Chapter 3: The Voice That Knew His Name
For several seconds, Marcus could not move.
The word had entered the hallway and lodged somewhere deep inside him.
Daddy.
He had heard it thousands of times from Jordan, beginning with the soft, stumbling syllables of a toddler learning to speak. He had heard it shouted from basketball courts, whispered during nightmares, and stretched into a long, pleading complaint whenever his son wanted something he wasn't allowed to have.
But this voice was different.
It belonged to a little girl.
And somehow, it sounded as though she knew him.
Marcus looked at Denise.
She stood against the wall, her face drained of color, tears sliding silently down her cheeks.
“Tell me what's happening,” he demanded.
Denise shook her head.
“Please.””
“No. Don't you dare ask me to calm down. Somebody is locked in our basement, someone just called me Daddy, and you're standing here acting like you've seen a ghost.””
Her shoulders shook.
Jordan moved closer to her.
“Mom?””
She reached for him instinctively, but he stepped away.
The tiny movement seemed to hurt her more than Marcus's shouting.
“Baby, I need you to listen to me,” she whispered.
Jordan's eyes were wet.
“Is there a girl down there?””
Denise couldn't answer.
Marcus turned back toward the door.
“I'm opening it.””
This time, Denise didn't stop him.
He inserted the brass key into the lock and turned it.
The bolt slid back with a heavy metallic click.
He placed his hand on the knob.
“Everybody stand behind me.””
Jordan obeyed, pulling his mother with him.
Marcus opened the door two inches.
A smell rose from the darkness below.
Damp concrete.
Dust.
And something sharp and chemical, like the cleaning products Denise kept beneath the kitchen sink.
The basement stairs descended into darkness. A faint light glowed at the bottom, illuminating a narrow section of the landing.
Marcus pushed the door wider.
“Who's down there?””
No answer.
He stepped onto the first stair.
The wood creaked beneath his weight.
Behind him, Denise whispered his name.
He ignored her.
He descended three steps, then four, gripping the railing with one hand and keeping his other hand extended behind him to prevent Jordan from following.
At the bottom, he could see part of the recreation room.
The television was off.
The couch stood exactly where it had always been.
But the storage-room door at the far end was open.
A small lamp had been placed on the floor beside it.
Someone had dragged a chair into the middle of the room.
And on the chair sat a glass of water.
Fresh water.
Condensation still clung to the sides.
Marcus stopped.
Someone had been down here recently.
Someone who had expected to stay long enough to become thirsty.
“Come out,” he called.
A soft rustle came from behind the storage-room door.
Then a voice answered.
“Are you alone?””
Marcus's blood turned cold again.
“No.””
The person behind the door began to cry.
“Please. I need to see you.””
Marcus took another step.
“Who are you?””
A small hand appeared around the edge of the door.
It was a child's hand.
The fingers were slender, the nails uneven, and a strip of white medical tape circled one wrist.
Marcus stared at it.
The hand withdrew.
“Please don't be mad,” the voice whispered.
He knew that sentence.
Not from his own child.
From a memory he had buried so deeply that he'd spent years convincing himself it no longer hurt.
Marcus gripped the railing.
“Come out where I can see you.””
Slowly, a little girl emerged from the storage room.
She looked about ten years old.
Her skin was a rich brown, and her dark curls hung loosely around her face. She wore a faded yellow sweatshirt several sizes too large, gray leggings, and mismatched socks. A bruise shadowed one cheek. Her eyes were swollen from crying.
She stood beside the chair, holding the edge of her sweatshirt in both hands.
When she saw Marcus, she stopped breathing for a moment.
Then she whispered, “You came back.””
Marcus stared at her.
“Do I know you?””
The girl looked devastated.
Behind him, Denise made a strangled sound.
Marcus turned.
His wife had reached the bottom of the stairs, with Jordan beside her. She was staring at the girl as if the child had stepped out of a grave.
The girl looked past Marcus.
Her eyes found Denise.
“Mommy?””
Denise collapsed against the wall.
Jordan caught her before she slid to the floor.
“Mom! What's wrong?””
She shook her head violently.
“No. No, no, no.””
Marcus looked from his wife to the girl.
The child took one cautious step forward.
“Mommy, it's me.””
Denise began sobbing.
Marcus felt the room tilt beneath him.
“Denise,” he said, his voice dangerously quiet.
“What is she talking about?””
His wife pressed a hand against her mouth.
The girl glanced down, then back at him.
“My name is Ava.””
Marcus waited.
“I'm ten years old,” she continued.
“And my birthday is March seventeenth.””
Something flickered through Denise's expression.
A memory.
Recognition.
Terror.
Marcus took another step toward her.
“Who is Ava?””
Denise closed her eyes.
The girl answered for her.
“I'm your daughter.””
The words seemed to silence the entire house.
Even the rain sounded distant.
Marcus stared at the child.
“No.””
Ava flinched.
He shook his head.
“No. That's not possible.””
“Marcus,” Denise whispered.
He rounded on her.
“Don't.””
His voice cracked like a whip.
“Do not say my name like that. Tell me who this child is.””
Denise pressed both hands against her chest.
“She—”
“Who is she?””
Ava began crying harder.
Marcus turned toward the girl, trying to find some explanation in her face. A resemblance. A clue. Anything that could make sense of what was happening.
But all he saw was a frightened child looking at him with the desperate expectation that he would protect her.
That expectation nearly broke him.
“Who brought you here?”” he asked.
Ava looked at Denise.
“Mommy did.””
Marcus went still.
Denise shook her head, crying so hard that she could barely speak.
“I didn't have a choice.””
“You brought a child into our basement and locked her down here?””
“No!””
“Then explain it!””
Ava stepped between them.
“Don't yell at her.””
Marcus stared at her.
She was terrified of him, yet she had put herself between him and her mother.
“Baby,” Denise whispered, “please move.””
Ava shook her head.
“You said he wouldn't be mad if I told him.””
Marcus's anger faltered.
“What did your mother tell you?””
Ava looked up at him.
“That if I came here, you'd finally understand.””
“Understand what?””
The little girl hesitated.
Then she reached into the pocket of her oversized sweatshirt and pulled out a folded photograph.
The paper was creased and worn, its corners softened from being handled too many times.
She held it out to Marcus.
He took it slowly.
The photograph showed a younger Denise standing outside a hospital, her face exhausted but radiant. In her arms was a newborn wrapped in a pink blanket.
Beside her stood a man.
A man Marcus recognized.
Not because he knew the face from a photograph.
Because he saw that face every Thanksgiving, every Christmas, and at every family gathering where the Carters pretended they had no secrets.
His older brother.
Andre Carter.
Marcus's fingers began to tremble.
Andre had died eleven years earlier in a car accident outside Macon. Marcus had identified his brother's body himself. He had attended the funeral, delivered the eulogy, and helped their mother survive the grief.
There was no way Andre could have been standing beside Denise in a photograph taken ten years ago.
Marcus turned the picture over.
A date was written on the back in faded blue ink.
October 14.
Ten years earlier.
Beneath it were six words in Denise's handwriting.
He doesn't know she's still alive.
Marcus looked up slowly.
“What does this mean?””
Denise covered her face.
Ava's voice was barely audible.
“Uncle Andre said you weren't supposed to know.””
Marcus felt as if the floor had opened beneath him.
“Uncle Andre?””
Ava nodded.
“He told me you were my daddy. He said you would come for me when it was safe.””
Marcus looked at the photograph again.
Then at Denise.
Then at the girl.
His brother had been dead for eleven years.
Ava was ten.
The dates should have made no sense.
Yet the photograph was real, and the handwriting belonged to his wife.
Marcus took a step toward Denise.
“Start talking.””
She shook her head.
“I can't.””
“Can't?””
His voice rose.
“There's a little girl in my basement calling me her father, and you're telling me you can't explain why?””
“I was trying to protect you!””
“From what?””
Denise looked toward the stairs.
Ava suddenly grabbed Marcus's wrist.
“Please don't let him take me away again.””
Marcus froze.
“Who?””
The girl stared at the darkness beyond the recreation room.
“The man who brought me here.””
Marcus turned toward the open storage room.
For the first time, he noticed the small security camera mounted in the corner.
Its red indicator light was blinking.
Someone had been watching them.
Then a phone began ringing.
The sound came from inside the storage room.
Ava screamed.
Denise stumbled backward.
Marcus rushed toward the sound and found an old black cellphone lying beneath a folded blanket. The screen displayed a single incoming call.
*ANDRE CARTER.*
Marcus stared at the name.
His dead brother's name.
The phone rang again.
And again.
With trembling fingers, Marcus answered.
He said nothing.
For three seconds, there was only static.
Then a man's voice spoke through the receiver.
“Marcus.””
Marcus gripped the phone so tightly his knuckles whitened.
“Who is this?””
The voice exhaled slowly.
“It's time you learned what really happened to my daughter.””
Marcus felt his knees weaken.
Because the voice on the phone wasn't a recording.
May you like
It was alive.
And it sounded exactly like his brother.
