A Missing Key 218 Missed Calls One Family Secret novel Chapter 68

Chapter 7** Inside the interrogation room, the fluorescent lights blazed overhead, casting a stark, unforgiving glare that seemed to amplify the tension in the air.

Mom sat there, an island of stillness amidst the chaos, her expression vacant, her eyes glazed over as if she were staring into an abyss. No matter the questions hurled at her by the police officers, she remained unresponsive, her lips moving in a monotonous chant: “She was throwing a tantrum… just throwing a tantrum…” The words echoed in the sterile room, a mantra that offered no solace, only a haunting reminder of her fractured reality. It was as if her mind had fractured into a million pieces, retreating into a cocoon of delusion-a safe haven crafted from the remnants of her sanity.

Meanwhile, in a different room, Dad was grappling with a grief that felt insurmountable. His heart was heavy with sorrow as he recounted the events to the police, his voice trembling with the weight of his words. He spoke of Mom’s longstanding, obsessive jealousy, an insidious shadow that had loomed over our family for years. He detailed her resentment towards the bond I shared with him, an unspoken rivalry that had grown toxic over time. Each recollection felt like a dagger, piercing through his heart, leaving him raw and exposed. “I thought… I thought she was just having a rough day…

I thought she was simply venting her frustrations…” His voice cracked, a wave of anguish washing over him. “How could I… how could I have been so blind…” In a moment of sheer desperation, he slammed his forehead against the cold, unforgiving surface of the table, the dull thud reverberating through the room-a physical manifestation of his inner turmoil. The police, in their search of our home, stumbled upon my diary tucked away in my room. It was a simple pink notebook, adorned with a tiny lock that had long since lost its purpose.

Inside, scrawled in my childish handwriting, were the confessions of a little girl who had begun to fear the very person who was supposed to protect her. “Mom yelled at me again today because Dad said my drawing was good.” “I don’t dare raise my voice anymore. Mom doesn’t like it when I talk.” “Dad bought me a new dress. I only wear it when I’m alone in my room. I’m scared Mom will see me.” The final entries chronicled my life after the burn, a painful journey of isolation and fear. “My mouth hurts so much. I can’t speak anymore. I can only write notes to Dad.” “Dad feels so guilty.

He’s been even nicer to me. But I see the way Mom looks at me. I’m terrified.” “As long as Dad loves me, it doesn’t matter how Mom treats me. I just want Dad to be happy.” Each page of the diary served as a chilling testament, perfectly aligning with Dad’s fragmented narrative. The evidence was irrefutable, leading to a singular, harrowing conclusion: this was a tragic case of fatal abuse, fueled by a mother’s overwhelming jealousy. **Chapter 7** At the police station, Dad sat alone, the diary resting in his trembling hands.

As he read through my words, a wave of realization crashed over him, and when he reached the line, “As long as Dad loves me, it doesn’t matter how Mom treats me,” the last vestige of his composure shattered. A primal scream erupted from his throat, raw and visceral, as he slammed his head against the unforgiving concrete wall. It was as if he believed that only through physical pain could he find some semblance of relief from the guilt and despair that engulfed him. “I KILLED YOU! Mara!