“Then it must be a leak,” he said, a little annoyed. “You’re always worrying about nothing.” He never called a plumber.
A week later, I decided to clean Steven’s library. As I lifted a heavy pile of his papers, they spilled onto the floor. The jolt popped open a small wooden drawer that had been stuck for years. Inside, under a pile of yellowed drafts, was a small, dark brown leather notebook. It looked ancient. Curious, I opened it.
The pages were filled with elegant handwriting—clearly a woman’s. They were story outlines, character descriptions, plot ideas. The ideas felt hauntingly similar to the plots of Steven’s most famous novels.
My heart was pounding. It couldn’t be a coincidence. I knew Steven hated writing by hand. So, whose notebook was this? A secret collaborator? I put the notebook back, a cold dread settling inside me.
That night, around 2 a.m., a faint creak came from the hallway. I sat up straight. I got out of bed and saw it—the attic door was ajar. A cold, damp draft drifted down. I went back to the room and gently shook my husband. “Steven, wake up. The attic door is open.”
He got up, annoyed. But when we got to the hall, the door was shut, the latch firmly in place.
“Emily,” he said, his voice tired and grave. “You’re too tense lately. You’re not sleeping well. That’s why you’re seeing things that aren’t there.”
In the following days, Steven developed a new habit. Around 10 p.m., he would go to his library to “concentrate.” One night, I woke up around 1 a.m. and his side of the bed was cold and empty. The library was dark. I called his name, but there was no answer.
As I passed the stairs, I heard a soft footstep. It was Steven, coming down from the second floor, barefoot, carrying an empty, clean porcelain plate. When he saw me, his eyes widened in shock. The plate slipped from his hands and shattered on the stone floor.
“What were you doing up there?” I asked, my voice trembling.
He avoided my gaze, picking up the pieces. “I… got stuck on the end of the book. I needed a quiet place, so I went up for a while. I got hungry.”
The next morning, he announced he was leaving for a few days to “get inspired.” Before he left, he grabbed my shoulders, his grip unusually strong. “Emily,” he said in a low, serious tone, “While I’m gone, don’t have anyone over. If Mr. Ramos, my editor, comes looking for me, tell him I went on a trip.”
Two hours later, Mr. Ramos was at my door. “I know Steven is home,” he said harshly. “Stop covering for him. We need the manuscript urgently.”
I repeated what Steven had told me. Mr. Ramos let out an ironic laugh. “Don’t lie to me. Mr. Vargas, your neighbor, told me he sees the attic light on late every single night. If Steven is working that much, he should have the manuscript ready!”
The attic light. The words hit me hard. The noises, the sausage, the puddle, the notebook, the plate, and now the light. Everything pointed to the attic.
I dragged the old folding ladder from the shed and placed it under the hatch. My heart pounded, not with fear, but with a cold determination. I pushed open the rusted latch and climbed up, my phone’s flashlight cutting through the darkness.
The attic was a chaotic space of old boxes and furniture draped in dusty sheets. But in the farthest corner was a small, tidy space: a wooden table, a chair, and a dimly lit oil lamp. And then I saw her.
A woman was sitting with her back to me. She was thin, with long, tangled white hair. The sound of a pencil scratching on paper was the only thing breaking the silence.
I froze, my throat closing up. “Who… who’s there?” I stammered.
The pencil stopped. The woman turned her head. Under the dim lamplight, her gaunt, pale face appeared. Her eyes were sunken and tired, but held a familiarity that made my world fall apart.
It was Marina. My sister. The face I hadn’t seen in thirty years. The sister my whole family believed was lost forever was here, in the attic of my house.
Tranen stroomden over mijn wangen toen ik haar hielp overeind te blijven. Elke stap die ze zette was onstabiel. Het licht van het huis deed haar dichtknijpen, als een wezen van de duisternis dat voor het eerst de zon ziet.
Toen ze eindelijk gekalmeerd was, begon ze gefluisterd te spreken. Ze vertelde me over een nacht dertig jaar geleden. Richard, haar baas, had geprobeerd haar aan te vallen. In de worsteling greep ze een standbeeld en sloeg hem. De klap was te hard. Richard viel, roerloos.
Op dat moment kwam Steven opdagen.
« Ik wilde de politie bellen, zus, » riep Marina, « maar Steven liet me dat niet toe. Hij zei dat ik naar de gevangenis zou gaan, dat ik mijn hele leven zou verliezen. Hij zei dat hij me zou beschermen… voor jou. »
Die nacht begroef Steven Richards lichaam op een verlaten heuvel. Toen bracht hij Marina naar ons huis en verstopte haar op zolder. « Het is maar tijdelijk », zei hij tegen haar. Maar tijdelijk werd dertig jaar.
Steven verspreidde vakkundig het gerucht dat Marina en Richard een affaire hadden en er vandoor waren gegaan met een grote som geld die Richard had opgenomen. Het onderzoek liep vast. In de ogen van de wereld werd Marina voortvluchtig.
Mijn tranen waren niet langer van verdriet, maar van woede.
« Om niet gek te worden, begon ik te schrijven », vervolgde Marina. « Op een dag vond Steven mijn geschriften. Zijn ogen lichtten op. Hij zei: ‘Marina, je hebt talent. Schrijven… Schrijf voor mij. Ik zal je stem zijn voor de wereld.' »
Steven was geen schrijver. Hij was een dief die Marina’s talent had gestolen en haar in een ghostwriter had veranderd die in mijn eigen huis was opgesloten. Elke keer als ze zichzelf wilde aangeven, bedreigde hij haar en gebruikte hij haar liefde voor mij als wapen.
