Chapter 4 The Woman who waited

Camelia entered the address from the old newspaper article into her navigation and drove across the city without turning on the radio. The article had mentioned Rebecca Holloway's last known address, and after confirming through public records that the house was still connected to her family, Camelia knew where she needed to go. She kept the photograph inside her handbag, but she could feel its presence the entire drive.

Her thoughts kept returning to the photograph lying inside her handbag. Every time she remembered Adrian's face smiling beside another woman, her grip on the steering wheel tightened a little more.

The neighborhood was older than she expected. Most of the houses had been maintained over the years, but the Holloway home looked untouched by time. The white paint had faded, the garden had become overgrown, and the wooden fence leaned slightly toward the sidewalk. Someone still lived there, but the house carried the quiet feeling of a place that had spent years waiting for something that never returned.

Camelia parked across the street and looked at the address written in her notebook before stepping out of the car. She took the photograph from her handbag and looked at the woman in it again.

Rebecca Holloway.

Twenty-eight years old.

Missing since 1988.

Camelia slipped the photograph away and walked toward the front door. She knocked once, then waited. After several seconds, she knocked again, and this time she heard slow footsteps approaching from inside.

The door opened slightly, but the woman behind it did not step outside. She only looked at Camelia through the narrow opening, her expression cautious and guarded.

"Can I help you?"

"Mrs. Holloway?"

The woman's eyes narrowed.

"Who are you?"

"My name is Dr. Camelia Hayes. I wanted to ask you some questions about Rebecca."

The moment she heard her daughter's name, Mrs. Holloway's hand tightened around the door. Her face changed, but she quickly covered it with a blank expression.

"I don't talk about Rebecca."

"I understand this may be difficult, but—"

"No." Her voice was firm. "You don't understand."

Camelia stayed quiet, allowing the woman to speak.

"Are you a reporter?"

"No."

"Police?"

"No."

"Then who sent you?"

"Nobody sent me. I found your address after reading about Rebecca's disappearance."

Mrs. Holloway studied her carefully.

"Everyone reads about the missing girl. Everyone wants something from her."

"I'm not looking for a story."

"Then what are you looking for?"

"Answers."

For a moment, neither woman spoke. Mrs. Holloway looked at Camelia as if trying to decide whether she believed her.

"You have no idea what you're asking about."

"I think I do."

"No, you don't." Mrs. Holloway started closing the door. "And you should leave before you learn."

Camelia reached into her handbag before the door could close completely. She pulled out the photograph and held it up.

"Then maybe you should tell me what this is."

Mrs. Holloway froze.

Her eyes moved to the photograph, and the guarded expression on her face disappeared. She looked past Camelia toward the street before opening the door wider.

"Where did you get that?"

"It was delivered to my office."

Mrs. Holloway stared at the photograph for several seconds before stepping aside.

"Come inside."

Camelia entered quietly and closed the door behind her. The first thing she noticed was how carefully everything was arranged. The furniture was clean, the shelves were organized, and nothing appeared out of place. Then her eyes moved to the walls covered with family photographs.

There were pictures of birthdays, holidays, and ordinary moments that showed a life Rebecca had once lived. Camelia looked from one frame to another until she finally stopped at a photograph of a young woman with a bright smile.

She knew immediately it was Rebecca.

"That's my daughter," Mrs. Holloway said quietly.

Camelia looked back at the picture.

"She looks happy."

"She was."

The sadness in Mrs. Holloway's voice made Camelia turn toward her. The older woman walked to a chair and sat down slowly, as if the conversation had already taken something from her.

Camelia sat opposite her.

"What do you want to know?"

Camelia placed the photograph on the table between them.

"I want to know about the man in this picture."

Mrs. Holloway looked at it.

"I haven't seen that face in years."

"You know him?"

"I knew him."

"Who was he?"

The older woman looked away.

"Rebecca's fiancé."

Camelia watched her closely.

"What was his name?"

Mrs. Holloway stared at the photograph. Her eyebrows drew together as though she was searching through a memory she couldn't reach.

"I don't remember."

Camelia frowned.

"You don't remember the name of the man your daughter planned to marry?"

"I remember everything about Rebecca." Mrs. Holloway's voice shook slightly. "I remember the dress she wore when she got engaged. I remember how excited she was. I remember her sitting in this house, telling me she had finally found someone who made her happy."

She looked back at the photograph.

"But his name..."

She paused.

"I can't remember his name."

Camelia felt uneasy.

"Did Rebecca keep pictures of him?"

Mrs. Holloway looked toward the hallway.

"They're gone."

"What happened to them?"

"I burned them."

Camelia looked at her in surprise.

"Why?"

"Because after Rebecca disappeared, I couldn't stand seeing his face."

Mrs. Holloway stood and walked toward an old wooden cabinet. She unlocked the bottom drawer with a small brass key and removed a faded photo album before returning to the table.

"I couldn't destroy everything."

Camelia opened the album carefully. Most of the photographs had been removed, leaving empty spaces where they once were. Several pages showed dark marks from fire damage.

At the end of the album was one remaining photograph.

Rebecca stood alone in a white dress, smiling at the camera. The space beside her had been cut away, leaving only a damaged edge where someone had once stood.

Camelia stared at the missing piece.

"Who cut him out?"

Mrs. Holloway looked at the photograph.

"I don't know."

"You said you burned the photographs."

"I did."

"Then who removed him from this one?"

Mrs. Holloway closed the album.

"Some questions are safer unanswered."

Camelia looked at her.

"Is that why Rebecca disappeared?"

The older woman's expression changed. For the first time since Camelia arrived, she looked less guarded and more exhausted.

"I spent thirty-eight years hoping someone would find my daughter." Her voice cracked slightly. "But now that someone finally came asking the right questions, I wish I had never heard them."

Camelia reached for the photograph.

"Mrs. Holloway—"

"Are you married?"

The question caught Camelia off guard.

"Yes."

"Is he a good man?"

Camelia thought about Adrian waiting for her at home, the meals he cooked, the way he noticed when she was tired, and how he always made her feel loved.

"Yes," she answered quietly.

Mrs. Holloway looked at her for a long moment.

"I used to say the same thing about Rebecca's fiancé."

The words stayed between them.

Mrs. Holloway reached across the table and held Camelia's hand.

"If you love your husband, stop asking questions."

Camelia searched her face.

"Why?"

"Because I buried my daughter without ever finding her body." Mrs. Holloway's voice broke as she fought to remain calm. "And I won't watch another woman disappear because she wanted answers."

Camelia left the house with more questions than she had when she arrived. Before reaching her car, she looked back and saw Mrs. Holloway standing behind the curtain, watching her leave.

The moment Camelia's car disappeared down the street, Mrs. Holloway rushed to the front door and locked it. She checked every window, closed every curtain, and turned off the lights one by one.