Chapter 6: My Sister's Confession
I reached Mom's house twenty minutes later.
Brittany's car was in the driveway.
So was Jason's.
Dad's wasn't.
I parked across the street.
The front door was closed.
I called Brittany.
No answer.
I called again.
Nothing.
Then I noticed the curtains in the upstairs bedroom move.
Someone was watching me.
I got out of the car.
The front door opened before I reached it.
Mom stood there.
She wasn't smiling.
“Come inside.””
I didn't move.
“Where's Brittany?””
“She went home.””
“She's not answering.””
“She's upset.””
“Let me talk to her.””
“You're not coming into my house and making demands.””
I stared at her.
“This isn't your house anymore.””
Her expression changed.
“What did you say?””
“I know about the trust.””
For the first time since I'd known her, Patricia looked genuinely frightened.
Only for a second.
Then it disappeared.
“You've been talking to people.””
“Yes.””
“Daniel?””
“Yes.””
She stepped closer.
“He doesn't know the whole story.””
“Neither do you.””
“I know more than you think.””
“Then tell me why you stole my identity.””
Her face went pale.
“I raised you.””
“That doesn't answer the question.””
“I loved you.””
“You lied to me.””
“You were a baby.””
“You stole me.””
Her jaw tightened.
“Watch your words.””
“No.””
I stepped onto the porch.
“You watch yours.””
Mom glanced toward the street.
“Come inside.””
“Why?””
“Because this isn't something we discuss outside.””
“I don't have anything left to hide.””
“You have no idea what you're saying.””
“Then prove me wrong.””
She stared at me.
Finally, she stepped aside.
I walked in.
The house smelled exactly as it had when I was growing up.
Cinnamon.
Furniture polish.
Mom's expensive perfume.
It should have felt familiar.
Instead, it felt like a crime scene.
“Where's Brittany?””
Mom closed the door.
“I told you. She left.””
I looked toward the staircase.
“Brittany!””
No answer.
I walked upstairs.
Mom grabbed my arm.
“Don't.””
I looked down at her hand.
“Let go.””
She did.
I opened the bedroom door.
Empty.
But the closet door was slightly open.
I pulled it.
Nothing.
Then I noticed a loose floorboard.
I knelt.
Mom appeared behind me.
“Claire.””
I lifted the board.
There was a metal box underneath.
Locked.
I looked at Mom.
“What is this?””
“Nothing.””
I smiled.
“Then you won't mind if I open it.””
“Put it down.””
I pulled out my phone.
“I'm calling the police.””
Her face changed.
“Don't.””
“Why?””
“Because you don't understand what you're holding.””
“Then explain.””
She sat on the edge of the bed.
For the first time, she looked old.
Not evil.
Not powerful.
Just tired.
“I never wanted to hurt you.””
“Then why?””
“Your grandmother was going to destroy us.””
“Because of the money?””
“Because of everything.””
I stared at her.
“What did you do?””
Mom looked away.
“Your father made mistakes.””
“What kind?””
“He borrowed money.””
“For what?””
“Business.””
“And you?””
“I covered for him.””
“With my trust?””
“No.””
She swallowed.
“With Evelyn's money.””
I froze.
“What?””
“Your grandmother had money. Your father took some before she died.””
“How much?””
“Enough.””
“Enough for what?””
Mom didn't answer.
“Mom.””
She looked at me.
“Almost three hundred thousand dollars.””
I stepped back.
“And Grandma found out.””
“Yes.””
“She removed you from the inheritance.””
“Yes.””
“And you took me because you knew I would inherit it.””
Mom's eyes filled with tears.
“I took you because I was afraid.””
“Afraid of losing money?””
“Afraid of losing everything.””
“You stole a child.””
“I raised you.””
“You stole a child.””
Her voice broke.
“I loved you!””
“Then why did you spend my whole life making me feel unwanted?””
She looked down.
“I didn't know how to love you.””
That answer hurt more than any lie.
I opened the metal box.
Inside were bank statements.
Legal documents.
Copies of my childhood medical records.
And dozens of letters.
Evelyn's letters.
All unopened.
I picked one up.
The envelope had my name on it.
*Claire Evelyn Harper.*
My hands shook.
“How many?””
Mom whispered, “Thirty-seven.””
“Thirty-seven letters?””
“Yes.””
“You kept them?””
“Yes.””
“Why?””
“Because I couldn't let you find her.””
“She died eight years ago.””
“I know.””
I looked at Mom.
“You knew she was dying?””
“Yes.””
“And you still kept her letters.””
“Yes.””
“Why?””
She began crying.
“Because every letter said she forgave you.””
I frowned.
“What?””
“She never blamed you.””
My throat tightened.
Mom continued.
“She blamed me. She blamed your father. But never you.””
I opened one envelope.
The paper inside was yellow with age.
I read the first line.
*My darling Claire, today I turned fifty. I still think about the first time I held you.*
Tears filled my eyes.
Then something fell from the envelope.
A photograph.
Evelyn holding me as a newborn.
I stared at her face.
She was smiling.
Behind her stood a younger Patricia.
And beside Patricia was Dad.
But there was something else.
A fourth person.
A man I'd never seen before.
He was holding a briefcase.
On the back of the photograph, someone had written:
*October 14 — The agreement.*
I turned to Mom.
“Who is that?””
She said nothing.
“Mom.””
Nothing.
I grabbed another document from the box.
It was a photocopy of a contract.
At the bottom were four signatures.
*Patricia Morgan.*
*Robert Morgan.*
*Evelyn Harper.*
And the fourth name.
I stared at it.
My blood turned cold.
Because I knew that name.
It belonged to the current president of the bank where I worked.
The same bank where I'd spent eight years in financial compliance.
The same bank that had just flagged the $13,000 transfer.
I looked at Mom.
“What does my employer have to do with my birth?””
She whispered:
“Everything.””
Then footsteps sounded downstairs.
Mom's face went white.
“Who's here?””
A man's voice answered from below.
“Patricia?””
Mom grabbed my wrist.
“Claire, hide.””
I pulled away.
“Who is that?””
She stared toward the door.
May you like
Then whispered a name I never expected to hear.
“Your boss.””
