CHAPTER 4 — BENEATH THE CONCRETE
CHAPTER 4 — BENEATH THE CONCRETE
By the time Detective Rachel Monroe returned to my parents' property, three additional patrol cars had arrived.
The engagement banners still fluttered in the breeze.
Pink balloons bounced against the porch railing.
Neighbors stood behind police tape, whispering.
The celebration my mother had planned had become an active crime scene.
Monroe walked straight to the catering shed.
"Nobody goes inside until forensics clears it."
My father took a step forward.
"This is ridiculous. You're taking the word of a frightened four-year-old."
Monroe met his gaze.
"I'm following evidence."
"And children often remember details adults overlook."
He said nothing more.
The catering shed smelled of old wood, spices, and industrial cleaning supplies.
Metal shelves lined the walls.
Boxes of paper plates, folding tables, and seasonal decorations filled every corner.
At first glance, nothing seemed unusual.
Then one of the crime scene technicians noticed fresh scrape marks across the concrete floor.
"This freezer shouldn't be here."
A massive commercial freezer sat against the back wall.
The dust around it was undisturbed—except for two clean lines beneath its wheels.
It had been moved recently.
"Get three people," Monroe ordered.
Together, they rolled the heavy freezer aside.
Beneath it was a square section of concrete.
Unlike the rest of the floor, it was lighter in color.
Newer.
Officer Collins knelt beside it.
"Recent patch job."
A technician tapped it with a rubber mallet.
The sound echoed differently.
"Hollow."
Every officer in the room looked at Monroe.
She didn't speak immediately.
Instead, she called the county prosecutor.
"I need an emergency warrant to excavate."
At the hospital, I refused to leave Lily's bedside.
She slept most of the afternoon, waking only long enough to ask for water and her stuffed rabbit.
Marcus sat beside us, his hand wrapped around mine.
Neither of us touched the vending machine coffee that had gone cold hours ago.
Finally, Detective Monroe walked in.
Her face was unreadable.
"Can we talk privately?"
My stomach tightened.
Marcus glanced toward Lily, who had drifted back to sleep.
We stepped into the hallway.
"What did you find?"
Monroe chose her words carefully.
"We haven't opened the concrete yet."
"But we did uncover something else."
She handed me a faded photograph sealed in a plastic evidence sleeve.
It showed my mother.
She looked much younger, perhaps in her late twenties.
Beside her stood my father.
Between them was a little girl.
She couldn't have been older than five.
Dark curls.
A bright yellow dress.
A gap-toothed smile.
I stared at the picture.
"I've never seen her."
Monroe nodded.
"Neither have any of your relatives we've interviewed."
"Who is she?"
"That's what we're trying to determine."
I looked closer.
The little girl's bracelet caught my attention.
Tiny silver stars.
Exactly like the bracelet Lily had been wearing that morning.
My breath caught.
"I've seen this."
"Where?"
"My mother kept one in her jewelry box."
"You never asked about it?"
"She told me it belonged to an old family friend."
Monroe's voice softened.
"We don't believe that's true."
Back at the house, workers arrived with concrete-cutting equipment.
The whining saw echoed across the neighborhood.
My mother watched from the back seat of a patrol car.
Her face had turned pale.
Vanessa sat in another cruiser, refusing to look toward the shed.
My father remained strangely calm.
Too calm.
Officer Collins noticed.
"He's expecting something."
Monroe agreed.
"Or hoping we won't find it."
The first slab of concrete lifted free.
Beneath it—
Only dirt.
Fresh, loose dirt.
Not packed earth.
Recently disturbed.
An officer carefully lowered a small excavation tool.
Every movement slowed.
No one wanted to destroy possible evidence.
Just twelve inches down, the shovel struck something solid.
Not bone.
Wood.
"A box," the technician said quietly.
The officers carefully uncovered a weathered wooden chest, no larger than an old trunk.
Monroe crouched beside it.
The rusted latch had already broken with age.
She lifted the lid.
Inside were children's belongings.
A pair of tiny shoes.
A faded yellow dress.
Hair ribbons.
A stuffed bear with one button eye.
And dozens of photographs.
No human remains.
Everyone exhaled at once.
Until the forensic photographer picked up the bear.
Hidden beneath it was a leather-bound journal.
The first page was covered in my mother's handwriting.
Across the top, in careful blue ink, were the words:
"Rosie's Memory Book."
Monroe turned another page.
The handwriting changed.
Large, uneven letters.
Clearly written by a child.
My name is Rosie. Mommy says I must never tell anyone I used to have another mommy.
The detective's heartbeat seemed to echo in the silent shed.
Another page.
Sometimes Daddy calls me by a different name when Grandma isn't home.
Another.
I miss my real mommy. They said she went away forever, but I don't think she wanted to leave me.
Monroe slowly closed the journal.
"This isn't just a family secret."
Officer Collins frowned.
"What do you think it is?"
She looked toward the patrol cars where my parents sat.
"I think someone changed a child's identity."
At the hospital, my phone rang.
The caller ID displayed Unknown Number.
I almost ignored it.
Something made me answer.
"Hello?"
For several seconds, there was only breathing.
Then an elderly woman's voice whispered,
"They're digging in the wrong place."
I froze.
"Who is this?"
"You don't know me."
"What are you talking about?"
"The little girl in the photographs..."
My grip tightened on the phone.
"...didn't disappear."
My heart pounded.
"Then where is she?"
The woman began to cry.
"You've known her your whole life."
The line went dead.
I stared at the silent phone.
Marcus looked at me.
"What happened?"
I could barely force the words out.
"The woman said..."
I looked back toward Lily sleeping peacefully in her hospital bed.
"...Rosie never vanished."
I swallowed hard.
"She said Rosie grew up."
Marcus frowned.
"As who?"
Before I could answer, Detective Monroe's phone rang.
She listened for only a few seconds before her expression changed completely.
"What?"
She turned toward us.
"The state archives just matched the photograph."
My voice trembled.
"Who was Rosie?"
Monroe looked directly into my eyes.
"The records don't identify her as Rosie."
She paused.
"They identify her..."
May you like
"...as you."
End of Chapter 4
