Chapter 7: Who Emily Really Is
I read Elliot’s message again.
*And he’ll finally learn who Emily really is.*
For six years, I had never questioned who Emily was.
She was my daughter.
The baby I held against my chest while Rachel lay exhausted in a hospital bed.
The toddler who called every animal a puppy.
The little girl who crawled into my bed after nightmares and wrapped both arms around my neck.
Nothing on Vanessa’s burner phone could change that.
But someone wanted me to think it could.
Mark read the message over my shoulder.
“What does he mean?””
“I don’t know.””
My mother’s face tightened.
“Don’t answer him.””
“I need him to think Vanessa still has the phone.””
I typed slowly.
*Not yet. Where is the recording?*
The typing bubble appeared almost immediately.
Then vanished.
Appeared again.
Finally:
*You told me you had Rachel’s phone.*
I glanced at Mark.
“What should I say?””
“Something Vanessa would say.””
I thought about her panic.
Her obsession with controlling everything.
Then typed:
*I had it. Daniel moved things. Tell me what I’m looking for.*
This time Elliot answered quickly.
*Voice memo dated Feb 18. Delete it permanently.*
February eighteenth.
The night Rachel died.
My stomach twisted.
I typed:
*What’s on it?*
Three dots.
Then:
*Don’t play games with me, Vanessa. Your father spent six years keeping Daniel from hearing it.*
Mark cursed under his breath.
My mother covered her mouth.
I wrote:
*Daniel already heard some files from the storage unit.*
No response.
Then the phone rang.
Elliot Crane.
I stared at the screen.
“Answer,” Mark said.
“He’ll know.””
“Maybe. But we might learn something.””
I answered and said nothing.
“Vanessa?””
Elliot’s voice was low.
I stayed silent.
“Vanessa, listen carefully. Do not go back to Daniel’s house. Do not talk to Mark. Find Rachel’s phone.””
I pressed record on my own phone.
Elliot continued.
“If Daniel hears that last memo, Thomas’s entire arrangement becomes obvious.””
I finally spoke.
“What arrangement?””
Silence.
Then Elliot whispered, “Who is this?””
“Daniel.””
The call ended.
I called back.
Straight to voicemail.
Mark immediately took out his phone.
“I’m calling him.””
“He won’t answer.””
“He might answer me.””
He didn’t.
Mom touched my arm.
“Daniel, what phone are they talking about?””
“Rachel’s old phone.””
“You kept it?””
“In the safe.””
Her expression changed.
“What?””
“I saw that phone after Rachel died.””
“When?””
“At your house.””
I stared at her.
“What are you talking about?””
Mom sat slowly.
“A few weeks after the funeral, you brought boxes of Rachel’s belongings over because you couldn’t stand looking at them.””
I remembered.
Barely.
Those weeks existed in fragments.
Milk bottles.
Funeral flowers.
Emily crying at three in the morning.
Me sitting on the kitchen floor because I couldn't remember how to sterilize a bottle.
“What happened to the phone?””
“It was dead. I charged it.””
My pulse jumped.
“Did you listen to anything?””
“No. I saw several missed calls and one unsent voice memo. Then you came in and told me to box everything.””
“Unsent?””
“Yes.””
That mattered.
If Rachel had recorded something moments before her death but never sent it—
“Do you remember the date?””
Mom shook her head.
“No.””
I stood.
“I’m going home.””
Mark followed me.
At my house, the kitchen still smelled faintly of fried chicken.
The crumbs were gone.
Someone had swept them up before we left.
That somehow made me angrier.
I went straight to the office.
Rachel’s box was still open.
The phone was missing.
But Mom’s memory gave me an idea.
Rachel had always backed up photographs to her laptop.
That laptop had died years ago.
I had never thrown it away.
I climbed into the attic.
After twenty minutes of digging through boxes, I found it inside an old computer bag.
Mark looked doubtful.
“That thing still works?””
“I don't need it to. I need the hard drive.””
We carried it downstairs.
Mark knew a computer technician who owned a repair shop fifteen minutes away.
At nearly midnight, we were sitting under fluorescent lights while a sleepy technician named Luis connected Rachel’s old drive to another computer.
Folders appeared.
Photos.
Documents.
Backups.
Then Luis said, “There’s an old phone backup.””
My heart hammered.
“Open it.””
The backup was dated two days before Rachel died.
Not enough.
Then Luis found a second partial synchronization.
February eighteenth.
8:57 p.m.
Eighteen minutes before the crash.
“Audio files,” I said.
“Look for audio.””
He searched.
One voice memo.
8:49 p.m.
My hands went cold.
“Play it.””
Static.
Rachel breathing hard.
Then her voice.
“Daniel, if this saves properly, I need you to listen to me.””
I gripped the edge of the desk.
“I met Thomas tonight. He admitted why he’s been watching us.””
Rachel began crying.
“This started before I ever met you. Thomas knew your father.””
I looked at Mark.
“My father?””
My dad had died when I was seventeen.
Rachel continued.
“Thomas told me the hospital foundation money wasn’t the beginning. He said he owed your father, and when your father died, that debt became yours.””
There was a car horn in the recording.
Then Rachel whispered:
“He paid for things without you knowing. Your college tuition. The first down payment. He said he was protecting you because—”
A loud noise interrupted her.
Tires.
Rachel gasped.
Then she said, “He’s behind me again.””
My entire body went rigid.
A second voice memo began automatically.
Only forty-three seconds.
Rachel sounded terrified.
“Daniel, if something happens, take care of Emily. None of this changes who she is.””
My heart stopped.
“Rachel?””
Of course she couldn't hear me.
The recording continued.
“I wanted to tell you sooner. Thomas knows the truth about her because he paid for the treatment.””
Treatment?
Mark stared at me.
Rachel’s next words came through the speakers.
“Emily is yours, Daniel. Don’t ever let anyone tell you otherwise.””
Air rushed from my lungs.
Then Rachel added:
“But there’s something about Vanessa you need to know.””
The recording crackled.
“She isn't Thomas Hale’s biological daughter.””
Mark straightened.
“What?””
Rachel continued.
“And according to Thomas, her real father was—”
The file cut off.
Luis clicked again.
Nothing.
“That’s where the data ends.””
Mark stared at the screen.
Then his phone rang.
He looked at the caller.
His face changed.
May you like
“Who is it?”” I asked.
“Elliot.””
