Chapter 5
I replayed it six times.
Mom.
Our mother.
Linda Carter.
The woman who had collapsed at Emily's funeral.
The woman who had called me every morning for months afterward because she said she couldn't bear losing another daughter.
The woman who hated Michael.
Or claimed she did.
I told myself the software was wrong.
The plane was loud.
Emily could have said “them.”
Or “someone.”
Anything except Mom.
I found headphones.
Played it again.
This time I heard every letter.
“I'm afraid of Mom.”
My stomach twisted.
Emily continued.
“Sarah doesn't know the truth about Dad's trust. She thinks Mom gave her everything she was entitled to when Dad died. She didn't.”
I stopped breathing.
“Mom and Michael have been working together since before Sarah married him.”
The screen blurred behind my tears.
“No.”
The passenger beside me looked over.
I hadn't realized I said it aloud.
I turned toward the window.
On screen, Emily kept talking.
“I don't know why yet. I think it goes back to Dad's company, maybe even before he got sick. Michael didn't meet Sarah by accident. Mom introduced them without Sarah knowing.”
My mind went backward nine years.
Michael and I met at a charity auction.
He spilled red wine on my dress.
I laughed.
He paid for dry cleaning.
He called the event organizer the next day to ask for my number.
At least, that was the story.
My mother had encouraged me to go that night.
I hadn't wanted to.
She bought my ticket.
The realization made me physically ill.
Emily said, “I confronted Mom yesterday. She denied everything until I showed her the transfers. Then she told me to stop digging if I cared about Sarah.”
A knock sounded in the video.
Emily froze.
A voice outside the bathroom.
Female.
“Emily?”
My mother's voice.
The video ended.
I sat absolutely still.
Then I opened the other files.
Encrypted.
Every one.
A text file contained one sentence.
Password is where Dad taught us not to be afraid.
I knew instantly.
Lake Monroe.
Our father taught Emily and me to swim there.
He would take us out on the old dock and tell us fear made the water feel deeper than it was.
I tried LAKEMONROE.
Wrong.
The dock.
Wrong.
Swim.
Wrong.
Then I remembered what Dad always said before we jumped.
Trust the water.
I typed TRUSTTHEWATER.
The folders opened.
I almost wished they hadn't.
There were emails between Michael and my mother.
Years of them.
Before our first date.
Linda: Sarah will be at the Hartwell benefit Friday. Don't overdo it. She hates aggressive men.
Michael: You make this sound like a job interview.
Linda: In some ways it is.
Michael: And if she doesn't like me?
Linda: She will. You're exactly what she thinks she wants.
My hands shook.
Another message.
Michael: She said yes.
Linda: Good. Don't rush the financial documents.
Michael: How long?
Linda: After the wedding. She will sign anything once she believes you're protecting her.
I closed my eyes.
Every memory of falling in love became evidence.
He had studied me.
My mother had given him instructions.
I kept reading.
Years later:
Michael: She's asking about the trust balance.
Linda: Distract her.
Michael: Fertility treatment starts next month. That should occupy her.
I nearly vomited.
Another:
Linda: Emily is suspicious.
Michael: Of what?
Linda: You. Me. Everything.
Michael: Handle your daughter.
Linda: I am trying.
The newest email was twelve days before Emily died.
Linda: She found Rebecca.
Michael: How?
Linda: Does it matter?
Michael: Yes.
Linda: She says she copied everything.
Michael: Then get it back.
Linda: She's your problem too.
Then the last email.
Sent from Michael.
Three hours before Emily died.
Michael: Get Sarah on the phone. Keep her there.
I remembered that night.
Mom called me at 9:48.
She cried for almost two hours about Emily's behavior.
She said Emily was using drugs again.
A lie.
She begged me not to answer if Emily called.
“She needs to learn consequences,” Mom had said.
Emily called me three times while I was speaking with our mother.
I rejected every call.
My throat closed.
I had rejected my sister's final calls because Mom told me to.
At 12:31, Emily fell from a balcony.
I pressed both hands over my face.
A message appeared on the cheap laptop.
No internet connection.
Just a scheduled file alert from the drive.
IF DECRYPTED, OPEN AUDIO 17.
I found it.
The recording started with muffled voices.
Emily.
Michael.
Lauren.
They were arguing.
“You stole from her,” Emily said.
Michael answered, “You don't understand the arrangement.”
“You married my sister to rob her.”
“Lower your voice.”
“You have another family.”
“Emily.”
“I copied everything.”
Lauren said, “Where?”
Emily laughed.
“Wouldn't you like to know?”
Then another voice entered.
My mother.
“Enough.”
I stopped the recording.
My hands were ice.
David appeared in the aisle.
He had moved from his seat when he saw my face.
“What did you find?”
I handed him the headphones.
He listened.
His expression changed from confusion to horror.
When it ended, he whispered, “Jesus.”
“There is more.”
I told him about the emails.
He sat beside me.
“Sarah, when we land, we go directly to police.”
“Not Denver police.”
“Federal.”
I nodded.
“If money crossed state lines, fraud, theft, whatever this is—maybe they'll listen.”
David looked at the laptop.
“Do you think your mother was on that balcony?”
“I don't know.”
My phone had been in airplane mode.
I turned it on for a moment.
Thirty-seven messages appeared.
Most from Michael.
Eight from my mother.
The first:
Honey, Michael called me. Please tell me where you are.
Then:
Sarah, don't let grief make you believe crazy things.
Then:
Emily had serious emotional problems. You know that.
My anger turned cold.
The last message had arrived thirty minutes earlier.
I know you're going to Denver.
I looked at David.
“How does she know?”
His face tightened.
“Turn it off.”
I did.
When we landed, we didn't go to the Carlton immediately.
David called an attorney he trusted in Denver, a woman named Maria Santos.
She met us at a coffee shop inside the airport.
We showed her Emily's letter and part of the drive.
Within ten minutes, she stopped us.
“Don't open anything else.”
“Why?”
“Because you need a documented chain of custody. Make copies with counsel present. And don't contact Michael or your mother.”
“Why?”
She stared at me.
“Because if these records are authentic, you're not dealing with a cheating spouse. You're looking at potential fraud, conspiracy, theft, possibly obstruction, and depending on what happened to your sister, much worse.”
My throat tightened.
“Can we go to the FBI?”
“Yes.”
“But first, Room 814.”
Maria frowned.
I explained.
She thought for a moment.
“The Carlton?”
“Yes.”
“I know their head of security.”
Forty minutes later, we entered the hotel where Emily died.
I hadn't been there since the police released her belongings.
The marble lobby looked exactly the same.
That made me angry.
A place should not be allowed to look elegant after someone dies there.
Maria spoke privately with the security director, Mr. Harris.
When she mentioned Room 814, his face changed.
He looked at me.
“Are you Sarah Whitmore?”
My pulse jumped.
“Yes.”
He disappeared into his office.
When he returned, he held a blue envelope.
Not a file.
An envelope.
Across the front, in Emily's handwriting, were the words:
FOR SARAH ONLY.
My knees weakened.
“She left this?”
Mr. Harris nodded.
“The morning before her death.”
“Why didn't anyone tell me?”
“She didn't leave it under her own name.”
“What name?”
He hesitated.
“Your father's.”
I tore it open.
Inside was a storage receipt.
Locker facility.
Unit 814.
And a key.
David whispered, “That's Room 814.”
But another piece of paper fell out.
A photograph.
My mother standing beside Michael.
The date was nine years ago.
Three months before I supposedly met him.
On the back, Emily had written:
They knew each other long before you did.
Then Maria's phone rang.
She answered.
Listened.
Her face became tense.
When she hung up, she looked at me.
“That was my office.”
“What?”
“There are two men downstairs asking whether I've seen you.”
“Who?”
“One identified himself as your husband's attorney.”
“And the other?”
May you like
Maria paused.
“Your mother's attorney.”
