Chapter 10: Malcolm’s Last Message
“Malcolm is dead.”
Mark's words echoed through the tunnel.
I stared at him.
“What do you mean?”
“He died three months ago.”
“Then who is calling me?”
“I don't know.”
“You just said he was dead.”
“He is.”
I held up the paper.
“Then why is his name here?”
Mark didn't answer.
Detective Harris took the note from my hand.
He studied it.
“Could be a setup.”
“Obviously.”
“We don't know who wrote it.”
“But they know Malcolm.”
“Yes.”
“And they know Emma.”
“Yes.”
“And they know my family.”
Harris nodded.
“Which means whoever is behind this has access to everything.”
Mark suddenly grabbed my arm.
“Sarah.”
I pulled away.
“What?”
“Don't go alone.”
The irony almost made me laugh.
The note specifically demanded that I go alone.
“You want me to bring you?”
“No.”
“Then who?”
“Someone you trust.”
I stared at him.
“That list is getting very short.”
He looked hurt.
“You don't trust me.”
“You lied to me for years.”
“I was protecting you.”
“You keep saying that.”
“Because it's true.”
“Then why was Emma drugged?”
Mark's face tightened.
“I don't know.”
“Why was the vial in your car?”
“Someone planted it.”
“Why did you owe Malcolm?”
“Because I was trying to pay someone else.”
“Who?”
He looked away.
“Mark.”
He finally whispered:
“The organization.”
My stomach tightened.
“You owed them money?”
“No.”
“Then what?”
“Information.”
“What information?”
He didn't answer.
Detective Harris stepped between us.
“We're wasting time.”
I looked at him.
“Where is the address?”
He unfolded the note.
“Baltimore.”
My blood ran cold.
“Hotel?”
“Yes.”
“What hotel?”
“The same one you mentioned.”
I stared.
“Malcolm.”
Harris nodded.
“The hotel where you met him.”
The same hotel where Malcolm had once told me:
I bought the sedative to kill the man who owed me money.
At the time, I thought he meant Mark.
Now I wasn't sure.
We drove back to Baltimore.
The hotel looked exactly the same.
Tall glass windows.
Marble entrance.
Valets.
People coming and going.
A normal evening.
A terrifying place.
I stepped inside alone.
At least, that's what the person watching expected.
Harris had officers positioned outside.
Mark was in the car.
I walked toward the elevators.
Room 714.
The note gave me a key.
I inserted it.
The door opened.
Darkness.
“Hello?”
Nothing.
I stepped inside.
The room smelled like smoke.
A television was playing with the sound muted.
On the screen was a news report about Emma's disappearance.
My stomach tightened.
A chair sat in front of the television.
Someone had left a glass of water on the table.
Beside it was another note.
SIT.
I didn't.
Another message appeared on the television.
The screen changed.
A live camera feed showed Emma.
She was sitting in a room.
Alive.
Conscious.
My knees nearly gave out.
“Emma.”
She was crying.
Her hands were tied.
A man's voice came through the television.
“Don't worry. She's alive.”
“Who are you?”
“Someone who wants the truth.”
“Where is she?”
“Safe.”
“You call that safe?”
“She isn't being hurt.”
“Then let her go.”
“Not yet.”
I clenched my fists.
“What do you want?”
“The ledger.”
“I don't have it.”
“You do.”
“No.”
“You're holding it.”
I looked around the room.
“I don't have anything.”
The man laughed.
“You've had it your entire life.”
My blood froze.
“What?”
“The ledger isn't a book.”
The television went black.
Then a photograph appeared.
My mother.
Holding me as a baby.
The image zoomed in.
Then stopped on my mother's necklace.
A small silver pendant.
I knew it.
I had seen it in family photographs.
My mother had worn it every day.
The voice returned.
“The ledger is inside the pendant.”
I stared at the screen.
“No.”
“Your mother hid it there.”
“My mother is alive.”
“Yes.”
“Where is she?”
“You'll meet her soon.”
“When?”
“When you bring us the pendant.”
I shook my head.
“I don't have it.”
The voice laughed.
“You do.”
I suddenly remembered.
The old jewelry box.
My mother had left it behind.
I had kept it for years.
Inside was the pendant.
I had never opened it.
“Where is it?”
The voice answered:
“Your husband knows.”
I ran out of the hotel room.
Mark was standing beside the car.
I shoved the door open.
“You knew.”
He stared at me.
“Knew what?”
“The pendant.”
His face changed.
I knew immediately.
“You knew.”
“Sarah…”
“You knew my mother's necklace contained the ledger.”
“I didn't know it contained the ledger.”
“You knew something was hidden inside.”
He looked down.
“Yes.”
“How long?”
“Years.”
I slapped him.
The sound echoed through the parking garage.
Mark didn't move.
“You lied to me.”
“I was trying to protect you.”
“Where is it?”
“At home.”
“My house?”
“No.”
He swallowed.
“Your mother's old house.”
“But the house isn't there.”
“It is.”
“What?”
“They made it look like an empty lot.”
“Why?”
“To hide the entrance.”
I stared at him.
“Who has the necklace?”
Mark looked at me.
“You.”
I shook my head.
“No.”
“You wore it at your wedding.”
I remembered.
A silver pendant had been around my neck.
My mother's necklace.
Then I remembered what happened after the wedding.
It disappeared.
I had blamed myself.
“Rachel took it.”
Mark nodded.
“Why?”
“She was supposed to keep it safe.”
I stared at him.
“Rachel knew?”
“Yes.”
“And my father?”
“Yes.”
“My mother?”
“Yes.”
Everyone knew.
Everyone except me.
We returned to the tunnel beneath the property.
Rachel wasn't there.
But something else was.
A small table.
On it sat the silver pendant.
I approached slowly.
Mark stopped me.
“Don't touch it.”
“Why?”
“Because that's what they want.”
“Then what do you suggest?”
“We destroy it.”
“No.”
My father's voice came from behind us.
We turned.
He stood at the tunnel entrance.
He looked exhausted.
“You shouldn't have come here.”
I stared at him.
“You lied about the necklace.”
“Yes.”
“You lied about my mother.”
“Yes.”
“You lied about Rachel.”
“Yes.”
“You lied about Mark.”
He nodded.
“Yes.”
I shook my head.
“Why should I believe anything you say?”
“You shouldn't.”
That answer surprised me.
He stepped forward.
“But you need to understand one thing.”
“What?”
“The pendant isn't the ledger.”
“Then what is it?”
“A key.”
“To what?”
He looked toward the dark end of the tunnel.
“The place where the ledger is stored.”
“And where is that?”
He pointed at the wall.
A hidden door slowly opened.
Beyond it was another chamber.
At the center stood a steel table.
On the table was a file.
And beside the file was a photograph.
I picked it up.
My mother.
My father.
Rachel.
Mark.
All four of them standing together.
But there was someone else in the photograph.
A little girl.
I stared.
The girl was about four years old.
It was the same girl from the old photograph.
My supposed sister.
Rachel.
I turned toward my sister's name on the back.
But then I noticed something.
The handwriting.
It wasn't Rachel's name.
It was another name.
EMMA.
My heart stopped.
“No.”
My father stepped forward.
“Sarah…”
I backed away.
“My daughter?”
He shook his head.
“Not your daughter.”
“What does that mean?”
He looked at the photograph.
Then at me.
“The girl in this picture is your mother.”
I stared at him.
“What?”
He pointed to the date.
It was forty years old.
My mother had been a child.
The little girl wasn't Emma.
It wasn't Rachel.
It wasn't anyone I recognized.
Then the door behind us slammed shut.
The lights went red.
A speaker crackled.
May you like
And a man's voice said:
“Now you finally know who Emma really is.”
