was annoyed because a parent wouldn't leave them alone.
I turned it off.
Around four, I went into the basement to look for bottled drinks.
The basement smelled like dust and laundry detergent. Boxes were stacked along one wall. Near the furnace, shelves covered most of the back corner.
Behind one shelf I noticed a strip of dark red paint.
I pushed some boxes aside.
There was a narrow door there.
It was painted red, though most of the color had faded.
I had seen it before, but Mom had always told me not to touch it.
Once, when I was younger, I asked what was behind it.
"Mold," she'd said. "Nothing you want to breathe."
I touched the knob.
Locked.
For some reason, standing in front of that door made me uneasy.
Not because I thought something supernatural was behind it.
Because the lock was on the outside.
I returned upstairs.
That evening, Mom posted photographs online.
I knew because her account appeared automatically on my phone.
There she was beside Derek, wearing sunglasses near the ocean.
Another picture showed drinks with pieces of pineapple on the rims.
The caption said they had finally escaped real life.
I read those words several times.
Then I looked around the kitchen.
Apparently I was part of the real life she had escaped.
I commented before I could talk myself out of it.
Mom, please call me.
The comment disappeared less than five minutes later.
My phone rang immediately.
"What are you doing?" Mom demanded.
"I asked you to call."
"Not publicly."
"You weren't answering."
"People don't need to know our private business."
"Nobody knows anything from that comment."
"They'll ask questions."
"Maybe they should."
Her face tightened.
"Delete anything else you posted."
"I didn't post anything else."
"And don't comment again."
"Why?"
"Because Derek can see it."
I swallowed.
"So?"
"So I told you not to involve him."
"Why are you lying to him?"
"I'm not discussing my relationship with you."
"But the lie is about me."
"Maya."
"What happens if he calls Chloe's parents?"
"He won't."
"How do you know?"
"Because he trusts me."
She said it so easily that I almost missed how awful it was.
Derek trusted her.
She was using that trust to hide me.
That night I wrote more than before.
Every meal.
Every call.
The deleted comment.
The red door.
I even recorded the time Mom had called after seeing my comment, because it proved something important.
She could answer quickly when she wanted to.
On Day 3, I woke hungry.
I ate one full banana instead of half and felt guilty afterward.
I began counting slices of bread each time I opened the bag.
The house started smelling stale because I kept the windows closed. Opening them seemed unsafe.
I didn't shower until afternoon because I was afraid I wouldn't hear someone entering over the water.
I carried my phone from room to room.
When I used the bathroom, it sat on the sink.
When I heated soup, it lay beside the stove.
When I slept, I held it.
Mom called once that day.
The conversation lasted two minutes and twelve seconds.
I knew because I wrote it down.
She told me they were going snorkeling.
I told her I had been hearing noises outside at night.
She said neighborhoods made noises.
I told her I was sleeping downstairs.
She said I was being silly.
I didn't tell her about the knife.
By Day 4, fear had changed shape.
At first I had been afraid something might happen.
Now I was afraid because I understood that if something did happen, I did not know who would come.
That evening, shortly after eleven, headlights moved slowly across the living-room wall.
A vehicle stopped outside.
I turned off the television.
The engine remained running for a moment.
Then stopped.
I sat completely still.
A car door closed.
Footsteps came up the walkway.
Not raccoon sounds.
Not branches.
Shoes.
Human shoes.
They stopped on the porch.
I grabbed the knife.
Someone knocked.
Three hard knocks.
I did not breathe.
Another knock.
Then the doorknob moved.
Once.
Twice.
Someone was trying it.
I backed into the kitchen, keeping the knife pointed toward the floor because my hand was shaking too badly to hold it properly.
My phone was in my other hand.
I opened the emergency keypad.
9.
1.
My thumb hovered over the final number.
The person outside knocked again.
"Maya?"
I froze.
A man's voice.
I didn't recognize it.
"Maya, you home?"
My entire body went cold.
He knew my name.
I crouched behind the kitchen counter.
The doorknob moved again.
Then came silence.
A minute passed.
Maybe two.
Finally footsteps retreated.
The car started.
Headlights swept across the wall and disappeared.
I stayed behind the counter for almost twenty minutes.
I never called 911.
I wish I could explain why.
But at eleven, rules can become stronger than common sense.
Mom had said not to involve people.
Not to create trouble.
Not to ruin the trip.
And I still wasn't certain being frightened counted as an emergency.
When I could finally stand, I checked every lock.
Then I pushed the chair beneath the front doorknob.
I left the knife beside the couch.
In the notebook I wrote everything I remembered.
The time.
The headlights.
The footsteps.
The voice saying my name.
The doorknob moving.
At the bottom of the page I wrote:
I almost called 911 but I didn't know if being scared was enough.
Then I sat beside the front door until morning.
Click here to continue reading: PART 4: On the Sixth Day, a Neighbor Looked Through My Window and Realized No Adult Was Coming Home
The Suitcases Were Already by the Door When Mom Told Me the Lake Trip Had Been Canceled
Part 3 of 35
