Chapter 3 - The Empty Chair
I parked the Civic in the driveway at precisely 5:58 PM.
The Lockhearts' black Suburban wasn't there this time. Only my father’s sedan sat in the garage, flanked by Mitch’s Jeep. The house was dead quiet when I unlocked the front door and stepped into the foyer.
The silver frame was gone from the dining room table. In its place was a single white envelope with my name written in my mother's precise, cursive handwriting: Stacy.
“Sit down, Stacy,” my father said from the doorway.
He looked older than he had three days ago. The lines around his mouth were deeper, his shoulders caved inward as if he were carrying a physical weight he couldn't put down. He didn't look angry; he looked defeated.
I didn't sit. I left the front door unlocked behind me, my hand resting on the brass knob. “Where’s Mom?”
“In the kitchen. Making tea.” He walked slowly toward the dining table and stopped beside the envelope. “You went to the courthouse today.”
It wasn't a question.
“I found the article, Dad,” I said, my voice steady despite the adrenaline roaring in my ears. “August 2004. Claire Lockheart. Why was her picture on your table? Why was Suzanne praying over my bedroom?”
My father closed his eyes. When he opened them, his eyes were wet.
“You look so much like her,” he said softly, as if that explained everything. “When Suzanne lost Claire, she lost her mind with it. She spent two years in a clinic down in Mobile. When she came out, she couldn't accept it. She started seeing Claire everywhere. In parks, in grocery stores, in Chilton County.”
“That doesn't explain why I had to leave every time they visited,” I snapped, the coldness cracking. “Why did I have to disappear for eight years?”
“Because Suzanne convinced herself that you were the one,” my father said, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper. “Not that you looked like her—that you were her. That the accident was a lie, that we had hidden her away. Robert Lockheart is one of the largest land donors to this county, Stacy. If Suzanne had a full psychotic break and accused us of stealing her child, our family would have been destroyed. Socially, financially, legally. Everything we built would have vanished overnight.”
“So you traded me,” I whispered.
“We protected our family,” he said, his voice rising defensively. “We gave you an allowance, we paid for your room, we let you live your life five days a week—”
“You locked my door! You erased my childhood photographs! You made me a ghost in my own home so a rich woman could pretend her dead daughter was living in Atlanta!”
A dish shattered in the kitchen doorway.
My mother stood there, a broken ceramic mug lying in a puddle of dark tea at her feet, staring at me with a look of pure, unadulterated horror.
“You weren't supposed to find out,” she breathed, her face draining of all color. “We kept you safe. We gave you everything you needed.”
May you like
“No,” I said, backing out the front door into the cool evening air. “You gave yourselves an alibi.”
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