After her divorce, Willa sought a fresh start, moving into a cozy rental in a quiet town. But her new beginning took an unexpected turn when police arrived, asking to inspect her basement. What they found would change Willa’s life forever.
I couldn’t decide if my coffee was especially bitter that morning or if it was just my mood. Probably the latter. Divorce has a way of leaving a bitter aftertaste, especially when you’re the one signing the papers, knowing you couldn’t give your partner the one thing they wanted most.
At 35, I’d made peace with my infertility—or so I thought. That didn’t make it any easier to watch my marriage crumble under its weight. Seth, my ex-husband, had wanted kids desperately. I had too. But life had other plans.
“I don’t know how much more I can take,” Seth admitted one night, his voice heavy with frustration.
“What are you saying?” I asked, though I already knew.
“I want kids, Willa,” he said quietly. “And fostering hasn’t worked. Neither has surrogacy. I… I’m not getting younger.”
I put down my tea, bracing myself. “So, what do you want me to do? Leave? End our marriage so you can start over?”
His silence answered my question.
Months later, I found myself in a quaint rental far from the city we once called home. The house was charming in its way—creaky floors, floral wallpaper, and a faint scent of wood polish. It had belonged to an older man, Mr. Nolan, who had recently passed. His granddaughter, Lauren, wasn’t ready to sell and decided to rent it out instead.
The house was perfect for my fresh start. Quiet, cozy, and tucked away—a place to lick my wounds in peace. But that morning, my fragile serenity was shattered by a sharp knock on the door.
Two police officers stood on my porch.
“Good morning, ma’am,” the taller one said, holding his hat in his hands. “We need to inspect your basement. It’s related to the previous owner.”
My heart raced. The basement? Nothing good ever happened in basements. I hadn’t paid much attention to it since moving in—it was filled with old furniture and forgotten knickknacks Lauren hadn’t sorted through yet.
“Why?” I asked hesitantly.
“There’s been a situation,” the taller officer replied. “We hope the basement will provide some answers.”
I hesitated, my mind racing with questions. Was this about Mr. Nolan? Had something illegal happened in the house?
“May we come in?” the other officer asked. “We can get a warrant if necessary.”
Reluctantly, I stepped aside. They followed me to the basement door, its looming presence now strangely menacing. The basement smelled of damp earth and neglect as I led them down the creaky stairs. The taller officer shone his flashlight, scanning the space.
“What exactly are you looking for?” I asked.
Before they could answer, we all froze. Emerging from behind a stack of boxes was a small boy, no older than seven. His wide, frightened eyes locked on mine as he clutched a tattered blanket.
“Don’t make me go back,” he whispered.
The officers approached him gently. “It’s okay, kiddo,” the taller one said softly. “We’re here to help.”