Page 11 of Darkwater Lane (Stillhouse Lake #7)

It’s nothing risqué, just a collection of envelopes.

I wonder for a moment if perhaps I’ve come across her trove of love letters and consider taking a peek.

But then I remind myself that Lanny’s room is her sanctuary, and I’m invading it.

I should stop, shove the envelopes back into the shoebox, and slide it under her bed.

To do anything else would be a violation of the deepest kind.

Then I think about Connor and how he spent last year secretly posting on a Melvin Royal message board. He’d created an entire online identity as Melvin’s Little Helper and posted details about Melvin and his crimes that he learned by snooping through old letters Melvin had sent me.

I’d had no idea about any of it: that he’d found the letters or was posting snippets online. I only learned about it when the FBI searched Connor’s computer after his best friend took a gun to school and shot two students, then claimed Connor had put him up to it.

The whole experience had shattered my trust and opened my eyes.

It’s not fair that Lanny should also suffer the consequences of Connor’s missteps, but that’s just the reality of our lives. We’re not like most families who don’t give the safety of their homes and their lives a second thought.

We’ve been hunted before. Both of my kids have been kidnapped. Each of us has a target on our back because of our relation to Melvin Royal.

I know the right thing to do would be to return the shoebox and walk away.

But then I remember when Lanny was four and chased the neighbor’s dog out into the street without looking.

I’d screamed in terror as I watched a car barrel toward her.

Thankfully, it stopped with a squeal of brakes.

When I was able to catch my breath, I explained to her that she couldn’t ever, ever, ever run out into the street like that again.

She’d looked at me, genuinely confused, and asked, “But why?” I’d told her she could be hit by a car. She still didn’t understand. Her brain couldn’t grasp the finality of that danger.

The conversation had left me shaking, because if she couldn’t recognize danger, how could I ever teach her to avoid it?

As adults, we recognize dangers kids don’t. That’s our job.

I’ve spent the last several years trying to instill that understanding in my kids. Sometimes, I think they get it. Sometimes, I know they don’t.

It’s the latter that keeps me up at night. It’s also what has me retrieving the first envelope from under Lanny’s bed. I freeze when I notice the return address. It’s from Stanford University. I read the first line: Congratulations! We would like to welcome you to the class of…

My eyes go wide, and I find myself smiling and laughing giddily. It’s an acceptance letter! To Stanford! My baby girl got into Stanford! I let out a whoop of excitement and immediately reach for my phone, wanting to congratulate her.

Then, I realize I can’t.

I’m not supposed to know about this. Maybe she’s waiting to surprise me with the news , I think. Then I glance at the date and feel like I’ve been punched in the gut. The letter is from months ago.

I sit back on my heels and reach for the next envelope. It’s another acceptance letter. This time from Berkeley. There’s another from Smith and one from Princeton. Another from Duke. I shake my head in wonder. I’ve always known Lanny is smart, but this blows my mind.

My chest swells with pride at what my daughter has accomplished.

But my pride is tempered by confusion. Why hasn’t she shared any of this? Why keep it a secret? How did I not notice all these letters coming in the mail?

That’s when I look closer at the top of the letters and notice that all were sent to a private mailbox and not home. Which makes all of this even more intentional. She had to have found a place that would rent a box to a minor and set it all up before she even started applying.

Keeping this news a secret took planning and effort. Why?

It reminds me of Connor all over again. Thinking that I knew him, that we had the kind of relationship where we didn’t keep big secrets. I’d been wrong .

It turns out I was wrong about Lanny as well.

Tears prick the corners of my eyes. I think of all the family dinners we’ve had over the past months when she could have brought this up.

How many times had she been sitting there, excitement from a fresh acceptance letter bubbling through her, but she’d remained silent, hiding the news from us?

We’d even talked about colleges dozens of times.

She said her plan was to start out at the local community college and then decide if she wanted to apply elsewhere down the road.

I hadn’t challenged her on that plan because a part of me had been relieved she wanted to stay so close to home.

Did she just apply to these schools out of curiosity? To see if she could get in? Or is this more than that?

I don’t know whether I want this to be real or not. My heart nearly breaks at the thought of her moving away next year, but it shatters at the idea of her staying and giving up on the opportunities these letters present.

I bury my face in my hands. How am I supposed to bring this up with her? She’ll be furious if she finds out I went digging through her room. Any hope I have of a real, honest conversation would be instantly out the window. There’s no way she’ll open up or trust me again.

I curse under my breath, both mad at myself for snooping and at Lanny for keeping this a secret.

Because of course I can’t stop wondering what else she might be hiding. As much as I wish I could, I can’t let this go. With a sigh of resignation and a pit in my stomach, I scan the rest of her room. I’ll have to search it. Connor’s too. As violative as it feels, I don’t have an option.

This is one of those shitty aspects of being a parent. Because the reality is, I’m not my kids’ friend, I’m their parent. That means making the difficult choices to keep them safe, even when I know it might end up pissing them off or hurting their feelings .

Slowly, methodically, I make my way through her room. Checking the back of her closet, the pages of her books, coat pockets, beneath dresser drawers.

Thankfully, I find nothing of interest. That changes when I switch on her computer.

Of course, it’s password protected, but every time I give my kids any kind of electronic equipment, I make sure to install a master key that gives me access. I override the protections she’s put in place and start hunting through her files and checking her search history.

I note that she uses a VPN and a browser that dumps the cache whenever she closes a window. Smart girl. But no data is ever truly erased. Within five minutes, I find her private Instagram page.

My heart sinks. “Lanny, no,” I murmur to myself. I’ve told my kids again and again and again that they’re not allowed on social media. I know it’s hard for them, especially in today’s world, but the risks are too great.

I thought they listened. I thought they understood.

Apparently not.