Chapter 9 - The front windows exploded.Glass sprayed across the room.
Everyone dropped.
A bullet hit the wall where I had been standing.
Daniel pulled me to the floor.
The detectives returned fire through the doorway.
“DOWN!”
Lily screamed from the car outside.
My heart nearly stopped.
She was with the second detective.
Safe.
But whoever was shooting knew exactly where we were.
Three shots.
Then silence.
When the officers reached the porch, Clara was gone.
Only a red scarf remained caught on the railing.
Dad stared at it.
“She knew.”
“Knew what?”
“That someone was coming.”
The detectives searched the road.
Nothing.
No vehicle.
No footprints beyond the wet grass.
Whoever had shot at us was gone.
Inside, the laptop was still running.
The recovered file was now visible.
The detective had managed to restore it.
Clara appeared again.
Her face was bruised.
She spoke quickly.
“Helen isn't the person you need to fear.”
“She has been protecting someone.”
I stared at the screen.
“Someone inside the family.”
Then the video ended.
The detective tried to reopen it.
No signal.
Dead.
I turned toward Dad.
“Who?”
He looked at me.
“I don't know.”
“You always say that.”
“Because I don't.”
Elliot stepped forward.
“I do.”
Everyone turned.
“Who?”
Elliot looked at Rebecca.
She began crying.
“No.”
I felt my stomach tighten.
“What does Rebecca have to do with this?”
Elliot said:
“She isn't Helen's biological daughter.”
Rebecca went completely still.
“What?”
Elliot opened a folder.
“Rebecca was adopted.”
My sister laughed.
“No.”
Elliot showed her a birth record.
The mother's name was Maria Bennett.
Rebecca stared.
“No.”
I froze.
The room spun.
“Maria had two daughters.”
Elliot nodded.
“You.”
“Rebecca.”
He looked at me.
“You were supposed to grow up together.”
Rebecca's face crumpled.
“But Helen took only one.”
“Which one?”
Elliot's expression was grim.
“Neither.”
Silence.
“What?”
“Helen took both.”
My breath caught.
“She raised you as sisters.”
“But?”
“But one of you was Maria's biological child.”
“And the other?”
Elliot looked at Rebecca.
“Was Victor Hale's daughter.”
Rebecca stopped breathing.
I stared at her.
Her entire identity collapsed in one sentence.
“My father?”
“Victor.”
Rebecca whispered:
“No.”
Elliot nodded.
“He wasn't just your mother's lawyer.”
“He was your biological father.”
Rebecca backed away.
“You're lying.”
Elliot opened another file.
Birth records.
Hospital records.
DNA results.
Victor Hale.
Maria Bennett.
Rebecca.
The names were there.
My mother had stolen two girls from two different lives.
Then built a family around the secret.
Why?
The detective asked:
“What did Victor want?”
Elliot answered:
“Both children.”
“Why?”
“Because Maria's inheritance was divided.”
I looked at the paperwork.
Half to each child.
The seven million dollars suddenly made sense.
My mother didn't steal one fortune.
She stole two.
Rebecca stared at me.
“You're my sister.”
“Yes.”
“But I'm not your sister.”
“You are.”
“I mean by blood.”
“You still are.”
She shook her head.
“I don't know who I am.”
I stepped closer.
“You're Rebecca.”
She laughed through tears.
“That's the name they gave me.”
Then the phone in the room rang.
Not a mobile.
The old house telephone.
Nobody touched it.
It rang again.
The detective answered.
Silence.
Then a man's voice.
“You found the records.”
Everyone froze.
The voice continued.
“You always were too curious, James.”
Dad whispered:
“Victor.”
I shook my head.
“Victor is dead.”
The voice laughed.
“That's what she told you.”
My mother had lied about that too.
The voice continued.
“Bring the girls.”
“Where?”
“You know where.”
Then the line went dead.
Dad's face had gone gray.
I asked him:
“Where?”
He didn't answer.
Elliot did.
“The river.”
The same river where Maria had supposedly died.
We went there under police protection.
An abandoned boathouse stood near the bank.
The door was unlocked.
Inside was a table.
Two chairs.
A single envelope.
On it:
FOR THE SISTERS.
I opened it.
Inside was a photograph.
Maria.
Clara.
Rebecca.
And me.
All four girls together.
Taken thirty years ago.
Impossible.
I looked at Dad.
“How?”
He stared at the image.
Then whispered:
“Because you weren't babies when Helen took you.”
I frowned.
“What do you mean?”
Dad pointed at the photograph.
“You were three.”
My blood ran cold.
“I remember my childhood.”
“No.”
May you like
He looked at the photograph.
“You remember what Helen taught you to remember.”
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