Chapter 1 - The Leather Notebook
The drive to my house was suffocatingly quiet.
Rain began to smear across the windshield of my old truck.
I kept glancing in the rearview mirror at my three granddaughters in the back seat.
Twelve-year-old Lucy still clutched her mother’s framed photograph against her chest.
Nine-year-old Rachel stared out the window with hollow eyes.
Six-year-old April was asleep, her small head resting on her older sister’s shoulder.
Less than two hours ago, their father had abandoned them at a cemetery to run off with his new fiancée.
Arthur had actually threatened to throw his own flesh and blood into the foster care system.
My blood boiled every time I pictured the smug look on his face.
I pulled into my driveway and turned off the engine.
The house felt incredibly empty without my daughter Rose’s laughter filling the halls.
I gathered their small overnight bags from the trunk and guided the girls inside.
I made them hot cocoa, hoping the warmth would bring some color back to their pale faces.
Lucy waited until her younger sisters were settled on the living room sofa before she approached me.
She reached into her oversized black coat and pulled out a worn leather notebook.
I recognized it immediately as Rose’s favorite journal.
“Mom told me to hide this the day before she went to the hospital,” Lucy whispered.
Her voice trembled, but her eyes held a fierce determination that reminded me so much of my daughter.
“She said Arthur couldn't ever see it,” she continued.
I carefully took the notebook from her small hands.
The leather felt cold against my skin.
I opened to the first page and recognized Rose’s elegant handwriting.
The ink was smudged in several places, as if she had been crying while writing.
I started reading the first paragraph, and my breath caught in my throat.
Rose wrote that Arthur had been slowly draining her trust fund for the past two years.
He had secretly transferred over a million dollars into an offshore account under his fiancée’s name.
But the financial betrayal wasn't the worst part.
I turned the page and felt a sudden chill run down my spine.
My daughter had documented severe stomach pains that only occurred after Arthur made her morning coffee.
“He thinks I don't know,” the final entry read.
“But I found the empty vials in his golf bag.”
Before I could process the horror of what I was reading, a loud, violent banging echoed from my front door.
I jumped up, instinctively pushing Lucy behind me.
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“Charles, open this door right now!” Arthur’s muffled voice screamed from the porch.
“I know they have the notebook, and if you don't hand it over, I'll burn this house to the ground!”
