My Sister Was in the Suitcase

Growing up, the game I hated playing most with my older sister, Chloe, was hide-and-seek.

Chloe was absolutely terrible at hiding.

I found it incredibly boring, no challenge at all.

But one day, Chloe disappeared, and no matter how hard I looked, I couldn't find her.

My brother-in-law, David Miller, cried his heart out in court.

"My wife and I were married for seven years, and we loved each other very much."

"She was seven months pregnant. That night, she said she was going for a walk. I never imagined she would commit suicide."

"I loved her so much, how could I kill her?"

He wept so genuinely, so utterly devastated.

The jury sighed with sympathy.

Even my mom hugged him, crying, "David, I'm so sorry. It was my fault, I misjudged you."

Everyone in the courtroom was moved, and even the judge offered words of comfort.

But in my mind, a pop-up text from our hide-and-seek games appeared:

"She's in the suitcase."

"Given insufficient evidence, the declaration of death is not established. Court adjourned. Re-trial to be scheduled."

The gavel fell.

David Miller stood in the defendant's box, his shoulders still trembling.

Tears clung to his chin, dropping one by one.

He was an incredible actor.

So good that even the judge told him, "Mr. Miller, please accept my condolences," and the gallery was filled with soft sobs.

I stood up.

"Your Honor, Chloe didn't commit suicide. I have proof."

I pulled a notebook from my bag and held it high.

The cover was a soft apricot shade, Chloe's favorite. The last sentence she wrote before she disappeared, I knew by heart.

"He knows I found out. He's going to kill me."

David Miller's lawyer sprang to his feet to object.

The judge raised a hand to stop him, instructing me to present the diary.

David didn't panic.

He didn't even glance at the diary.

He just slowly pulled a document from the inside pocket of his suit jacket and handed it to the judge with both hands.

"Your Honor, this is my wife Chloe's psychiatric evaluation report from her pregnancy, indicating severe prenatal anxiety with paranoid delusions. Every word she wrote in her diary was a hallucination from her illness."

The judge took the document.

He flipped through a couple of pages, then looked up at me.

"Maya, this report is legitimate. Chloe's attending physician has already signed off on it."

My hand hung in mid-air.

The diary was still clutched in my grasp, but it had instantly turned into a stack of worthless papers.

David gently sighed.

He turned to me, his eyes still red, his voice raspy, like sandpaper:

"Maya, I know this is hard for you to accept, and it's hard for me too, but Chloe was ill. She needed help, not accusations."

Someone in the gallery whispered:

"He's such a good man."

"Is this woman crazy?"

"Her own husband said that, and she's still causing a scene."

My mom rushed from the back row.

Her hand landed squarely on my face with a sharp smack that silenced the entire courtroom.

"Maya! You're coming home with me!"

My face burned.

I didn't move.

My mom then grabbed David's hand: "David, our family owes you an apology. Maya's just being difficult, don't blame her."

My dad sat in his wheelchair, turning his face away.

David shook his head, his voice as gentle as if he were soothing a child:

"Don't blame Maya. She's still young, it's hard for her to process."

His lawyer packed up his papers nearby, not even looking up.

The bailiffs began clearing the courtroom.

People in the gallery stood up and started to leave. As they passed me, some glanced my way.

Their eyes held sympathy, and disgust.

David was helped by his lawyer out of the defendant's box.

He paused as he passed me.

He didn't look at me, didn't speak.

But I saw it.

A fleeting upward curve of his lips.

The expression lasted less than a second, gone as quickly as it appeared.

But I saw it. He was smiling.

No one else noticed.

I clutched Chloe's diary, standing rooted to the spot.

That line of text was still flashing in front of my eyes, it hadn't disappeared since it first appeared.

"Suitcase."

I had to find the suitcase. The sunlight outside the courthouse stung my eyes.

My mom was the first to rush out, grabbing my arm, her nails digging into my flesh.

"What were you doing in court just now? Are you happy only when you've driven David to his grave?"

My dad was pushed out in his wheelchair, turning his head away, not looking at me.

Sophie stood on the steps, hesitant, her lips parted as if to speak. In the end, she only said, "Maya, David has been through enough."

"He killed Chloe."

My mom's hand went up again.

This time it didn't land on my face; she grabbed my collar and dragged me to the corner.

"I'll say it again: Chloe left on her own! The doctor even said she had a mental illness! What has David ever done to you? He's trying to find you a rehabilitation center, he said he doesn't blame you, what more do you want?"

The buzzing of microphones reached me from a distance.

David stood on the courthouse steps, surrounded by reporters.

He wore his dark suit, his hair meticulously combed, his face still streaked with tears.

His voice was hoarse and low, every word trembling.

"I don't blame Maya. She's in too much pain from losing Chloe. I'll help her find the best therapist. Please don't blame her."

A reporter pressed, "Mr. Miller, are you satisfied with today's outcome?"

He lowered his head, silent for three seconds.

"I just want Chloe alive and back. The declaration of death was not established, so at least I still have hope."

Flashbulbs erupted in a continuous blaze.

Someone applauded.

His gaze swept over the crowd, landing precisely on me.

Then he lowered his head again, wiping away a tear.

Sophie sighed beside me: "Maya, just look at him."

I looked at the pop-up text.

It was still there.

"Suitcase."

I turned and walked away.

Back home, I searched through every single one of Chloe's belongings.

Closet, nothing.

Storage room, nothing.

Under the bed, nothing.

The old suitcase she used before she got married was still there, but it was empty.

I squatted in Chloe's room, staring at the pop-up text.

"Suitcase."

It wouldn't tell me more.

Since childhood, it only told me where something was hidden, never how to find it.

The doorbell rang.

My mom stood at the door, with Sophie behind her.

"Maya, David just called. The rehabilitation center is all set. Pack your bags, he'll pick you up tomorrow."

"I'm not going."

"You have to go." My mom walked in, saw the mess in my room, and her face darkened even more. "Look at the state you're in! If Chloe saw you like this, would she rest in peace?"

"She's not resting in peace. She's in the suitcase."

My mom burst into tears.

Sophie hugged her, patting her back.

The next day, David came.

He stood downstairs from my apartment, holding a bag of fruit, with two reporters trailing him.

"Maya, I brought you some strawberries. Chloe used to love them."

He handed me the fruit in front of the reporters.

I didn't take it.

He didn't get angry. He placed the fruit on the doorstep and told the reporters, "Maya is still grieving. I don't blame her."

The reporters took their photos and left.

My mom rushed out, holding David's hand and thanking him.

Passing neighbors stopped, some giving him a thumbs-up.

"What a stand-up guy."

"He's so patient, even with her acting out like this."

I stood at my second-story window, watching everything unfold below.

David looked up, right at me. That night, I lay on Chloe's bed, staring at the ceiling.

The pop-up text was still there.

It was like a curse nailed to my eyes.

I rolled over, facing the wall.

A photo of Chloe was taped to the wall, taken outside our old house. She was smiling so wide her eyes disappeared.

Our old house.

I sat up abruptly.

That was Chloe's house before she got married.

It had been empty ever since she moved out.

All of Chloe's belongings when she moved out came from there.

The suitcase? Could that suitcase be in the old house?

I threw on a jacket and ran out. The streets were empty at four in the morning.

I hailed a cab. The driver kept glancing at me in the rearview mirror, probably thinking I was crazy.

The lock on the old house hadn't been changed. I used Chloe's key to open it.

The house was full of dust, and the air smelled damp and moldy.

I stood in the living room, my heart pounding.

The pop-up text disappeared.

Since childhood, every time I found something hidden, the pop-up text would vanish.

It only disappeared at the exact moment I found it.

Chloe was here.

I pulled out my phone and dialed 91

"Officer, I need to report something. I found Chloe's body."

Detective Sergeant Evans arrived.

He gave me a look I knew too well: sympathy mixed with impatience, like he was dealing with a disruptive child.

"Maya, it's you again."

"Detective Sergeant Evans, Chloe is right here."

He didn't speak, just led his team inside.

The old house wasn't big C a small three-bedroom place.

They searched room by room. Nothing.

Detective Sergeant Evans came out, taking off his cap.

"Maya, Chloe isn't here."

"She is."

"We've searched."

"Search again."

Detective Sergeant Evans sighed.

Just then, a black sedan pulled up outside.

David stepped out of the car, wearing pajamas underneath a jacket.

"Maya! What are you doing here again?"

He walked over, his tone still that soothing, child-like cadence, "I got a call from the property manager saying someone broke in. I didn't expect it to be you. This place is empty, it's not safe."

He turned to Detective Sergeant Evans, sighing, "Officer, I apologize. I haven't been able to look after her properly. Her mental state has been unstable since Chloe disappeared. I've already arranged for a rehabilitation center."

A cab screeched to a halt at the door. My mom got out, her face deathly pale.

"Maya! Are you calling the police with false alarms again?"

"Mom, Chloe is right he"

"Shut up!"

My mom rushed over and slapped my shoulder. It stung.

"David wants to send you to the rehabilitation center, and I've agreed. You can't keep doing this."

"Look at you, running out at four in the morning! Are you trying to kill me with worry?"

Detective Sergeant Evans looked at my mom, then at David.

"Maya, filing a false report can lead to arrest."

David quickly waved his hands, apologizing.

"Officer, please don't pursue this. Maya didn't mean it. She just misses Chloe too much. I'll take her home, we won't cause any more trouble."

He walked over and reached for my arm.

My mom also walked over, gripping my other hand.

Detective Sergeant Evans told his officers, "Pack it up. Take Maya back to the station for a statement. False reports need to be handled."

An officer walked over, taking out handcuffs.

I struggled free.

"Detective Sergeant Evans, please, just one more search. Just one."

Detective Sergeant Evans looked at me. For a long time.

"Maya, I've already searched twice."

"We've taken every possible measure. There's no sign of murder or bloodstains on the premises."

"A third time."

"There's nothing here."

"One last time, I'm begging you."

I gripped Detective Sergeant Evans' hand, pleading desperately.

Detective Sergeant Evans paused, probably thinking I'd truly gone mad.

David sighed, walked over, his voice soft as if soothing an infant: "Maya, come home with me. The doctors from the rehabilitation center will be here soon to pick you up. Someone will take care of you there. Please, no more scenes, okay?"

The officer approached again, this time directly reaching for my wrists with the handcuffs.

Gritting my teeth, I struggled, shaking off his grip.

"Please, search again. I'm begging you."

Detective Sergeant Evans' brows furrowed.

He looked at me for three seconds, then raised a hand to stop the officer.

"Search one more time," he said. The officers went back inside.

Behind cabinets, under the floorboards, they even checked the walls for false compartments.

More meticulously, more carefully than the previous two times.

The entire house was subjected to bloodstain detection.

Still nothing.

When Detective Sergeant Evans came out, he took his cap off, then put it back on.

He didn't look at me, but I knew what he was thinking.

He was thinking this girl was truly being unreasonable.

David gently patted my shoulder: "Maya, that's enough. You've put the police through enough."

He walked over to take my arm.

My mom also came over, and both of them held me tight.

Detective Sergeant Evans told his officers: "Pack it up. Take her in."

The officer walked over, this time without hesitation.

The cold metal of the handcuffs clicked shut on my left wrist.

My tears finally fell.

I still hadn't found Chloe.

My mom clutched her chest nearby, scolding me furiously, while David tried to soothe her.

"Chloe was such a good person, and you've learned nothing from her! Now you're treating calling the police like a game!"

David sighed and bowed to Detective Sergeant Evans.

"Again, I apologize, Officer. She just misses Chloe too much. I apologize on her behalf."

Detective Sergeant Evans waved his hand, signaling the officer to take me away.

The officer pulled on my handcuffs, dragging me towards the door.

I was pulled two steps, my eyes scanning every corner of the room.

Suddenly, I noticed something.

I lunged fiercely in that direction.

The handcuffs clanged against the doorframe, leaving a red mark on my wrist.

The officer pushed me, struggling like crazy, onto the floor.

"What are you doing?!" My mom shrieked.

Detective Sergeant Evans yelled, "Hold it!"

He wasn't talking to me. He was talking to everyone.

He stared in the direction I was looking, walked quickly over, and squatted down.

A few seconds of silence.

David opened his mouth to say something, saw Detective Sergeant Evans' expression, and closed it again.

Then he stood up, his face utterly changed.

"Secure the scene. No one leaves. Call in the CID, forensic team, and K9 unit."

I lay on the floor, looking at that corner.

Chloe, I found you.