Chapter 2 - THE GIRL WHO DIED TWENTY-NINE YEARS AGO
The emergency room doctor said I was lucky.
No skull fracture.
No intracranial bleeding.
Seven stitches near my cheekbone.
A mild concussion.
Lucky.
It was a strange word to hear after your mother hit you with a wrench.
Detective Maya Ruiz arrived shortly after midnight.
She was somewhere in her forties.
Dark hair.
Calm voice.
Eyes that missed nothing.
She sat beside my hospital bed.
“Your parents say you fell.”
“I didn’t.”
“Your sister says the same thing.”
“She’s lying.”
Ruiz nodded.
“Mr. Cole gave us a different statement.”
I looked toward the hallway.
“Where is he?”
“Still downstairs.”
“He laughed when it happened.”
Ruiz paused.
“He included that in his statement.”
That surprised me.
“He admitted it?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Maybe because he knows we’ll find out anyway.”
Ruiz closed her notebook.
“Emily, I need you to understand something.”
Her voice became firmer.
“Being related to someone does not give them permission to assault you.”
I stared at the blanket.
At twenty-nine years old, I should not have needed a stranger to explain that.
But some part of me did.
“Do you want to press charges?”
I thought about my mother’s smile.
You fell.
You’re confused.
I remembered Dad pinning my wrists down.
Madison lifting the wrench.
“Yes.”
Ruiz nodded once.
“Okay.”
No judgment.
No celebration.
Just okay.
After she left, Travis appeared in the doorway.
His expensive suit jacket was gone.
His tie hung loose.
He looked exhausted.
I almost laughed at how miserable he seemed.
“Come to apologize?”
“Yes.”
“That was easy.”
He stepped inside.
“I behaved like a disgusting coward.”
I looked away.
“I don’t need your confession.”
“I know.”
“Then why are you here?”
“Because of the necklace.”
There it was.
I touched the jade pendant again.
“You said a baby disappeared.”
“Emilia Grace Vale.”
He pulled a chair closer.
“Born May eighteenth, 1997.”
My fingers went numb.
That was my birthday.
Travis saw my reaction.
“Same date?”
I nodded.
He closed his eyes briefly.
“Jesus.”
“What happened to her?”
“Officially?”
“Yes.”
“She died.”
I stared at him.
“You said disappeared.”
“That’s the unofficial version.”
He took his phone out but hesitated.
“May I show you something?”
I nodded.
He opened a photograph.
A woman stood beside a lake.
Early thirties.
Dark hair.
Green eyes.
Elegant without trying.
Around her neck was a jade pendant.
My pendant.
I stopped breathing.
“Who is she?”
“Alexandra Vale.”
The room seemed to tilt.
“She was Emilia’s mother.”
I enlarged the photograph.
The resemblance wasn’t overwhelming.
Not enough to scream mother and daughter.
But the eyes bothered me.
They looked like mine.
“What happened to Alexandra?”
“Car accident.”
“When?”
“Three days after Emilia disappeared.”
I looked up.
“Did she die?”
“Her vehicle went off a coastal road in Maine.”
“And?”
“No body was found.”
A chill moved through me.
Travis continued.
“The Vale family spent years privately searching for both Alexandra and the baby.”
“Why privately?”
“Because the family was involved in a succession battle.”
Of course.
Money.
There was always money.
“What kind?”
Travis hesitated.
“The Vales aren’t just wealthy.”
“How wealthy?”
He gave me an uncomfortable look.
“Vale Meridian Holdings controls infrastructure, logistics, energy investments, private credit, and real estate.”
“How much?”
“Emily—”
“How much?”
“Last internal valuation I saw put the broader family holdings above eighteen billion.”
I laughed.
Actually laughed.
My stitches hurt.
“That’s insane.”
“I know.”
“My mother buys detergent with coupons.”
“Your mother also lives in a four-million-dollar house.”
I stopped laughing.
He had a point.
“Our family business did well.”
“What business?”
“My father owns commercial properties.”
“Does he?”
I frowned.
“What does that mean?”
Travis leaned forward.
“His public holdings don’t explain that house.”
I stared at him.
“How do you know?”
“Because after I saw the pendant, I searched Charles Whitmore while police were questioning everyone.”
So Dad was Charles.
“He has assets routed through multiple LLCs.”
“That isn’t illegal.”
“No.”
Travis’s expression darkened.
“But one entity paying those companies is called VS Heritage Management.”
“And?”
“VS.”
He looked at me.
“Victor Sloane.”
I waited.
“Who is Victor Sloane?”
Travis swallowed.
“For thirty years, he’s been chief legal strategist for the Vale family.”
Before I could respond, my phone buzzed on the bedside table.
Unknown number.
I picked it up.
One message.
Eight words.
YOUR MOTHER LIED. ALEXANDRA VALE IS STILL ALIVE.
I looked at Travis.
His face changed when he read it.
Then another message appeared.
ASK ELEANOR WHAT HAPPENED AT ST. MATTHEW’S HOSPITAL.
And beneath it—
A photograph.
My mother.
Twenty-nine years younger.
Wearing a nurse’s uniform.
May you like
Holding a newborn baby.
Around the baby’s neck was my jade pendant.
