Patricia stayed for another hour.
We examined everything inside the shoebox.
There were no complete explanations.
Only pieces.
A notebook.
A photograph.
An old tag.
Several letters.
And enough names to make me uncomfortable.
Before Patricia left, I asked her one more question.
"Did Elora ever tell you what she planned to do after leaving my house?"
She shook her head.
"She only said she needed four weeks."
"Four weeks exactly?"
"Yes."
I thought about that.
Elora had stayed for twenty-eight days.
She had arrived after telling me about her broken leg.
She had left as soon as she was comfortable enough to return home.
But the notebook had been prepared before she called me.
That was the part I couldn't stop thinking about.
"Did she ever mention me?"
Patricia looked at me.
"She said you were the only person she could trust to let her stay without asking too many questions."
I felt a lump in my throat.
That should have comforted me.
Instead, it made me feel used.
Patricia stood.
"I don't want you to think badly of her without knowing everything."
I looked at her.
"How am I supposed to think anything else?"
She didn't answer.
At the front door, she paused.
"Claire, there's something else."
I waited.
"That photograph wasn't taken recently."
"How do you know?"
"Because I saw the same room years ago."
I stared at her.
"Where?"
"In an old photograph Elora showed me."
"Whose room was it?"
Patricia looked toward the shoebox.
"Her husband's."
Then she left.
I closed the door.
And for several minutes, I stood in the hallway without moving.
Her husband's room.
A room connected to my house.
I couldn't make sense of it.
My former father-in-law had died several years before my divorce.
I had met him only a handful of times.
He had been a quiet man.
He rarely spoke about his work.
He had never seemed particularly interested in me.
I remembered visiting Elora and Shane's house during holidays.
I remembered family photographs.
I remembered the old wooden cabinet in the living room.
But I couldn't remember a hidden room.
I picked up the shoebox and carried it upstairs.
I placed it on the dining table.
Then I went to the spare bedroom.
The same bedroom where Elora had spent four weeks.
I looked around.
The bed was made.
The bedside table was still where I had placed it.
The little lamp stood beside the wall.
Nothing looked unusual.
I walked toward the wardrobe.
It was built into the corner.
I opened both doors.
Inside were spare blankets, extra pillows, and a few boxes of things I hadn't unpacked after moving in.
I pulled the boxes out.
Nothing.
Then I looked behind the wardrobe.
There was a narrow gap between the furniture and the wall.
I moved the wardrobe slightly.
Dust fell onto the floor.
I crouched down.
There was a small rectangular mark in the wallpaper.
It looked like an old repair.
I touched it.
The surface felt different from the rest of the wall.
I stood up and examined it more carefully.
A faint line ran vertically from near the floor to about shoulder height.
I had never noticed it before.
I went to the kitchen and returned with a flashlight.
I examined the wall again.
There.
A tiny metal edge.
Almost completely hidden beneath the wallpaper.
I felt my heartbeat quicken.
I wasn't sure what I was looking at.
I gently pressed the metal.
Nothing happened.
I tried another section.
Still nothing.
I stepped back.
The photograph came to mind.
The narrow door.
The metal plate.
The number 214.
I went downstairs and brought the photograph back.
I compared it with the wall.
The angle was different.
The wallpaper was older.
But the arrangement of the room looked familiar.
I stood there for a long time.
Then I noticed something I hadn't considered.
The previous owners had renovated the house before selling it.
They had replaced several doors.
They had also changed the flooring in the spare bedroom.
What if the wall had been covered during those renovations?
I didn't know.
But I couldn't dismiss the possibility anymore.
I called Patricia.
She answered after two rings.
"Claire?"
"I think I found something."
There was silence.
Then she asked me to describe it.
I told her about the metal edge and the unusual line in the wallpaper.
She became quiet.
"Don't force anything open," she said.
"I wasn't planning to."
"Please be careful."
I frowned.
"Why?"
"Because if Elora knew that space was there, she may have been trying to protect whatever was inside."
I looked toward the wall.
"What exactly was she protecting?"
Patricia didn't know.
Neither did I.
That evening, I couldn't sleep.
I kept thinking about the four weeks Elora had stayed with me.
She had slept in that room.
She had asked when I would be away.
She had seemed nervous whenever I returned unexpectedly.
Had she been examining the wall?
Had she been looking for something?
I remembered one particular afternoon.
I had come home early and found her standing near the wardrobe.
At the time, she told me she was looking for a blanket.
I hadn't questioned it.
Now the memory felt different.
I sat on the edge of my bed.
I didn't want to believe she had deliberately used my kindness.
But the evidence was becoming difficult to ignore.
The next morning, I called the estate agent who had handled my house purchase.
He didn't remember every detail.
But after I explained the situation, he suggested contacting the previous owners.
I found their old details in my property paperwork.
Their names were Robert and Helen.
I called the number listed for Helen.
A woman answered.
When I introduced myself and mentioned the house, she remembered it immediately.
We spoke briefly about the property.
Then I asked whether there had ever been a hidden storage room behind the spare bedroom wall.
The silence lasted several seconds.
Finally, she said:
"Who told you about that?"
I felt my stomach tighten.
I looked toward the hallway.
And I realized that Elora hadn't simply been curious about my house.
She had known exactly where to look.
Click here to continue reading: PART 8: The Previous Owner Recognized the Secret Room Immediately, but What She Told Me About Elora’s Late Husband Was Even More Disturbing
I Thought My Marriage Was the Only Thing My Ex-Husband’s Family Had Taken From Me, Until His Mother Needed My Help
Part 7 of 20
