Four Keys for Them, Zero for Me Chapter 06

Four Keys for Them, Zero for Me Chapter 06

“Are you Vera Woods? The one who wrote ‘Salt’?”

After the winter reading event, a guy in a camel coat stopped me. He introduced himself as Ethan Shaw—journalism major, editor in chief of the campus paper.

“Your piece got the most shares this semester.”

“Thanks.”

“Would you be open to a profile? Not you interviewing someone—us interviewing you.”

I hesitated. Exposure meant being seen. By whom? The family that never saw me.

“Fine. But no photo.”

Ethan tilted his head. “Why?”

“Just don’t.”

He studied me for two seconds, then nodded. “Anonymous image. Just your pen name.”

My pen name: D.B., stripped clean. The person I was trying to become.

The interview ran. It blew up on campus forums—not because I was a great writer, but because one section got screenshotted and reposted everywhere.

The reporter asked: “There’s a quiet ache in your writing. Where does it come from?”

I thought for a moment, then offered an analogy: “From a cabinet you can’t reach, even on your tiptoes. When I was little, I thought it was because I wasn’t tall enough. Later I realized that cabinet only opened for certain people.”

That passage got retweeted thousands of times. The comments filled with stories: neglected firstborns, middle children treated unfairly, kids treated like ghosts, older sisters turned into unpaid nannies. I read them all, one by one. So many people lived next to the same cabinet I did.

In late December, a national platform called “New Voice” reached out to Professor Hayes. They wanted to sign a student author. He recommended me. After reading all my columns, they requested a video call.

“Vera Woods, we’d like to publish your first book.”

“What kind of book?”

“Nonfiction. What you’ve been writing about—family, leaving, growth. Would you write it?”

I looked at the editor on screen—glasses, high ponytail, very serious.

“Advance?”

She laughed. “Guaranteed minimum plus royalties. Guarantee starts at fifty thousand.”

Fifty thousand dollars. I couldn’t earn that in a year of bubble tea shifts.

“I’ll write it.”

The night I signed the contract, Jenna took me out for fondue. “Don’t forget me when you’re rich.”

“I won’t be rich. Just a book.”

“A book is rich. I can’t even finish a paper.” She dunked a slice of tripe into the pot, then looked up. “Your family know?”

“No.”

“Are you going to tell them?”

“Nothing to tell.”

She looked at me, ladle suspended over the bubbling broth. “You know—the way you say ‘nothing’ sometimes hurts more than crying.”

The pot bubbled and frothed. Steam blurred my vision.

Walking home, my phone buzzed. Not the group chat. A private message—from Sherry. Forty-three days, and she was the first to reach out alone.

Message: “Vera, where are you?”

I stared at it for a long time. No reply.

Ten minutes later: “Mom found your room empty. Keys on the dresser. Closet cleared out.”

Another: “She asked me if you moved out. I said I didn’t know.”

Another: “Vera, are you okay?”

I typed a few words. Deleted. Typed again. Deleted.

Finally: “Fine.”

Then I closed the app, turned off the phone, and pulled back the curtains. Havenport’s winter was mild—salt&scented wind through the window. On my desk, the half&finished manuscript. The desk lamp—an old one Jenna had given me. Warm yellow light falling across the lined paper.

I sat down and kept writing. I wrote until 2:00 A.M.

The title was finalized: Alibi.

A story about someone who disappeared from a family—and how she proved she existed somewhere else.