Chapter 4 - Maya
The daughter Mark erased
I didn't sleep.
At 2:13 in the morning, I sat on the edge of the bed staring at Maya's photograph.
At 2:41, I searched every file I could find.
At 3:16, I called Denise.
She answered immediately.
“What's wrong?”
I sent her the photograph.
She didn't respond for almost a minute.
Then:
WHERE DID YOU GET THIS?
I typed:
You know her?
Another pause.
Then:
I met her once.
My pulse accelerated.
“When?”
Fourteen months ago.
I stared at the screen.
“Why didn't you tell me?”
She called instead of texting.
I answered.
“Denise.”
“I didn't know if I was allowed.”
“Allowed by who?”
“Maya.”
“Where is she?”
“I don't know.”
“Did Mark know about her?”
Silence.
“Denise.”
“Yes.”
My chest tightened.
“How?”
“She told me.”
“Why was she at the clinic?”
Denise exhaled.
“She said her mother was dying.”
“Lorraine?”
“Yes.”
I closed my eyes.
“What happened to her?”
“I don't know.”
“Denise.”
“Clare, listen to me. Maya was terrified.”
“Of Mark?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“She said he had threatened to have her arrested.”
“For what?”
“Forgery.”
I sat up.
“What?”
“She told me Mark had used her name to sign something.”
A cold sensation spread through my arms.
“What did he forge?”
“I don't know.”
“Where is Maya now?”
“I told you. I don't know.”
Then Denise said quietly:
“But I know someone who might.”
“Who?”
“Evelyn.”
I looked toward the bedroom door.
“She's here.”
“What?”
“At the ceremony.”
“You're with her?”
“No. I'm home.”
“Then go back.”
“To the theater?”
“No.”
Denise's voice became urgent.
“Go somewhere public.”
“Why?”
“Because if Mark really knows you're investigating this, don't stay alone with him.”
I almost laughed.
“It's my house.”
“Clare.”
Her voice broke.
“I'm serious.”
I looked at the bedroom door.
Then I heard movement downstairs.
I froze.
“Someone's here.”
“Mark?”
“I don't know.”
“Call the police.”
I hung up.
I stood slowly.
Then took the key from the bedside drawer.
Not the key to B-14.
Another key.
The old attic.
I had forgotten about it.
But Denise had reminded me of something.
Years ago, Mark had insisted that we keep old nonprofit records in the attic because the basement had flooded.
I climbed the stairs.
The hallway was dark.
The attic door groaned.
Dust covered everything.
Boxes.
Old furniture.
Holiday decorations.
And one wooden trunk.
I recognized the trunk immediately.
It had belonged to Mark before we married.
I opened it.
Inside were photographs.
Letters.
A wedding certificate.
And a medical bracelet.
LORENTINE WOMEN'S CLINIC.
Patient:
LORRAINE BENNETT.
I pulled out a letter.
The handwriting was unfamiliar.
Dear Mark,
I am not asking you to love me.
I am asking you to stop pretending Maya does not exist.
At the bottom was a date.
Sixteen years ago.
I read another.
Then another.
Each letter became more desperate.
Finally, I found one dated fourteen months ago.
Mark,
You cannot erase her forever.
She knows what you did.
My hands stopped.
What did he do?
The attic floor creaked.
I turned.
Mark stood in the doorway.
He didn't look angry.
He looked tired.
“Put it back.”
I couldn't speak.
“You went through my things.”
“Who is Maya?”
He stared at me.
For the first time in twenty-three years, my husband looked like a stranger.
“She is nobody.”
“She is your daughter.”
“No.”
“She says you're her father.”
“People say many things.”
“She was in our nonprofit.”
His face hardened.
“You had no right to access her records.”
“They are our records.”
“No.”
His voice became sharper.
“They're confidential.”
“You knew she was there.”
He said nothing.
“What did you do to her?”
Nothing.
“Why did she fear you?”
Still nothing.
“Where is Lorraine?”
His jaw tightened.
“You've been talking to Evelyn.”
I didn't answer.
He smiled.
“So that's what this is.”
“What?”
“You think she's going to save you.”
I felt something cold settle inside me.
“You know her.”
“I know enough.”
“What did you do?”
He stepped into the attic.
“You've been very easy to manipulate, Clare.”
My heart sank.
“What?”
“You always wanted to save people.”
He looked around the attic.
“That's your weakness.”
“My weakness?”
“Anyone in trouble becomes more important to you than yourself.”
I stared at him.
“That doesn't answer my question.”
“No.”
He looked directly at me.
“It answers every question.”
He reached for the trunk.
I stepped back.
“Don't.”
He stopped.
“Clare.”
“You're not touching this.”
His expression changed.
Then he said:
“Ask yourself why Evelyn chose tonight to come back.”
“Because she wanted to give me my award.”
“No.”
His smile returned.
“She wanted to make you angry enough to destroy your own life.”
I shook my head.
“You're lying.”
“Am I?”
He reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone.
He showed me a photograph.
Evelyn standing beside a man.
The man was younger.
Maybe thirty.
I recognized him.
It was Sam Ortega.
I stared.
“What is this?”
“Your event producer.”
“So?”
“He used to work for me.”
My blood ran cold.
“How long?”
“Seven years.”
I looked at the photograph again.
Then at Mark.
“You're saying Sam works for you?”
“Not anymore.”
“Then why is he running my ceremony?”
Mark put his phone away.
“Because I wanted him close.”
“Why?”
He smiled.
“To make sure the award went exactly as planned.”
I couldn't breathe.
“What does that mean?”
He leaned closer.
“It means tomorrow morning, Second Chapter House will have a new director.”
My stomach dropped.
“Who?”
He whispered:
“Me.”
Then he left the attic.
I stood there alone.
A minute later, my phone buzzed.
A new message from the unknown number.
HE'S NOT THE ONE TAKING OVER.
I stared at it.
Another message appeared.
THE BOARD ALREADY VOTED.
May you like
Then the final message.
AND YOU'RE ABOUT TO FIND OUT WHO SOLD YOUR VOTE.
