Chapter 7 - We reached my condo just before dawn.The police surrounded the building.
Nobody knew exactly what we were looking for.
A person.
A ledger.
Something my mother had hidden eight years ago.
The elevator doors opened.
My hallway was dark.
My apartment door stood open.
I hadn't left it open.
The detective drew his weapon.
Two officers entered first.
I followed.
Nothing looked disturbed.
No broken windows.
No overturned furniture.
Then I noticed the dining room.
My table was gone.
I stopped.
“What happened?”
One officer looked at the empty space.
“Was that table here?”
“Yes.”
“Who removed it?”
“I don't know.”
Then I remembered Eleanor.
She had specifically wanted the dining table gone.
My stomach tightened.
“Check the storage room.”
The officers searched.
Empty.
The detective examined the floor.
“There's something wrong here.”
He tapped one tile.
Hollow.
The tile was lifted.
Beneath it was a steel panel.
A hidden compartment.
Inside was a box.
My mother's handwriting was on the lid.
CLAIRE.
I couldn't breathe.
I opened it.
Inside were photographs.
A key.
And a letter.
My hands shook as I unfolded it.
Claire,
If you're reading this, then Charles Sterling has finally come for you.
I stopped.
The detective looked over my shoulder.
The letter continued.
You must understand one thing. I never trusted Charles. But I once trusted his father. That mistake nearly cost me everything.
The person you have been told is dead is not the only person who survived.
I stared.
My mother had written about Evelyn?
No.
The next line changed everything.
Your biological father is alive.
The room went silent.
I dropped the letter.
My entire life shifted beneath me.
My father had supposedly died before I was born.
A heart attack.
That was what my mother told me.
The detective slowly picked up the letter.
“You were told your father died?”
“Yes.”
He read further.
His name is Daniel Hart.
Evelyn's surname.
Hart.
My father and Evelyn had the same last name.
My mind couldn't process it.
The detective looked at me.
“Do you know an Evelyn Hart's family?”
“No.”
Then I saw another photograph.
My mother.
Daniel Hart.
Evelyn.
And a little boy.
Adrian.
I stared.
Adrian was standing beside Evelyn.
But there was another child in the photograph.
A girl.
A little girl who looked exactly like me.
The detective frowned.
“That can't be you.”
“I was born the following year.”
We stared at the photograph.
Then Maya walked in.
She saw it.
And immediately covered her mouth.
“What?”
She shook her head.
“No.”
“Maya.”
“That photograph…”
“What about it?”
“The girl isn't you.”
My heart dropped.
“Then who is she?”
Maya looked at the little girl.
“Evelyn's daughter.”
I stared.
“That can't be.”
“She died.”
“When?”
“Eight years ago.”
“How?”
Maya's eyes filled with tears.
“That's what they told us.”
The detective looked between us.
“What was her name?”
Maya whispered,
“Emma Hart.”
I felt something cold settle inside my chest.
My mother had written:
The person you have been told is dead is not the only person who survived.
Maybe she meant Evelyn.
Maybe she meant Emma.
Maybe she meant my father.
Then the apartment lights suddenly flickered.
Someone had entered through the balcony.
An officer shouted.
“Movement!”
We ran into the living room.
A man in black climbed through the window.
He turned.
I saw his face.
It was Daniel Hart.
My father.
He looked directly at me.
Then he said,
“You have your mother's eyes.”
Before I could move, he raised a gun.
Not at me.
May you like
At the detective.
And fired.
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