Chapter 3 - THE BLUE TIN
The third woman’s name was Laura Kent.
She had been reported missing seven years earlier.
Her last known address was the small apartment above Diane’s detached garage.
Diane claimed she had never heard of her.
Owen placed the licenses in separate evidence bags.
“You kept identification belonging to two missing women.”
“I found those,” Diane said.
“Where?”
“In old furniture.”
“Which furniture?”
She looked toward Mark.
He stared at the floor.
Owen noticed.
“Mr. Ellis?”
Mark swallowed.
“My mother rents rooms sometimes.”
“Did Laura Kent rent from her?”
“I was in college.”
“That was not my question.”
Mark rubbed his palms against his jeans.
“I think so.”
Diane turned on him.
“You think?”
The warning in her voice made him flinch.
I had seen that reaction hundreds of times.
Mark was not simply loyal to his mother.
He was afraid of her.
That fear had never stopped him from sacrificing me.
Owen separated us.
A female officer took me into the living room and photographed the bruises on my face, arms, ribs, and back.
Some were fresh.
Others had turned yellow.
I told her I fell down the basement stairs.
She wrote nothing for several seconds.
“Did you?”
I looked toward the dining room.
Diane’s voice remained calm as she spoke to Owen.
Mark kept insisting everyone had misunderstood.
“No,” I whispered.
The officer lowered the camera.
“Who hurt you?”
I wanted to say Diane.
That would have been true.
But incomplete.
“Both of them.”
The words felt impossible once they left my mouth.
Then they felt like air.
Mark had never used the quilting needle.
He did not need to.
He held doors closed.
He took my phone.
He cancelled doctor appointments.
He pressed ice to my bruises and told me to smile before church.
When Diane struck me, he explained why I had caused it.
When I tried to leave, he cried.
When crying failed, he threatened to tell everyone I was unstable.
The female officer asked when it began.
“After the wedding.”
“Six years?”
I nodded.
She looked at my injuries again.
“Why tonight?”
“Dinner was eighteen minutes late.”
“No. Why did it become this violent tonight?”
I remembered the envelope hidden beneath the false bottom of my dresser.
Bank records.
Property deeds.
Photographs.
Copies of messages between Mark and Diane.
“I found something.”
Before I could explain, Mark shouted from the dining room.
“That is private family property!”
Owen had found my hospital chart inside the sewing tin.
I had never seen it before.
The cover showed the name of a psychiatric clinic in Ohio.
According to the records, I had been diagnosed with severe delusions, aggression, and memory loss.
The doctor’s signature belonged to Dr. Samuel Price.
I had never met him.
The chart also stated that I had attacked Diane with a needle three months earlier.
Owen turned toward me.
“Do you know about this?”
“No.”
Diane sighed as if embarrassed for me.
“She forgets.”
The female officer beside me stiffened.
Mark’s voice softened.
“Natalie needs help.”
I looked at him.
He almost sounded loving.
That was his most dangerous voice.
Owen examined the pages.
“These records were printed yesterday.”
Diane’s eyes changed.
Only for a moment.
Then an officer entered from the backyard.
“We found a locked room under the garage.”
Owen looked toward Diane.
“What room?”
She said nothing.
May you like
The officer continued.
“There’s blood on the door.”
