Chapter 7 - Blood Is Not the Same as FamilyUncle Robert had spent my entire childhood teaching me that family was permanent.
White roses.
No lilies.
She hated lilies.
I had spoken to the granite marker when I graduated high school.
I had sat beside it after my first heartbreak.
I had whispered apologies there when I began to like Evelyn, because some childish part of me believed loving my stepmother betrayed the woman who gave birth to me.
And now Evelyn Whitmore, handcuffed inside our elevator, was claiming that woman was alive.
Dad reacted before I did.
“That’s enough.”
Evelyn laughed softly.
Detective Bell pulled her forward.
“You can tell us downtown.”
Dad grabbed Bell’s arm.
“Wait.”
Bell looked at him.
Dad’s face had lost all color.
“What did she mean?”
Evelyn tilted her head.
“Charles.”
“What did you mean?”
“You never told her?”
“Told me what?” I demanded.
Dad stepped backward.
That frightened me more than anything Evelyn could have said.
“Dad.”
His eyes filled with a kind of shame I had never seen.
“Your mother died.”
“Then why do you look like that?”
“She died.”
“When?”
“Nine years ago.”
“Where?”
He stopped.
I knew.
Before he said anything, I knew there was something fundamentally wrong with the answer.
“She was declared dead after the fire at Hawthorne Lodge.”
Declared.
Not found.
My mouth went dry.
“There was a body.”
Dad shook his head slowly.
“Not identifiable.”
“What?”
“The fire destroyed most of the structure.”
I stared at him.
“You told me you saw her.”
“I told you she was gone.”
I could not breathe.
Detective Bell stepped between us.
“Everyone needs to stop talking until we establish facts.”
But I could not stop.
“Was there DNA?”
Dad looked away.
“Dental records?”
Silence.
“You buried an empty coffin?”
“Claire—”
“WAS IT EMPTY?”
“Yes.”
The word shattered something inside me.
I backed against the wall.
For nine years, an empty coffin had been beneath my mother’s headstone.
Evelyn was transported to police headquarters.
Dr. Levin vanished before officers reached his clinic.
Victor Sloan vanished too.
And Marisol remained missing.
Within hours, reporters surrounded the Whitmore estate.
Dad’s attorney released a vague statement about an ongoing investigation.
I remained inside the library.
Alone.
I watched old family videos.
Mother laughing beside the pool.
Mother cutting my seventh birthday cake.
Mother teaching me how to plant tomatoes.
Rebecca Whitmore had red-brown hair, green eyes and a laugh that arrived too loudly in quiet rooms.
I had forgotten the exact sound.
I hated myself for that.
Dad entered around sunset.
“You should eat.”
“Tell me about the fire.”
“Claire.”
“Everything.”
He sat.
Hawthorne Lodge had belonged to my mother’s family.
Remote property in the Pocono Mountains.
After Mother’s cancer went into remission, she spent several weekends there alone.
Dad claimed she needed distance.
Their marriage had been struggling.
On the night of the fire, Mother called him.
“What did she say?”
“She sounded afraid.”
“Of what?”
“She wouldn’t tell me.”
“Did she mention Evelyn?”
“No. I didn’t know Evelyn then.”
“What about Sloan?”
Dad stiffened.
“He worked for me.”
“Was he there?”
“I don’t know.”
“Project Hawthorne?”
“That name came later. Your mother’s attorneys used the lodge name for the trust protections.”
I watched him carefully.
“What aren’t you telling me?”
Dad rubbed both hands over his face.
“Your mother believed someone was stealing from her family trust.”
“Who?”
“She suspected several advisers.”
“Dr. Levin?”
“No.”
“Sloan?”
“She never named him.”
“Then who?”
Dad looked toward the window.
“Me.”
The room went silent.
“She suspected you?”
“Yes.”
“Were you?”
“No.”
“Then why hide this?”
“Because she was becoming paranoid.”
The word struck me.
“Paranoid?”
“She had been through chemotherapy. She barely slept. She accused people of following her.”
“Maybe they were.”
“I know that now.”
Dad’s voice broke.
“But back then…”
He looked at me.
“I thought she needed help.”
A terrible thought formed.
“Who was her doctor?”
Dad closed his eyes.
“Levin.”
Everything connected.
Dr. Levin had treated my mother.
Years later, he became my neurologist.
Evelyn had hired him.
Or perhaps he had been involved long before Evelyn.
My phone rang.
Detective Bell.
“We found something in Evelyn’s car.”
“What?”
“A prepaid phone.”
“Okay.”
“There’s one number she called more than twenty times this month.”
“Levin?”
“No.”
“Victor?”
“No.”
Bell paused.
“The account traces to a small motel outside Allentown.”
My heart raced.
“Who lives there?”
“We’re checking.”
I stood from the sofa without thinking.
Dad stared at my legs.
I barely noticed.
Bell continued.
“And there’s something else. We found a photograph stored on the phone.”
“What photograph?”
“A woman.”
He sent it.
The image loaded slowly.
A woman stood beside a roadside diner.
Older.
Thin.
Hair mostly gray.
Her face turned partially away.
My father dropped the phone.
I knew anyway.
The jawline.
The posture.
A crescent-shaped birthmark near her ear.
My mother had the same mark.
Dad whispered:
“Rebecca.”
We drove to the motel with Detective Bell and four officers.
Room 17.
Lights off.
Curtains closed.
Bell ordered Dad and me to remain behind.
Police knocked.
No answer.
They forced entry.
Empty.
The bed was unmade.
Coffee still warm.
Someone had left recently.
Inside the bathroom, they found hair dye.
Scissors.
Bandages.
On the table sat dozens of newspaper clippings about me.
My college graduation.
My father’s company.
My illness.
One clipping had been circled in red.
WHITMORE HEIRESS FACES UNCERTAIN FUTURE AFTER MYSTERIOUS PARALYSIS
Underneath, someone had handwritten:
I’M SORRY, CLAIRE.
My knees gave way.
Dad caught me.
Bell searched the drawers.
Nothing.
Then an officer called from outside.
“Detective!”
Behind the motel, they found a discarded cell phone.
Only one unsent text remained in drafts.
It was addressed to my number.
Claire, if you find this, Evelyn is only the middleman. The person who started this was inside our family before you were born. Do not trust Charles’s brother.
I stared at the message.
My father had only one brother.
Uncle Robert.
The beloved uncle who had held me at Mother’s funeral.
The uncle who sat on the board of Whitmore Construction.
The uncle currently serving as one of the three trustees overseeing my eight-hundred-million-dollar inheritance.
May you like
And at that exact moment, according to Dad’s assistant, Uncle Robert was aboard a private jet.
Destination unknown.
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