CHAPTER 5: MY MOTHER WAS ALIVE
For twenty-two years, I had believed my mother was dead.
I had attended her funeral.
I had watched a coffin lowered into the ground.
I had stood beside my father while adults whispered that I was too young to understand what had happened.
I had cried until I couldn't breathe.
And all those years, she had been alive.
Somewhere.
Waiting.
Or hiding.
Or being hidden.
I stared at my uncle.
“You knew.”
He didn't answer.
“You knew my mother was alive.”
His jaw tightened.
“Where is she?”
Silence.
I stepped toward him.
“Where is my mother?”
He looked at the floor.
“I don't know.”
I laughed.
It wasn't a happy sound.
“You just heard her voice.”
“That doesn't mean I know where she is.”
“You spoke to her.”
“Years ago.”
“How many?”
He hesitated.
“How many years?”
“Four.”
My stomach twisted.
“You spoke to her four years ago?”
“Yes.”
“And you never told me?”
“I was protecting you.”
“From my own mother?”
“From what she knew.”
I shook my head.
“No more lies.”
I turned toward Daniel.
“Can you trace the phone?”
He was already typing.
“I'm trying.”
My uncle suddenly lunged toward the tablet.
I stepped aside.
Daniel pulled it against his chest.
“Don't touch that.”
My uncle stopped.
“Give it to me.”
“No.”
“You don't understand.”
“I understand perfectly.”
Daniel looked at me.
“The call was routed through several servers.”
“Can you trace the source?”
“Not yet.”
My uncle suddenly laughed.
“Then you'll never find her.”
I looked at him.
“Why?”
“Because she doesn't want to be found.”
A voice came from behind me.
“She does now.”
Margaret.
She stepped forward.
Her wedding dress dragged across the carpet.
She looked exhausted.
But determined.
“I know where she is.”
Everyone turned.
I stared at her.
“You know where my mother is?”
Margaret nodded.
“Not exactly.”
“Then what do you know?”
“My grandfather kept a private property outside the city.”
My uncle's face changed.
“Margaret.”
She ignored him.
“It was never listed under his name.”
“Where?”
“An old estate.”
“Where?”
She looked at me.
“Blackwood.”
The name meant nothing to me.
But my uncle reacted immediately.
“That's impossible.”
Margaret looked at him.
“You thought nobody knew.”
“You don't know what you're talking about.”
“I found the records.”
“When?”
“Three weeks ago.”
My heart started pounding.
“Why were you looking?”
Margaret lowered her eyes.
“Because I found something in my grandfather's study.”
“What?”
“A letter.”
“From whom?”
“My mother.”
I frowned.
“Your mother?”
Margaret nodded.
“She died fifteen years ago.”
“What did the letter say?”
Margaret's fingers trembled.
“She wrote that if anything happened to her, I was never to trust my father's family.”
She glanced toward Preston.
“And never to trust your uncle.”
My uncle stepped forward.
“Enough.”
Ethan blocked him.
“You're not going anywhere.”
For the first time, I noticed something.
Ethan wasn't afraid of my uncle anymore.
He looked furious.
“You knew about this?” Ethan asked him.
My uncle didn't answer.
Ethan turned to Margaret.
“You knew?”
Margaret nodded.
“Some of it.”
“And you still married me?”
“I wanted to tell you.”
“When?”
“After tonight.”
Ethan looked devastated.
“Why tonight?”
Margaret looked toward the necklace.
“Because tonight was the only chance.”
I frowned.
“What do you mean?”
She looked at me.
“The necklace wasn't stolen.”
“I know.”
“But you don't understand why.”
Margaret walked toward the shattered display case where the family heirlooms had been kept.
She reached inside and pulled out a small velvet box.
Then she opened it.
Inside was another necklace.
Almost identical to the missing one.
My heart stopped.
“There were two.”
Margaret nodded.
“One was a replica.”
“Why?”
“The real one contained the memory card.”
“Where is the real one?”
Margaret looked at Preston.
“He has it.”
Every head turned.
Preston froze.
“What?”
Margaret pointed at him.
“You took it.”
“No.”
“You did.”
“I never touched the necklace.”
Margaret laughed bitterly.
“You expect us to believe that after the footage?”
Preston looked toward my uncle.
Then back at Margaret.
“You don't know what you're doing.”
“I know exactly what I'm doing.”
My uncle suddenly whispered:
“Preston, leave.”
Preston didn't move.
I noticed the exchange.
Something was wrong.
“What is the relationship between you two?”
Neither answered.
I walked toward Preston.
“You helped him.”
“No.”
“You knew about the necklace.”
“No.”
“You knew my mother was alive.”
He said nothing.
I stared at him.
“That means yes.”
Preston suddenly pulled something from his pocket.
A small object.
Black.
Rectangular.
My heart jumped.
“The memory card.”
Everyone moved at once.
Ethan grabbed Preston's wrist.
Preston struggled.
“Let go!”
The object fell.
It slid across the marble floor.
Daniel rushed toward it.
Preston kicked it away.
Daniel fell.
I ran.
So did Margaret.
The card disappeared beneath a table.
Preston reached for it.
I grabbed his arm.
He turned.
For one second, we stared at each other.
His expression was no longer arrogant.
It was terrified.
“Please.”
I froze.
He whispered:
“You don't want to see what's on that card.”
“Why?”
“Because it proves your mother wasn't the only person who disappeared that night.”
I released him.
“What does that mean?”
He looked toward my daughter.
His voice dropped.
“There was another child.”
My heart stopped.
“What child?”
He swallowed.
“Your mother wasn't protecting you.”
I stared at him.
“She was protecting someone else.”
“Who?”
Preston looked toward Margaret.
Then toward my uncle.
Then finally at Sophie.
His eyes widened.
I immediately pulled my daughter behind me.
“Don't look at her.”
Preston backed away.
“No.”
“What?”
He shook his head.
“That's not possible.”
“What isn't?”
He stared at Sophie.
“She looks exactly like her.”
My blood ran cold.
“Like who?”
Preston whispered a name.
“Emily.”
I frowned.
“Who is Emily?”
He didn't answer.
Then my daughter spoke.
“Mommy…”
I turned.
Sophie was staring at the photograph still partially visible in my hand.
Her face had gone pale.
“I know that girl.”
I looked down.
The little girl in the photograph.
The one I thought was me.
Sophie pointed at her.
“That isn't you.”
My breath caught.
“What?”
Sophie touched the photograph.
“That's Emily.”
The entire ballroom went silent.
I looked at the picture again.
The little girl had my mother's eyes.
But she wasn't me.
I had spent years believing that photograph showed my childhood.
It didn't.
It showed another girl.
A girl who had disappeared twenty-two years ago.
A girl named Emily.
And suddenly the memory came back.
Not as a dream.
Not as a fragment.
As a scream.
A little girl running through a hallway.
My mother shouting:
“Take her and run!”
I remembered holding someone's hand.
I remembered hiding beneath a table.
And I remembered a man dragging a little girl away from me.
I gasped.
Sophie grabbed my waist.
“Mommy?”
I couldn't answer.
Because I finally remembered the last thing I had seen before forgetting everything.
Emily wasn't a stranger.
May you like
She was my sister.
And my uncle had been the man who took her.
