Chapter 8: Finding The Daughter He Lost
I couldn’t stop staring at the photograph.
Claire.
My sister.
A woman I had never met.
A woman who had been hidden from me my entire life.
And according to the message…
She knew who killed my father.
My fingers tightened around my phone.
“She’s alive.””
My voice sounded distant.
My mother sat down slowly.
“I thought…”
She stopped.
“What?””
She looked at the picture again.
“I thought she was gone.””
Richard moved closer.
“Who sent this?””
Nobody answered.
Because that question had become impossible.
The person behind these messages knew too much.
They knew about the inheritance.
The hidden documents.
The investigation.
Claire.
They weren’t guessing.
They were watching.
I looked at Richard.
“You said she disappeared.””
“Yes.””
“But she’s here.””
“Yes.””
“Then why didn’t you find her?””
His expression tightened.
“Because someone was making sure we couldn’t.””
I hated that answer.
Because it sounded like another excuse.
Another reason everyone had failed while I was left in the dark.
I turned toward my mother.
“Did you know Claire was alive?””
“No.””
The answer came immediately.
But this time, I believed her.
She looked devastated.
“I swear to you, Emily, I didn’t know.””
I studied her face.
For once, there was no control.
No calculation.
Just pain.
“Then who did?””
Richard looked at the photograph.
“Thomas.””
The name alone changed the room.
My mother stood.
“No.””
Richard looked at her.
“You know it’s possible.””
“No.””
“Margaret—”
“Thomas lost his daughter too.””
Her voice broke.
“He wouldn’t do that.””
I stared at her.
After everything, she still defended him.
“Why?””
She looked at me.
“Because I knew him for twenty years.””
“And Dad knew him longer.””
That silenced her.
I walked toward the table and picked up the photograph from the box.
My father’s handwriting was on the back.
*The only person who knows the entire truth.*
Claire.
Not Richard.
Not my mother.
Not Victoria.
Claire.
The missing piece.
“We need to find her.””
My mother immediately shook her head.
“No.””
I looked at her.
“Why?””
“Because if someone is sending these messages, they already know she exists.””
“So?””
“So they may be looking for her too.””
I held up the photograph.
“She’s already been found.””
Richard looked at me.
“Emily, you don’t know who sent that.””
“I know what it says.””
“That doesn’t mean it’s safe.””
I laughed.
A tired, angry laugh.
“Safe?””
I looked around the room.
“My entire life has been built on secrets.””
Nobody spoke.
“I spent three years believing my father died naturally.””
I looked at my mother.
“I believed he left me nothing.””
Then at Richard.
“I believed you were helping me.””
Finally, at the photograph.
“I believed I was his only child.””
My voice lowered.
“I’m done waiting for people to decide when I’m ready for the truth.””
Richard nodded slowly.
Because he knew I was right.
My mother looked afraid.
Not of me.
For me.
“Where would we even start?””
Richard opened his briefcase.
“Her last known location.””
I looked at him.
“You have it?””
He nodded.
“Your father found her address.””
“Then why didn’t you go?””
“Because Daniel asked me not to.””
I closed my eyes.
Of course.
Another promise.
Another secret.
“What was her name?””
Richard handed me a folder.
“Claire Bennett.””
Inside were documents.
Medical records.
Old photographs.
School information.
Then one address.
A small town two hours away.
“She’s been there?””
“According to the records, yes.””
“How old is she?””
“Twenty-nine.””
I stared.
My sister was only one year older than me.
My entire life, she had existed somewhere.
Breathing.
Living.
Not knowing me.
I looked at my mother.
“Did Dad ever talk about her?””
She shook her head.
“No.””
“Not once?””
“No.””
I frowned.
“That doesn’t make sense.””
My mother looked down.
“Your father was afraid.””
“Of what?””
“That loving both of you would put both of you in danger.””
I looked away.
That sounded like him.
Always carrying everything alone.
Always believing pain was something he had to handle privately.
Richard closed the folder.
“We shouldn’t go tonight.””
I looked at him.
“Why?””
“Because whoever sent that message wants you to act quickly.””
“And?””
“And sometimes urgency is a trap.””
I hated that he was right.
But I hated waiting more.
A sound suddenly came from downstairs.
A crash.
Everyone froze.
Again.
Someone was inside.
My mother’s face changed.
“Not again.””
Richard immediately stood.
“Stay here.””
This time, I didn’t argue.
Because I saw something in his expression.
Not fear.
Experience.
He had dealt with this before.
He moved quietly toward the hallway.
My mother grabbed my hand.
The action surprised me.
For a second, I almost pulled away.
Then I felt her trembling.
She was scared.
Not pretending.
Actually scared.
A minute passed.
Then another.
Nothing.
“Richard?””
No answer.
My stomach tightened.
He appeared at the end of the hallway.
Holding something.
A piece of paper.
“What happened?””
He walked toward us.
“No one was downstairs.””
“Then what was that sound?””
He handed me the paper.
“It was left on the floor.””
I unfolded it.
Four words.
Written by hand.
*STOP LOOKING FOR CLAIRE.*
My mother covered her mouth.
I looked at Richard.
“This was inside our house.””
He nodded.
“How?””
He didn’t answer.
Because neither of us knew.
The message was followed by another line.
Smaller.
Almost like a warning.
*Your father died because he refused to listen.*
My heart pounded.
I turned the paper over.
Nothing.
Just the handwriting.
But there was something familiar about it.
Something that made my skin crawl.
“Wait.””
Richard looked at me.
“What?””
I stared at the note.
“This handwriting…”
My mother stepped closer.
“What?””
I swallowed.
“I’ve seen it before.””
Richard frowned.
“Where?””
I looked at the old documents on the table.
Then the envelope.
Then the note.
The same slanted letters.
The same sharp capital E.
The same way the writer crossed their T’s.
My hands went cold.
“No.””
My mother looked confused.
“Emily?””
I picked up my father’s letter.
Then the threatening note.
They weren’t identical.
But they were similar.
Too similar.
“Emily.””
I looked up.
My voice barely worked.
“This looks like Dad’s handwriting.””
The room went silent.
Richard took the note.
He studied it carefully.
After several seconds, his expression changed.
“That’s impossible.””
“Why?””
“Because Daniel wrote that letter three years ago.””
He looked at the threatening note.
“And this was written recently.””
My mother whispered:
“Someone is copying him.””
I stared at the message.
Someone was using my father’s handwriting.
Someone who knew his secrets.
Someone who wanted me to stop.
My phone buzzed again.
I didn’t want to look.
But I did.
A new message.
Unknown number.
One photo.
This time, not of Claire.
Not of my father.
Of my house.
Taken from outside.
Taken moments ago.
The caption underneath was simple.
*You should have listened.*
I looked toward the window.
The curtains moved slightly.
Someone was out there.
Watching.
I ran to the front door.
“Emily, no!””
But I was already opening it.
The front yard was empty.
The street was silent.
Only one thing remained.
A small envelope sitting on the doorstep.
My name written across it.
I picked it up.
Inside was one photograph.
An old photograph.
Of my father.
My mother.
Victoria.
Thomas.
And a little girl.
Claire.
But someone had written something across the picture.
Five words.
*One of them lied about Claire.*
I turned the photo over.
And my blood ran cold.
Because on the back was a date.
The date my father died.
And beneath it…
A name.
May you like
The person who had taken the photograph.
*Margaret Hayes.*
