The Substitute

Chapter 11 — The Photograph

“Daddy was angry,” Milo said. “He and Mommy fought. About money. About the trip.”

They sat in the basement under the burned house, the lantern between them, and Milo told the story he’d carried for twenty years.

“Daddy said we were going on a trip. Just him and Lena. Mommy said no. They screamed. I hid under the kitchen table. Lena — you — you held my hand.”

Nora closed her eyes. Something flickered — a kitchen, shouting, a small hand in hers. Or imagination. She couldn’t tell anymore.

“Mommy put us in the basement,” Milo continued. “She said Daddy was sick in his head. She said the house was going to be sick too. She gave us blankets and the lantern and said to wait. She said she’d get help.”

“And then?”

“Smoke. Coming under the door. Lena — you — you tried to open it but it was locked. From outside.” Milo’s voice was flat, reciting. “We screamed. You screamed for Mommy. I cried. The smoke got bad. You gave me your shirt to breathe through. You said, ‘Don’t sleep, Milo. Stay awake.'”

Nora was crying silently, tears running down her face.

“Then the door opened. Not Mommy. Daddy. He grabbed you — Lena — and pulled you out. I tried to hold on but he pushed me. He locked the door again. I heard —” Milo stopped. “I heard you screaming. Then a car. Then nothing.”

“What did you do?”

“I waited. Like Mommy said. But the smoke —” He touched his throat. “I fell asleep. When I woke up, a man was carrying me. A fireman. Outside, everything was — gone. The house was gone. Mommy was screaming. Daddy was holding me but he wouldn’t look at me.”

“And Lena — me — I was gone.”

“Gone.” Milo’s voice broke. “Daddy took you. Mommy told me later — in the hospital. She said Daddy took you away. She said he’d come back for me too. But he didn’t. He left me at a rest stop. Said to wait in the car. I waited all day. A truck driver found me.”

“And then?”

“Foster homes. Lots. I stopped talking. What was the point? No one believed me anyway.” Milo picked at his sleeve. “Then the Renners. They’re nice. But I remembered. Every night, I remembered. So I drew it. So I wouldn’t forget.”

Nora pulled him into her arms. He was shaking.

“Milo,” she whispered. “The drawing. ‘She’s still in there.’ Who did you mean?”

“Mommy,” he said simply. “I thought — when I was little, I thought Mommy was still in the basement. Because she said she’d come back. And she didn’t. So I thought she was still down there. Waiting.” He looked around the stone walls. “But she’s not. I checked. Every time I came here, I checked.”

“How many times have you come here?”

“Lots. Since I was little. I remembered the way. Through the woods.” He was quiet. “I thought if I kept coming, I’d remember more. About you. About where Daddy took you.”

Nora’s phone buzzed — Tom Renner, probably frantic. She ignored it.

“Milo. Do you remember anything about where Daddy took me? Anything at all?”

Milo frowned. “A car. A long drive. You told me once —” He stopped.

“I told you? When?”

“After. When you came back.” He looked at her seriously. “Don’t you remember, Lena? You came back. When we were kids. You visited me.”

Nora went very still. “Milo. What are you talking about?”

“The lady brought you. The nice lady. You were little — littler than now. You came to the foster home. You said you were my sister. You said Daddy kept you in a house with no windows. You said —” Milo’s eyes filled with tears. “You said you were going to get help. And then you never came again.”

The basement seemed to spin. Nora pressed her hands against the cold stone.

“What lady, Milo? What was her name?”

“I don’t know. She had silver hair. She smelled like flowers.” He thought. “She cried. She said she was our — our aunt.”

Margaret. Margaret Hale.

“Milo,” Nora said slowly. “How old was I? When I visited?”

“Little. Like —” He held his hand at his chest. “Maybe six? Seven?”

But Nora — Lena — had been nine the night of the fire. If she’d visited Milo at six or seven —

That was before the fire.

That was impossible.

Unless —

Nora’s blood ran cold as the pieces rearranged themselves.

“Milo,” she whispered. “The girl who visited you. Was her name Lena?”

Milo nodded. “She said she was Lena. She said she was my sister.”

“But Milo —” Nora’s voice shook. “If she visited you when she was six, and the fire happened when she was nine —”

Understanding dawned on Milo’s face. Slowly. Terribly.

“There were two of us,” he whispered.

Nora stared at him.

“Two girls,” Milo said. “Two —” He couldn’t finish.

Twins.

Nora — Lena — had a twin sister.

And suddenly, everything made sense. The photograph with the gap-toothed smile. The diary. The girl in the fire. The girl who was taken.

Which one was she?

Which one survived?

Nora looked at Milo, at the drawings on the walls, at the lantern flickering between them.

“Milo,” she said. “We need to find Margaret Hale. Right now.”