Chapter 3: The Letter Behind the Wall
“Vanessa!””
Dad’s shout followed her upstairs.
She didn’t stop.
Neither did I.
I ran after her.
The money slipped from my hands, bills scattering across the staircase behind me, but I didn’t care.
Vanessa reached the second-floor hallway first.
She turned toward my mother’s sewing room.
I grabbed her arm.
“Don’t.””
She jerked away.
“Move.””
“No.””
“Emily, get out of my way.””
Dad reached us.
“What is happening?””
Vanessa tried to push past me.
Dad stepped between us.
“Both of you stop.””
“She’s going for the letter,” I said.
“What letter?””
I pointed toward the sewing room.
Dad opened the door.
For years, the room had mostly been storage.
Boxes.
Old Christmas decorations.
Mom’s sewing machine beneath a white sheet.
Three days earlier, I had been searching for childhood photographs when I noticed one of the wooden panels beneath the window was loose.
Behind it was a narrow cavity.
Inside were several envelopes wrapped in a faded blue ribbon.
Dad followed me to the window.
I knelt and pulled the panel loose.
The cavity was empty.
My heart stopped.
“No.””
Dad crouched beside me.
“You said the letter was here?””
“There were six.””
Vanessa stood in the doorway.
Her face gave her away.
Dad saw it.
“You took them.””
“I don’t know what she’s talking about.””
“You ran straight to this room.””
“Because she’s obviously hiding something.””
I stood.
“I photographed them.””
Vanessa’s expression collapsed.
I had never seen someone lose color so quickly.
Dad looked at me.
“You have pictures?””
“Yes.””
I pulled out my phone.
My hands were shaking.
The first five letters were personal.
Mom had written them during treatment.
One for my eighteenth birthday.
One for graduation.
One for my wedding day.
One for when I became a mother, if I ever did.
One simply labeled WHEN YOU MISS ME.
I had cried until sunrise reading them.
But the sixth envelope was different.
It had Dad’s name on it.
RICHARD — ABOUT THE HOUSE.
I opened the photograph.
Dad stared at the screen.
I watched his eyes move across my mother’s handwriting.
Richard,
If I don’t make it, please never let Emily feel like a guest in her own home.
The house came from my parents, and someday it belongs fully to her.
Until then, I trust you to protect it for her.
I have instructed Daniel to keep the formal documents with the estate records.
Please don’t ever charge Emily for having a roof over her head here.
If she contributes someday, let it be because she chooses to, not because she is made to feel she owes us for belonging.
Dad stopped reading.
His eyes filled.
For several seconds, nobody spoke.
Then he whispered, “Laura.””
Vanessa looked away.
Dad continued.
There was more.
One paragraph that I had read at least twenty times.
If you ever remarry, I hope she brings you happiness. I mean that. But please make sure the person who shares this home understands that Emily is not an inconvenience inherited with the furniture. She is our daughter.
Dad covered his mouth.
I had seen him cry only twice.
At Mom’s funeral.
And the night I graduated college and wore Mom’s necklace under my gown.
Now tears slipped down his face.
Vanessa broke the silence.
“A dead woman’s letter doesn’t control our marriage.””
Dad slowly looked up.
I will never forget his expression.
“This isn’t about Laura controlling our marriage.””
“Then what is it about?””
“You knew.””
Vanessa blinked.
“Knew what?””
“You knew how Laura felt about Emily living here.””
“No, I didn’t.””
“You took the letters.””
“I did not.””
Dad held out his hand.
“Give them to me.””
“I don’t have them.””
“Vanessa.””
“I said I don’t have them!””
Her voice cracked.
Dad stared at her for a long moment.
Then he did something unexpected.
He walked downstairs.
We followed.
Bills still covered the steps.
He ignored them.
In the kitchen, Dad opened the drawer where Vanessa kept bank statements, coupons and household paperwork.
She rushed forward.
“You have no right to go through my things.””
“My house.””
“You just spent an hour telling us it’s Emily’s.””
“Then I’m sure Emily won’t mind.””
“I don’t,” I said.
Vanessa glared at me.
Dad searched the drawer.
Nothing.
Then he opened the cabinet beneath the small desk.
Vanessa grabbed his shoulder.
“Richard, stop!””
Dad froze.
Slowly, he turned toward her hand.
She released him.
That reaction told him everything.
He opened the cabinet.
Inside was a black leather organizer I had never seen before.
Dad placed it on the counter.
Vanessa backed away.
“Don’t.””
He unzipped it.
Bank statements.
Receipts.
A checkbook.
And the six blue-ribbon letters.
Dad lifted them out carefully.
“You lied to my face.””
Vanessa crossed her arms.
“I panicked.””
“You stole letters my dying wife wrote to our daughter.””
“I moved them.””
“Into your private financial folder?””
She had no answer.
Dad opened the checkbook.
His eyes narrowed.
“What account is this?””
Vanessa stared at the floor.
Dad flipped through the register.
I saw numbers.
Deposits.
Withdrawals.
Transfers.
Then his finger stopped.
“Eight hundred.””
Another page.
“Eight hundred.””
He flipped again.
“Eight hundred.””
My stomach twisted.
My payments.
She had deposited them into an account Dad apparently knew nothing about.
Then he reached the withdrawal column.
His face hardened.
“Five thousand.””
Vanessa said nothing.
“Seven thousand.””
Still nothing.
Dad flipped another page.
“Twelve thousand dollars?””
I stepped closer.
“What did she spend it on?””
Dad read the notation beside the withdrawal.
His expression changed again.
This time, it wasn’t anger.
It was confusion.
“Who is Nathan Cole?””
Vanessa’s head snapped up.
Dad repeated the name.
“Nathan Cole.””
She went completely still.
I knew that name.
I just couldn’t immediately remember why.
Then it hit me.
Two years earlier, while Dad was away for work, a man had come to our house.
Vanessa introduced him as her cousin.
Nathan.
He had spent almost three hours behind a closed door with her.
Dad held up the checkbook.
“There are transfers to Nathan Cole going back almost three years.””
Vanessa’s lips trembled.
“How much?”” I asked.
Dad added several entries silently.
Then he looked at her.
“More than twenty thousand dollars.””
My knees nearly gave out.
Almost all the rent I had paid.
Dad’s voice became frighteningly calm.
“Who is he?””
Vanessa stared at us.
Then her eyes filled with tears.
For one second, I almost felt sorry for her.
Then she whispered the sentence that turned our family scandal into something far bigger than stolen rent.
“Nathan isn’t my cousin.””
Dad’s jaw tightened.
“Then who is he?””
May you like
Vanessa closed her eyes.
“He’s the reason I married you.””
