Chapter 4 - The Shed
The drive to the Lake Forest estate at four in the morning felt like a descent into hell. Lake Forest was one of the wealthiest enclaves in America, a manicured sanctuary of rolling lawns, wrought-iron gates, and multi-million-dollar historic mansions.
My family’s estate sat on three pristine acres surrounded by towering oak trees. As our police escort turned through the open wrought-iron gates, the flashing red and blue strobe lights cast eerie, pulsing shadows across the French-Norman brick facade.
Three squad cars and a mobile forensics van were parked in the circular driveway.
Julian was already sitting in the back of a squad car, handcuffed, sobbing hysterically through the glass. He caught my eye and frantically mouthed the words, *“I’m sorry! Richard, please!”*
I didn't even slow down. I walked past the cruiser toward Detective Miller, who led me around the four-car garage to a small, dilapidated outbuilding obscured behind a row of overgrown arborvitae.
It was an old wooden maintenance shed, built decades ago to store rusted lawnmowers, gasoline cans, weed trimmers, and toxic weed killers.
“Brace yourself, Richard,” Marcus warned, putting a steady hand on my shoulder.
I stepped through the rotting wooden door. The smell hit me instantly—a sickening cocktail of engine grease, damp mildew, chemical fertilizer, and human misery.
The shed had no electricity. No insulation. The gaps between the wooden wallboards were wide enough to slide three fingers through; cold lake wind whistled directly into the interior.
In the corner, on the bare concrete floor, lay a single waterlogged dog bed.
Beside it sat an old five-gallon plastic paint bucket.
“That’s what she used for a toilet,” the crime scene technician murmured, carefully photographing the corner with a flash that illuminated the horrific reality. “And this over here…”
The technician pointed to a small stack of yellowed cardboard boxes. On the dirt floor next to the dog bed were a dozen crude drawings made with pieces of charcoal salvaged from the outdoor barbecue pit.
They were drawings of three people: a tall man with a briefcase, a little girl, and a woman with long, curly hair. Above the figures, in shaky, eight-year-old scrawl, were the words:
*“DADDY COME BAK. MOMMY COME BAK. I PROMIS I WILL BE CLENE.”*
I dropped to my knees on that cold concrete, clutching the fragile piece of charcoal-stained cardboard to my chest, and I wept until I had no breath left in my lungs. My sweet, brilliant little girl had slept on a dog bed among toxic chemicals, shivering in the freezing dark, thinking her father and mother had discarded her because she wasn't good enough.
“Richard,” Detective Miller said gently, kneeling beside me. “Look up at the rafters.”
I wiped my eyes and looked up. Mounted in the top corner of the shed was a discreet, black infrared dome camera.
“The entire property is wired with closed-circuit surveillance,” Miller said. “Beatrice had cameras everywhere to protect her art collection. We seized the hard drives from the basement server. It’s all recorded. Three years of video showing your mother locking this shed from the outside with a padlock. Video of Julian coming out here to throw fast-food leftovers onto the floor like she was a stray animal.”
“Is Beatrice in custody?” I asked, my voice dropping an octave, dead and cold.
“She fled the Drake Hotel before our units could intercept her,” Marcus answered, stepping into the doorway. “She took a private car before the gala ended. But her passport is flagged, her credit cards are completely frozen, and the state police have issued a statewide bulletin for her arrest. She has nowhere to run.”
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“I don’t care about Beatrice right now,” I said, rising slowly to my feet, holding Chloe’s drawing like it was the most precious relic on earth. “I want to know where Elena is. Find her, Marcus. If my mother told me Elena abandoned us, it was a lie. If she lied about this... she lied about Elena.”
***
