Chapter 3 - Beneath the Wooden FloorDaniel did not return to the villa that night.
He checked into a quiet hotel twenty minutes away, requested a room without a balcony, and spent most of the evening sitting beside Lucy's bed.
She slept with Snow tucked beneath her chin.
Every time a door closed somewhere in the hallway, she stirred.
At nine, Daniel's phone rang.
His mother.
He let it go to voicemail.
Then Claudia called.
He declined.
A third call came from Miles Garner, the villa's longtime property manager.
Daniel answered.
“Mr. Hart,” Miles said carefully, “Mrs. Hart asked me to check whether you're returning tonight.”
“Which Mrs. Hart?”
A pause.
“Your mother.”
“I want nobody entering Lucy's playhouse.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Not Claudia. Not my mother. Nobody.”
“Of course.”
Daniel hesitated.
“Miles, did you know the playhouse had an outside lock?”
The silence lasted too long.
“I knew a latch had been installed.”
“When?”
“Recently.”
“Who approved it?”
“Your sister said it was for safety.”
Daniel closed his eyes.
“How recently?”
“I'd have to check the maintenance records.”
“Do that. And don't touch anything.”
He ended the call.
Then he opened the photographs Officer Ortiz had allowed him to take after the initial scene documentation.
The three groups of scratches were uneven.
Four lines in the first group.
Three in the second.
Five in the third.
Daniel zoomed in.
They weren't random decorations.
They looked like tally marks.
Twelve.
His stomach tightened.
Had Lucy been counting twelve minutes?
Twelve times?
He refused to guess.
He sent the photographs to Ortiz and asked that the marks and possible space beneath the floor be examined as part of the investigation.
The next morning, Lucy woke before sunrise.
“Daddy?”
“Right here.”
“Did I get Aunt Claudia in trouble?”
Daniel sat beside her.
“Adults are responsible for what they do, sweetheart. Not you.”
She traced Snow's worn ear.
“Grandma says families don't tell strangers things.”
Daniel felt a chill.
“When did Grandma say that?”
Lucy shrugged.
“When people come over.”
“Did she tell you that yesterday?”
Lucy shook her head.
Daniel stopped questioning.
Officer Ortiz had explained that repeated, suggestive questions could make it harder for investigators to understand what a child actually remembered. A trained interviewer would be available if the investigation required one.
He wanted answers.
But he wanted Lucy protected more.
After arranging for Lucy to spend the morning with a trusted neighbor while a family advocate remained available by phone, Daniel met Ortiz at the villa.
Claudia was gone.
Her car was missing.
The house smelled faintly of the expensive lavender candles his mother preferred.
In the backyard, yellow evidence markers stood beside the playhouse.
A technician had already photographed the structure.
Ortiz pointed to a section of flooring near the back wall.
“We found a small removable maintenance panel beneath an old rug.”
Daniel frowned.
“I installed that panel years ago to reach a water line. We never used it for storage.”
“It appears somebody has.”
The technician lifted the panel.
A shallow cavity lay beneath.
Inside were a folded plastic sheet, a cardboard box, and a blue document folder.
Daniel's breath caught.
The folder was Rebecca's.
He recognized the faded gold initials on its cover.
She had used it during the final year of her illness, when she insisted on organizing everything for Lucy's future.
Daniel remembered her sitting at the kitchen island, carefully labeling documents while he begged her to rest.
You need to know where everything is, Dan.
I know.
He hadn't.
After her death, he had avoided opening most of her files because every page seemed to carry her handwriting.
Now the folder lay under the floorboards of their daughter's playhouse.
Ortiz photographed everything before removing it.
The folder contained old insurance correspondence, a copy of Lucy's birth certificate, and several pages from a property trust.
But the most important section was empty.
A plastic divider marked:
PROPERTY MANAGEMENT AND TRANSFER RESTRICTIONS
No documents followed it.
Daniel stared at the gap.
“Rebecca kept the restrictions here.”
“How do you know?”
“She showed me.”
“Do you have copies?”
“Our attorney should.”
Ortiz lifted a small envelope from the box.
It was addressed in Rebecca's handwriting.
For Lucy, when she's old enough to understand why home matters.
Daniel covered his mouth.
He hadn't known the envelope existed.
Ortiz carefully explained that anything relevant would need to remain documented and preserved while investigators determined how it got there.
Daniel nodded.
He was beginning to understand that he couldn't simply take Rebecca's belongings and pretend this was a private family problem.
As they moved toward the patio, Miles appeared beside the glass doors.
He looked pale.
“Mr. Hart.”
Daniel stopped.
“When did you put that folder under the floor?”
Miles froze.
“I didn't.”
“Then who did?”
Miles glanced at Officer Ortiz.
“I don't know.”
Daniel watched his hands.
They were trembling.
Ortiz asked whether Miles had accessed the playhouse recently.
“Only to perform routine maintenance.”
“Did that maintenance involve the floor panel?”
“No.”
Daniel took one step closer.
“Miles, Lucy said Claudia knew where the folder was.”
The property manager swallowed.
“Your sister gives instructions about many things.”
“What does that mean?”
Miles lowered his voice.
“It means I have a family, Mr. Hart.”
Daniel stared.
Before he could answer, Miles added something even more disturbing.
“Your mother told me the property transfer was already approved.”
Daniel felt his pulse pounding.
“What transfer?”
May you like
Miles looked genuinely startled.
“She said you signed the papers last month.”
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