Chapter 8 - The Woman in the Photograph
For forty-eight hours, we chased the impossible.
Hospital records.
Death certificates.
Funeral permits.
Insurance files.
Flight manifests.
Border records.
Everything said Isabella Vale died October 17, fifteen years earlier.
Everything also turned out to be wrong.
Three signatures belonged to people who had died before the documents were supposedly signed.
The attending physician had never worked at the hospital listed.
The coroner’s report used a registration number assigned to another case.
Mara stared at the files spread across the conference table.
“This wasn’t a cover-up.”
“What was it?”
“A manufactured death.”
Dad stood by the window.
“I saw her body.”
I looked at him.
“Did you see her face?”
He closed his eyes.
The answer came too slowly.
“No.”
“Then you did not see my mother.”
“I was told the injuries—”
“You saw a covered body.”
He said nothing.
I turned toward Mara.
“So Mom could have survived.”
“Possibly.”
My heart tried to believe it.
My mind refused.
Then Claire Cross walked into the room.
Damian’s younger sister.
Thirty-three.
Quiet.
Educated.
Almost never photographed.
She carried a laptop.
“My brother said you would be here.”
I stood.
“What do you want?”
“To burn my family down.”
That got my attention.
Claire placed the laptop on the table.
“My grandfather kept personal surveillance archives.”
She opened a folder.
Photographs appeared.
Politicians entering hotel rooms.
Executives exchanging envelopes.
Judges meeting lobbyists.
Then a photograph from fourteen years ago.
A train station in Montreal.
A woman wearing a red coat.
Dark hair.
My mother’s face.
My knees weakened.
Dad grabbed the chair.
“That’s Isabella.”
The timestamp was eleven months after her funeral.
I touched the screen.
“She was alive.”
Claire nodded.
“At least then.”
“Where did you get this?”
“My grandfather.”
“Why did he have her followed?”
“Because she had something he wanted.”
“The Orion Ledger.”
“Yes.”
Mara leaned forward.
“Where did she go?”
Claire clicked another file.
A hotel.
Then an airport.
Then nothing.
“She disappeared again.”
I looked at my father.
He was crying silently.
“You didn’t know?”
“No.”
For once, I believed him instantly.
Claire spoke carefully.
“There is more.”
A video.
Montreal.
My mother entered a café.
Twenty minutes later, another woman joined her.
Silver hair.
Evelyn.
They sat together for almost an hour.
Dad whispered, “No.”
I watched.
No argument.
No threat.
They spoke calmly.
At one point, my mother reached across the table and held Evelyn’s hand.
“That doesn’t look like two enemies,” Mara said.
Claire nodded.
“It isn’t.”
I faced her.
“What are you saying?”
She clicked another file.
Audio.
Poor quality.
But clear enough.
My mother’s voice:
“We cannot let Victor know.”
Then Evelyn:
“He’ll try to stop us.”
My mother again:
“He’ll try to protect Elena.”
Evelyn:
“And that is exactly why Elena will never be safe.”
The recording ended.
I stared at the screen.
Everything shifted.
For years, Evelyn had been the villain.
Now my mother appeared to have been working with her.
“What were they planning?” I asked.
Claire slowly closed the laptop.
“I don’t know.”
My phone rang.
Private number.
I answered.
No one spoke.
Then a woman’s voice.
Older.
Soft.
Familiar from the cemetery call.
“Elena.”
“Evelyn.”
“I assume you found Montreal.”
“You were working with my mother.”
“Yes.”
“Is she alive?”
Silence.
My chest tightened.
“Is my mother alive?”
Evelyn exhaled.
“Your mother survived Halcyon.”
I stopped breathing.
“But survival and freedom are not the same thing.”
“Where is she?”
“That answer has a price.”
“What price?”
“Stop Mara Quinn’s investigation.”
Mara’s eyes narrowed.
I placed the call on speaker.
Evelyn continued.
“Walk away from Crosswell.”
“No.”
“Elena.”
“Give me my mother.”
“You still think this is about what you want.”
Her voice became colder.
“It is about what Isabella prevented.”
“What?”
“The Orion Ledger was never just evidence.”
A pause.
“It is a control system.”
Mara frowned.
“For what?”
Evelyn laughed softly.
“For people.”
Then the call disconnected.
A second later, Claire’s laptop screen went black.
Every file disappeared.
A message replaced them.
YOU HAVE 72 HOURS.
May you like
And beneath it:
AFTER THAT, ISABELLA VALE DIES FOR REAL.
