Chapter 9: My Sister Believed I Was the Thief
I read the message three times before I showed it to Detective Collins.
She examined the number, then handed the phone to Officer Reed.
“We'll try to identify the sender,” she said.
“Could it be Rebecca?””
“Possibly. It could also be someone trying to prevent you from contacting her.””
I stared at the screen.
She believes you stole her life.
The words were absurd.
I'd never known Rebecca existed until two days earlier. I'd never met her, spoken to her, or even seen a photograph of her beyond the faded hospital picture.
How could she believe I'd stolen anything from her?
“Detective, I need to talk to her.””
“I understand.””
“Then help me find her.””
Collins closed the file.
“We've already begun tracing Helen Mercer's records. If Rebecca was placed with another guardian, we may be able to establish where she went.””
“And if she's the one who sent the message?””
“Then we'll have to find out why.””
I left the station with a copy of my father's letter and a knot of dread in my stomach.
When I reached home, Bidu was waiting by the front window. My friend had stayed with him overnight, but he bounded toward me as soon as I opened the door.
I knelt to greet him.
“Hey, little man.””
He licked my chin.
For a moment, I forgot about the documents, the missing money, and the woman who might be my sister.
Then I noticed an envelope lying beneath the front door.
No stamp.
No return address.
My name written across the front.
I picked it up and carried it into the kitchen.
Inside was a single photograph.
A young woman stood outside a university building, wearing a navy coat and carrying a leather satchel. She had dark hair, a narrow face, and a small scar above her left eyebrow.
She looked almost exactly like me.
On the back, someone had written:
Rebecca Whitmore. Twenty-nine years old.
Beneath that was an address in Columbus.
And one final sentence.
She knows you're coming.
I called Detective Collins immediately.
She arrived twenty minutes later, examined the photograph, and arranged for an officer to accompany me if I decided to travel.
“You shouldn't go alone,” she said.
“I won't.””
“And you shouldn't assume Rebecca sent this.””
“I know.””
She studied the photograph again.
“If this is your sister, meeting her may be emotionally difficult. She may have been told things about you that aren't true. She may also have her own reasons for refusing contact.””
“I just want to know who she is.””
Collins nodded.
“Then we'll approach this carefully.””
That evening, I booked a flight to Columbus for the following morning.
I didn't tell Brenda.
I didn't tell Daniel.
And I didn't tell anyone else who might try to stop me.
The address led me to a modest brick house on a quiet street lined with maple trees.
A bicycle leaned against the garage. A child's drawing was taped inside the front window, and a small American flag hung beside the door.
I stood on the porch for almost a minute before knocking.
A woman answered.
She looked exactly like me.
Not vaguely similar.
Not like a distant cousin.
Exactly like me.
Same dark eyes.
Same shape of nose.
Same small dimple in the left cheek.
Even the faint scar above her eyebrow matched the one in the photograph.
She stared at me without blinking.
“Maya Carter?””
I nodded.
“Are you Rebecca?””
Her expression hardened.
“You shouldn't have come.””
I swallowed.
“I know this is unexpected.””
“Unexpected?”” She laughed bitterly.
“I've spent twenty-nine years being told that you were the reason my mother abandoned me.””
My heart stopped.
“Your mother?””
“Brenda Whitmore.””
I felt the world shift beneath my feet.
“You were raised by Brenda?””
“No.”” Rebecca's voice was cold.
“I was raised by Helen Mercer.””
The name hit me immediately.
Helen.
My mother's closest friend.
The woman who had signed the hospital transfer records.
The woman who had disappeared from our lives when I was twelve.
“Where is Helen now?”” I asked.
“Dead.””
I stared at her.
“When?””
“Six months ago.””
My stomach tightened.
“I'm sorry.””
“Don't be.””
Rebecca folded her arms.
“You don't get to come here and pretend you care about my family.””
“I don't know anything about your family.””
“Exactly.””
She stepped outside and closed the door behind her.
“My entire life, Helen told me that my biological mother had been forced to give me away because she couldn't afford to raise two children. She said another family took you because you were healthier.””
I felt sick.
“That's not what happened.””
“How would you know?””
“Because I've spent the last several days discovering the same lies you have.””
Rebecca's expression flickered.
“What do you mean?””
I took a breath.
“My mother was Evelyn Carter. She raised me believing I was her daughter. I only found out about you after the police recovered documents buried beneath Brenda's flowerpot.””
Rebecca went pale.
“You found the records?””
“Some of them.””
“What did they say?””
“That two babies were born on the same night. That one was declared dead. That the other was transferred to a guardian.””
Rebecca stared at me.
“Did you see the original register?””
“No.””
“Then you don't know the truth.””
“I know my father wrote that you were alive.””
“Your father?””
“My adoptive father, Thomas Carter.””
Rebecca shook her head.
“Thomas Carter wasn't your father.””
“He raised me.””
“He was the man who stole my identity.””
The words landed like a blow.
I stepped backward.
“What?””
Rebecca's eyes filled with tears.
“Helen told me everything before she died. She said Thomas had helped Richard Whitmore alter the hospital records. She said he wanted a child so badly that he agreed to take one illegally.””
“That isn't true.””
“How can you know?””
“Because I have a letter he wrote before he died. He said he discovered the records had been altered and tried to expose Richard.””
Rebecca laughed bitterly.
“Of course he did. Dead men make wonderful heroes.””
I felt anger rising, but I forced myself to remain calm.
“Rebecca, I didn't know you existed. I didn't steal anything from you.””
“You got the life I was supposed to have.””
“I didn't choose this.””
“Neither did I!””
Her voice broke.
For the first time, I saw the pain beneath her anger.
She wasn't simply accusing me.
She was grieving.
“I grew up in a house where I wasn't allowed to ask about my birth,” she said.
“Helen told me my mother had given me away because she didn't want me. Every birthday, I wondered whether she'd thought about me. Every Christmas, I wondered whether she remembered me.””
She wiped her eyes angrily.
“And then I found out that another girl had been raised in comfort, with a family who loved her, while I spent my childhood wondering why I wasn't wanted.””
I looked at her.
“My childhood wasn't perfect.””
“I'm sure it wasn't.””
“My father died when I was six.””
Rebecca went still.
“What?””
“My adoptive father died in a car accident. My mother raised me alone.””
Rebecca's expression shifted.
“Helen said Thomas died before I was old enough to know him.””
“He died when I was six.””
“Then why would Helen say—”
She stopped.
We stared at each other.
Something wasn't right.
If Helen had told Rebecca that Thomas died before she was old enough to know him, and my father had died when I was six, then Helen might have known exactly when he died.
But Rebecca had been told that Thomas was the man who stole her identity.
I pulled the letter from my bag.
“Read this.””
Rebecca hesitated before taking it.
She read the first few lines, then looked up.
“Where did you get this?””
“From the police. They found it inside a metal tin beneath the foundation of Richard Whitmore's old house.””
Her face went pale.
“What else was in the tin?””
“A watch. Photographs. Other documents.””
Rebecca looked toward the street.
“Did they identify the body?””
“Not yet.””
She pressed the letter against her chest.
“I think I know whose body it is.””
My heart began pounding.
“Whose?””
Rebecca looked at me.
“Richard Whitmore's.””
I stared at her.
“That doesn't make sense. He died twelve years ago.””
“No, Maya. The man buried beneath the foundation wasn't Richard.””
“Then who?””
She swallowed.
“Thomas Carter.””
I felt my knees weaken.
“My father?””
Rebecca nodded.
“Helen told me that Thomas had disappeared after trying to expose the adoption. She said he left town and never came back.””
“But the remains were found beneath the foundation.””
“Yes.””
I stared at the letter in her hands.
My father had written that Rebecca was alive.
He had written that the original records were safe.
And then he had disappeared.
For nearly thirty years, I'd believed he died in a car accident.
But if Rebecca was right, he had been murdered.
“Why would Richard bury him there?”” I whispered.
“Because Thomas knew what happened to the money.””
“The second account?””
Rebecca nodded.
“And he knew who really signed the adoption papers.””
I stared at her.
“Who?””
She looked at the letter again.
Then she turned it over and pointed to the bottom of the page.
There was a line I'd missed.
A name.
A signature.
Not Richard Whitmore.
Not Brenda.
Not Daniel.
The name belonged to the woman who had raised Rebecca.
Helen Mercer.
I felt my stomach turn.
“Helen helped them?””
Rebecca nodded slowly.
“She told me she had signed the papers to save me.””
“Save you from what?””
Rebecca's eyes filled with tears.
“From Brenda.””
I shook my head.
“Brenda is your biological mother.””
“That's what the records say.””
“Then why would Helen need to save you from her?””
Rebecca looked at me for a long moment.
Then she whispered, “Because Brenda didn't want me.””
The words hung between us.
I thought of Brenda on my porch, telling me she'd never stopped regretting what happened.
I thought of the baby bracelet, the photograph, and the envelope buried beneath the flowers.
Something wasn't adding up.
“Rebecca,” I said carefully, “what if Helen lied to you too?””
She stared at me.
Before she could answer, a car pulled into the driveway.
A man stepped out, carrying a brown leather briefcase.
Rebecca went completely still.
“No,” she whispered.
I turned toward the car.
The man was older, with gray hair and a scar above his right eyebrow.
Daniel Carter.
My biological father.
He walked toward us, his expression grim.
“Rebecca,” he said.
“You shouldn't have told her about Thomas.””
Rebecca stepped between us.
“You promised you would never come here.””
Daniel stopped.
“I know.””
“You promised you'd leave me alone.””
“I know.””
“Then why are you here?””
He looked at me.
“Because the police have identified the remains beneath the foundation.””
My heart pounded.
“Who was it?””
Daniel swallowed.
“Thomas Carter.””
I covered my mouth.
Rebecca began crying.
Daniel opened his briefcase and removed a thick envelope.
“There's something else,” he said.
“The watch, the photographs, and the letter weren't the only things buried beneath that house.””
He placed a document on the porch railing.
It was a bank statement.
An account number.
A balance.
And a name.
*Rebecca Whitmore.*
The account contained $2.4 million.
But the date beside the last transaction was only six months old.
I stared at the page.
Someone had accessed the money after Helen Mercer died.
Someone who knew Rebecca was alive.
Someone who had been waiting nearly thirty years for the right moment to claim the inheritance.
Daniel looked at us both.
“The person who moved that money,” he said, “is the same person who arranged Thomas's murder.””
Rebecca's face drained of color.
“Who?””
Daniel looked toward the street.
Then he said a name neither of us expected.
“Evelyn Carter.””
My mother's name.
The woman who had raised me.
May you like
The woman who had died three years earlier.
And the woman who, according to Daniel, might have known exactly what happened beneath the foundation all along.
