Chapter 1: The Journal She Feared
The first time my stepmother begged me for anything, I was bleeding on the floor of my childhood home.
Five minutes earlier, she had thrown a drinking glass at my head, shoved my belongings into garbage bags, and told me my dead mother had left me nothing. But when I opened the little leather journal I'd found hidden inside my mother's old sewing machine, Denise stopped looking like the queen of the house.
She looked like a woman who had just seen a ghost.
"Where did you get that?"" she whispered.
I pressed a dish towel against my forehead. Blood seeped through the white fabric, staining it dark red.
"Funny," I said.
"You didn't seem interested in my belongings until you saw this.""
Denise's eyes darted toward the journal in my hands. Her perfectly manicured fingers curled into fists.
"Give it to me, Emily.""
"No.""
Her mouth tightened.
"Don't test me.""
For twenty-two years, I had been the girl who apologized first, even when someone else hurt her. I'd learned to lower my voice when Denise entered a room. I'd learned to eat whatever she left in the refrigerator after her friends finished dinner. I'd learned that my mother's photograph belonged in a drawer because Denise didn't like seeing another woman's face in her house.
But that afternoon, standing beneath the chandelier my mother had chosen, with blood dripping onto the hardwood floors she used to polish herself, something inside me finally snapped.
"This is my mother's house," I said.
"You don't get to throw me out.""
Denise laughed and picked up another garbage bag.
"Your mother is dead, sweetheart. And your father signed everything over to me.""
She flung my winter coats into the bag, crushing the sleeves beneath a pair of muddy boots.
"You're twenty-two. Find a job. Find an apartment. Find someone else to feel sorry for you.""
I stepped toward the mantel, where my mother's framed photograph stood between two silver candlesticks.
"At least let me take her picture.""
Denise snatched it before I could touch the frame.
"Everything in this house belongs to me now.""
"Even the things she left me?""
"Especially those.""
She hurled the glass at my head.
I remembered the sound before the pain. A sharp crack, followed by the tinkling of fragments against the wall. Then warmth ran down my temple, and the room tilted sideways.
I grabbed the edge of the mantel to keep from falling.
"Are you insane?"" I gasped.
"You could've killed me!""
Denise approached me slowly, holding the photograph against her chest.
"Then maybe you should learn when to keep your mouth shut.""
She shoved my suitcase toward the front door.
"Leave before I call the police and tell them you attacked me.""
I stared at her, unable to believe what I was hearing.
"You threw a glass at me!""
"And who's going to believe you?"" she asked, lifting her phone.
"The neighbors who hear me crying every time you scream at me? Your father, who knows how unstable you've always been?""
She had spent years building that story. Whenever I protested, she told my father I was difficult. Whenever I cried, she called me manipulative. Whenever I asked about the money my mother had supposedly left behind, she reminded me that grief could make people imagine things.
My father, Robert, had always promised that everything would be explained when I was older.
I was twenty-two now.
Apparently, I was still too young to deserve the truth.
I pressed the towel harder against my head and reached for my bag. That's when my fingers brushed the journal.
I'd discovered it three nights earlier while cleaning out my mother's old sewing machine, which had been sitting untouched in the attic for thirteen years. The leather cover was cracked, and the pages smelled faintly of dust and lavender.
I hadn't read much of it.
I'd been too afraid.
Now, watching Denise stand beside the open front door, I understood that my fear might have been misplaced.
"Before I go," I said, "there's something you should see.""
She rolled her eyes.
"Another pathetic letter from your mother?""
I opened the journal.
The first page I turned to was dated three weeks before Sarah died.
Her handwriting was unmistakable. The letters leaned slightly to the right, and she always crossed her sevens with a small horizontal stroke.
If anything happens to me, Emily must never trust Denise.
For several seconds, Denise didn't move.
Then the photograph slipped from her fingers and struck the floor.
I watched her face drain of color.
"Where," she whispered, "did you get that journal?""
I turned another page.
There were bank account numbers, property descriptions, and references to a private trust established in my name before I was born.
My hands began to tremble.
"Mom left me money?""
Denise lunged for the book.
I stepped backward.
"Don't touch me!""
"Emily, listen to me. You have no idea what you're holding.""
"Then explain it.""
She glanced toward the windows, as if checking whether anyone outside could hear us.
For the first time in my life, Denise looked frightened of me.
I turned to the next page.
At the bottom, my mother had written a sentence that made my stomach twist.
Robert promised he would protect Emily. If he breaks that promise, the documents in the envelope will tell her everything.
I looked up at my stepmother.
"Why did Dad tell me there was nothing left?""
Denise swallowed.
"Your mother was involved in things you wouldn't understand.""
"Try me.""
She took one step toward me, her voice suddenly soft.
"Emily, sweetheart, give me the journal. We can talk about this. I'll even let you stay tonight.""
I almost laughed.
Ten minutes earlier, she'd threatened to call the police and have me arrested.
Now she was offering me a bed.
I opened the back cover and discovered a small envelope tucked into the leather lining. Inside were photocopies of legal documents.
One carried my father's signature.
Another bore Denise's name.
The date on the second document was four years before she claimed to have met him.
My mouth went dry.
"You knew my mother before you married Dad.""
Denise backed away.
"No.""
"It's your name. And look at the date.""
"Emily, you don't understand.""
"Then tell me the truth.""
She shook her head violently.
"Please don't show those papers to your father.""
I reached for my phone.
"Why? What did you do?""
The moment I unlocked the screen, Denise's expression changed.
"Don't call him!""
But it was too late.
My phone was already ringing.
And when I saw the name appearing on the screen, I realized the truth was about to get much uglier.
May you like
Margaret Ellis.
My mother's former attorney.
