Chapter 8 - I stared at the ring for what felt like an eternity.R.C.
Robert Carter.
My husband.
Maya's father.
Dead for six years.
The man who had supposedly died in a car accident on a rainy Thursday night.
The man whose funeral I had planned.
The man whose clothes I had packed into boxes because I couldn't bear to look at them.
The man whose voice I hadn't heard in six years.
And now his initials were engraved inside the ring connected to the person threatening my daughter.
“No,” I whispered.
The detective lowered his voice.
“We need to know everything about your husband.”
“You think he was involved?”
“I think we need to understand why his initials are inside this ring.”
“He's dead.”
“I know.”
I looked at the ring again.
Something didn't fit.
My husband never wore rings.
Not even his wedding ring.
He had hated jewelry.
I suddenly remembered something.
His old workshop.
After his death, I had never entered it again.
It was attached to our garage.
I ran home.
The detective followed.
The workshop was dusty.
Boxes filled every shelf.
I searched through them.
Nothing.
Then I noticed a loose wooden board beneath the workbench.
I pulled it free.
Behind it was a metal box.
Locked.
The detective forced it open.
Inside was a stack of documents.
Bank statements.
Photos.
School records.
And a letter.
My name was written on the envelope.
With my husband's handwriting.
My hands shook so badly I could barely open it.
Inside was a single page.
Sarah, if you're reading this, then I failed.
I stopped.
The detective read over my shoulder.
I found out who is taking the money. But the theft isn't the real operation.
I kept reading.
The money is being used to control people. Students. Teachers. Parents. Anyone who discovers the truth becomes vulnerable.
My vision blurred.
Then the final paragraph.
I don't know who I can trust. Not even the people closest to me.
I looked up.
The detective was staring at the final sentence.
If something happens to me, protect Maya. She will be important someday.
My daughter's name.
My husband's letter had been written before she was born.
Why would he say she would be important?
Then I found another photograph.
A woman holding a newborn baby.
My husband stood beside her.
The baby was Maya.
But the woman wasn't me.
I dropped the photograph.
“Who is that?”
The detective examined it.
“I don't know.”
My heart began pounding.
There was a date on the back.
Sixteen years ago.
The same year Maya was born.
I searched the box again.
A hospital bracelet.
Maya's birth date.
But the last name wasn't Carter.
It was another name.
Maya Bennett.
I felt the room disappear.
“Maya was registered under another name?”
The detective shook his head.
“This could be significant.”
I heard footsteps behind us.
Maya.
She had been listening.
“Mom?”
I turned.
Her face was pale.
“What?”
“What did you find?”
I couldn't speak.
She picked up the photograph.
Her eyes widened.
“Who is that woman?”
“I don't know.”
Maya looked at the hospital bracelet.
Then at me.
“Mom...”
“What?”
“I know her.”
My heart stopped.
“How?”
“Sophie showed me a picture once.”
“Who is she?”
Maya swallowed.
“She said this was Emily's mother.”
Silence.
The detective stood.
“That's impossible.”
“Why?”
“Emily's mother died twelve years ago.”
Maya shook her head.
“No.”
“She isn't dead.”
I stared at my daughter.
“How do you know?”
“Because she came to see Sophie.”
“When?”
“Last week.”
“Where?”
Maya's phone buzzed.
A message appeared.
YOU FINALLY FOUND HER.
Then a second message.
NOW ASK YOUR DAUGHTER WHY SHE WAS BORN.
I looked at Maya.
She was crying.
“Mom,” she whispered.
“I think my whole life is a lie.”
Then the garage door opened.
A woman's voice called from outside.
“Sarah?”
We froze.
Maya knew the voice.
May you like
She whispered:
“That's Emily's mother.”
