Chapter 3 - The Missing Memories
The silence of Mark’s apartment was not empty; it was heavy, a physical weight that settled in his chest the moment he stepped over the threshold. It was a stark contrast to the chaotic, suffocating air of the old house. Here, the air was filtered, the carpet was new, and the only sound was the rhythmic hum of the refrigerator and the occasional creak of floorboards.
Mark sat on the edge of the sofa, watching Lily. She was coloring in the corner of the room, a small figure hunched over a sheet of white paper, her crayon moving with a frantic intensity.
"She’s doing good," Mark whispered, mostly to convince himself. "Dr. Evans said the environment is the first step."
He felt a surge of righteous pride. He had removed her from the danger zone. He had secured the apartment, bought the locks, and scheduled the therapy sessions. He was the protector now. He was the one keeping the monsters at bay. The divorce from Taylor had been messy, but this—protecting his daughter—was clean. It was purposeful.
Mark leaned in closer as Lily finished a section of the drawing. It was a crude, jagged structure made of grey crayon. A door. A handle. A tiny, stick-figure girl standing in front of it.
"Is that the freezer?" Mark asked gently.
Lily looked up, her eyes wide and glassy. "Yes," she said softly.
"Do you remember being in there?" Mark asked, his voice tight. "Do you remember how cold it was?"
Lily shook her head violently, her curls bouncing. "I was standing here," she pointed to the space in front of the grey box on the page. "I was waiting. But the door wouldn't open."
Mark’s heart hammered against his ribs. Waiting. That’s what she told me. She was waiting for help. He took her hand, squeezing it until his knuckles turned white. "You were brave, Lils. You didn't let them get you."
He interpreted the drawing through the lens of his own trauma. The drawing wasn't a memory of being trapped; it was a memory of rescue. It was evidence of her survival instinct. The fact that she never drew herself inside the box was proof, to him, that she knew she was supposed to be out. It was a psychological scar she was healing from.
Satisfied, he stood up and walked to the kitchen, needing a glass of water to steady his nerves. As he passed the pantry, he saw the cardboard box Taylor had left behind during the move. It contained Lily’s baby things—blankets, toys, and a stack of old notebooks.
Mark’s curiosity got the better of him. He opened the box and pulled out a leather-bound journal. It was Taylor’s handwriting, frantic and hurried in places, neat and organized in others. He opened to the first page.
*November 12th. Lily woke up screaming at 2:00 AM. She was soaked with sweat. She kept saying, 'The cold, it’s so cold.'*
*November 15th. She refuses to eat anything cold. Ice cream, even. She screams if I put a cold glass of water near her.*
*November 20th. I think I saw her in the garage. She was staring at the freezer. She looked like she was... afraid of it.*
Mark’s breath hitched. The entries were dated from the first year of the marriage. This wasn't recent. Taylor had known. She had seen the fear in Lily’s eyes and had written it down, yet she had done nothing.
*She’s complicit,* Mark thought, a cold knot forming in his stomach. She’s been letting this happen.
He flipped to the back of the book, his thumb skimming over the pages. January 3rd. Night terrors are back. Worse than before. She wakes up clawing at her throat. I can't get her to stop.
The weight of the journal felt like a lead pipe in his hands. He had been so focused on the garage, on the freezer, on the immediate danger that he hadn't looked at the history. Taylor had a record of this terror. She knew. And she stayed.
Just as Mark was about to close the journal, his phone buzzed on the counter. The screen lit up, illuminating the dark kitchen.
It was a text from Taylor.
Mark stared at the message, his eyes blurring as he read it for the third time.
*I know what you think, but you don't understand. Evelyn has dementia. She doesn't remember any of this. You're scaring Lily for no reason.*
The air left the room. Mark dropped the journal. It hit the floor with a dull thud, the leather cover flipping open to reveal the blank pages inside.
*Dementia.*
The word hung in the air, toxic and corrosive. If Evelyn was sick—if she was losing her mind—then the timeline didn't make sense. If she didn't remember, why would she put a child in a freezer?
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But more importantly, the text felt like a weapon. It was a narrative shift. It was a way to frame him. If he accused Evelyn of abuse now, he would just be the angry ex-husband, the unstable father. He would be the one terrorizing his daughter with stories of a "frozen nightmare" that didn't exist.
Mark looked at Lily, who was still coloring in the corner, oblivious to the war raging in his mind. She drew a smiley face on the girl in front of the box.
