Chapter 5
The next morning, Mr. Sanders came to the hospital.
He looked twenty years older than the last time I had seen him.
“Emily.”
I didn’t hug him.
I didn’t shake his hand.
I asked one question.
“What did my father know?”
He glanced at Detective Reed.
Then at Chloe, who was asleep in a chair beside Noah’s room.
“Maybe we should speak somewhere private.”
“No.”
“Emily—”
“My daughter has spent months hearing secrets whispered around her. No more.”
Chloe opened her eyes.
“I’m awake.”
Mr. Sanders looked uncomfortable.
“Fine.”
We moved to a family consultation room.
He placed a large brown envelope on the table.
My father’s handwriting was on the front.
FOR EMILY ONLY.
My eyes filled immediately.
“Why didn’t you give this to me?”
“Because your father instructed me not to.”
“Why?”
“He was afraid.”
“Of Jason?”
Mr. Sanders nodded.
“He hired an investigator about three months before your wedding.”
I stared at him.
“He investigated my fiancé?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Your father noticed inconsistencies.”
“What inconsistencies?”
“Jason said he attended Northwestern University.”
“He did.”
“No record.”
My breath caught.
“He told your father he grew up near Columbus, Ohio.”
“Yes.”
“No Jason Harper matching his age lived there.”
I looked toward Chloe.
She was listening without blinking.
Mr. Sanders continued.
“Your father also found that Jason’s Social Security number had only been active for about a year before you met him.”
“How?”
“He had resources.”
“My father should have told me.”
“He tried.”
“No, he didn’t.”
“He told you he didn’t trust Jason.”
“That is not the same thing.”
“You were in love.”
“So he decided to keep this from me?”
Mr. Sanders looked ashamed.
“He believed confronting Jason without proof could put you in danger.”
I stood.
“I married him!”
“I know.”
“I had children with him!”
“I know.”
“My father let me build a life with a stranger!”
“Emily, he was trying to protect you.”
“Then he failed.”
Silence filled the room.
Chloe quietly reached for my hand.
I sat again.
“Open it.”
Mr. Sanders pushed the envelope toward me.
“You should.”
I broke the seal.
Inside were photographs.
Jason leaving a motel.
Jason meeting a dark-haired woman.
Miranda.
Another photograph showed them sitting inside a parked car.
The date printed in the corner was eleven years ago.
Two weeks before Miranda introduced us.
They already knew each other.
My hands shook.
Under the photos was an investigator’s report.
SUBJECT POSSIBLY IDENTIFIED AS MICHAEL DAVID TRENT.
I stopped.
“My father knew his real name?”
“He suspected.”
“Why didn’t he go to police?”
“He did.”
Reed leaned forward.
“What happened?”
“The information wasn’t enough.”
Mr. Sanders looked at me.
“Michael Trent was legally presumed dead. Dental records from the fire supposedly matched.”
“Supposedly?”
“Your father questioned that.”
Reed immediately asked, “Why?”
Mr. Sanders removed another document.
“The dental clinic that supplied Trent’s records closed six months after the fire.”
“That alone means nothing.”
“The dentist who signed the verification was Miranda Cole’s father.”
I felt sick.
Reed sat back.
“There it is.”
“What?”
“A connection.”
Mr. Sanders nodded.
“Your father believed Miranda helped Michael fake his death.”
“Why?”
“Money.”
I almost laughed.
“Of course.”
“Michael Trent’s wife, Rebecca, came from a wealthy family.”
My stomach tightened.
“Like me.”
“Yes.”
“Did she have life insurance?”
“Yes.”
“How much?”
“Three million dollars.”
Chloe whispered, “Did Dad get it?”
Mr. Sanders looked at her carefully.
“We don’t know if your father is Michael Trent.”
Chloe stared at him.
“He is.”
Nobody corrected her.
“Did Michael get the money?” I asked.
Mr. Sanders nodded.
“Most of it.”
“And then disappeared.”
“Yes.”
“What about his daughter?”
Mr. Sanders looked down.
“That was the part your father never solved.”
“What was her name?”
“Lily.”
I looked at Chloe.
Something about the name hurt.
A three-year-old girl survived losing her mother and baby brother.
Then her father disappeared.
“Where did she go?”
“Maternal grandparents.”
“Can we find her?”
Reed answered.
“We’re working on it.”
My phone had been silent for hours.
Then, as if whoever was watching knew exactly what we were discussing, it buzzed.
A new message.
LILY ALREADY FOUND YOU.
My blood turned to ice.
I showed Reed.
He immediately called his team.
“Trace it.”
Chloe looked around nervously.
“What does that mean?”
I pulled her closer.
“I don’t know.”
Mr. Sanders stared at the message.
Then he went pale.
“Emily.”
“What?”
“There’s something else in the envelope.”
He removed a folded page.
My father had written a letter.
Emily,
If you are reading this, then my worst fear may have come true.
I stopped.
My eyes blurred.
I forced myself to continue.
I hope I was wrong about Jason.
I hope you have spent years laughing at the paranoid old man who doubted the person you loved.
But if anything has happened to you, Chloe, or any child you may have after I am gone, listen carefully.
Jason did not meet you by chance.
He knew who you were before Miranda introduced you.
My hand covered my mouth.
Chloe leaned against me.
I continued.
Your inheritance was not the only reason.
I believe your mother knew Rebecca Trent.
I froze.
“My mother?”
Mr. Sanders nodded.
I read faster.
Before your mother died, she volunteered with a domestic violence support organization in Cleveland. Rebecca Trent contacted that organization two months before the fire.
She claimed her husband had threatened her.
My heart pounded.
The room disappeared.
All I could see were my father’s words.
Rebecca wanted to leave.
Your mother helped her prepare.
The night of the fire, Rebecca was supposed to meet your mother at a safe location.
She never arrived.
I looked up.
“My mother knew Jason’s first wife?”
“We believe so,” Mr. Sanders said.
My mother had died when I was seventeen.
A car crash.
I remembered little about her volunteer work because she never discussed the women she helped.
For safety.
For privacy.
“Why would Jason come after me because of something Mom did?”
Mr. Sanders pointed toward the letter.
I kept reading.
There was one more thing.
Rebecca gave your mother evidence.
I stopped.
“What evidence?”
Mr. Sanders shook his head.
“We never found it.”
I read the final lines.
If Michael Trent survived the fire, he may believe that evidence passed from your mother to me.
If he entered your life, money may not have been his only motive.
He may have spent years looking for something he believes our family still has.
I lowered the letter.
The room was silent.
Reed asked, “Do you know what your mother kept from her volunteer work?”
“No.”
“Storage boxes?”
“Maybe.”
“Diaries?”
“She had journals.”
“Where are they?”
“My father kept everything after she died.”
Mr. Sanders suddenly looked toward me.
“Not everything.”
I stared at him.
“What do you mean?”
“Your father rented a storage unit.”
“I never knew that.”
“He paid twenty years in advance.”
Reed leaned forward.
“Location?”
Mr. Sanders wrote an address.
“It’s about forty minutes away.”
Reed stood.
“We’ll send officers.”
“No.”
He looked at me.
“What?”
“I’m going.”
“Emily, that may not be safe.”
“My mother died with a secret. My father died protecting it. My husband may have built eleven years of lies trying to find it.”
I stood.
“I’m done sitting in rooms while other people decide what I’m allowed to know.”
Chloe reached for me.
“I’m coming too.”
“No.”
Her face fell.
“You stay with Noah.”
“But—”
“Your brother needs you.”
She looked through the glass toward his room.
Then nodded.
I kissed her forehead.
Detective Reed and I left with two officers.
The storage facility sat behind an old industrial park.
The manager opened the gate.
Unit 318.
My father’s number.
The padlock looked untouched.
Reed cut it.
The metal door rolled upward.
Dust filled the air.
Boxes.
Furniture.
My mother’s old blue bicycle.
Christmas decorations.
A cedar chest.
I nearly cried when I saw her handwriting on one box.
EMILY — SCHOOL THINGS.
Then Reed’s flashlight stopped.
“Mrs. Harper.”
At the back wall sat a metal case.
A strip of faded evidence tape crossed the lid.
Someone had written one name on it.
REBECCA TRENT.
My hands began shaking.
Reed opened the case.
Inside were photographs.
Bank statements.
A cassette recorder.
And a small red notebook.
Reed picked up the recorder.
There was still a tape inside.
We found an old player in another box.
After several minutes, the tape began to turn.
Static filled the unit.
Then a woman’s frightened voice spoke.
“My name is Rebecca Trent.”
My heart stopped.
“If something happens to me, Michael did it.”
Reed and I stared at each other.
Rebecca continued.
“He thinks nobody knows about Miranda.”
A pause.
Then came the sentence that changed the entire case.
“But Miranda isn’t his lover.”
May you like
The tape crackled.
“She’s his sister.”
