Chapter 8 - THE WOMAN WHO NEVER EXISTED (CONTINUED)
“Because she was perfect,” I said, my voice breaking. “She stepped into Lydia’s life so completely that I thought I was the one who had changed. I thought grief had hardened her. I thought losing Vanessa had broken something inside my wife. But it was never grief. It was triumph.”
Elena went silent on the line. When she spoke again, her voice trembled.
“Remember the day of the funeral? She stood there dry-eyed. I thought it was shock. She said she couldn’t cry because it felt like part of her was still alive. And then… she started changing. Her mannerisms. The way she spoke. Even her handwriting.”
“Because she wasn’t grieving her sister,” I said. “She was celebrating. She had everything Lydia ever had. The husband. The home. The money. The name. And then she had children—my children—and even that didn’t soften her. Because she didn’t love me. She loved what Lydia had earned. And she hated that it came with a family she couldn’t fully control.”
“Adrian…” Elena’s voice dropped to a horrified whisper. “If Vanessa has been pretending to be Lydia for three years… and she took your daughters… then she didn’t just kidnap them. She took them because they belong to Lydia’s life. To the life she stole. And if she can’t keep it all… she’ll destroy it.”
My blood turned to ice.
That was it. That was the pattern. The jealousy. The resentment. The need to prove she was better than Lydia. The way she treated my daughters like possessions rather than children. The way she looked at Hazel sometimes—not with love, but with calculation.
Hazel was Lydia’s child. Not hers.
Sophie was Lydia’s child. Not hers.
Every smile, every kiss, every bedtime story had been a performance. And when Sophie saw the truth—when she filmed Vanessa kicking Hazel—Vanessa realized the game was up. The daughter she had been pretending to love had the power to expose her.
So she sent them away. Not to protect them. To silence them.
“Elena,” I said, gripping the phone. “I need you to do something for me. Something dangerous.”
“Anything.”
“Pull every record you can find on Vanessa Mercer. Bank accounts. Properties. Associates. Anything. She didn’t vanish on her own. She has help. Someone has been hiding her for years.”
“Where are you going?”
“To find out where she took my girls.”
“Adrian—be careful. If she’s capable of impersonating her own dead sister… if she’s capable of hurting her nieces… she’s capable of anything.”
“She already has,” I said. “Goodbye, Elena.”
I hung up and drove toward the hotel where Vanessa was staying. Not to confront her—not yet. But to watch. To see who came and went. To find the link between her disappearance and Clara’s.
I parked three blocks away and walked. The hotel was grand, polished, the kind of place where no one asked questions. I took a seat in the lobby, partially hidden behind a newspaper, and waited.
Hours passed.
Then—she walked in.
Vanessa. Dressed in Lydia’s favorite coat. Wearing Lydia’s perfume. Walking with Lydia’s posture. From a distance, she was indistinguishable from the woman I had married.
But as she drew closer, I saw it. The coldness in her eyes. The sharp set of her jaw. The way she checked her surroundings—constantly, suspiciously—like a predator making sure no one was watching.
She stopped at the reception desk. The clerk handed her an envelope. She opened it, glanced at the contents—money, perhaps, or documents—and nodded.
Then she spoke.
“Is the car ready?”
“Yes, Mrs. Whitmore. Out front.”
“Good. And the arrangements?”
“Everything is in place. As discussed.”
“Perfect. No mistakes this time.”
She walked out. I followed.
A black sedan idled at the curb. She got into the back. The car pulled away. I slipped into my own vehicle and followed, keeping three cars between us, heart hammering.
We drove out of the city. Toward the coast. Down narrow, winding roads. Past isolated cottages and empty stretches of beach. The sun had set completely now. Only the headlights cut through darkness.
Thirty miles outside the city, the sedan turned through iron gates. Private property. A large, secluded house standing alone on a cliff overlooking the ocean.
I parked down the road. Walked back through trees until I could see the house. Lights burned on the ground floor. Curtains drawn tight.
And then—I saw her.
Sophie.
Standing at an upstairs window. Her face pressed against the glass. Her hands pressed against it too. Looking out into the darkness. Searching.
I gripped the tree beside me until my fingers blanched.
Sophie was there.
And Hazel—Hazel was with her. I could see movement behind Sophie. A tiny shape in her arms.
May you like
My girls were inside.
And inside with them—was the woman who had stolen their mother’s face, their mother’s life, and now wanted to erase them too.
