PART 5 — THE MOTHER WHO WAS SUPPOSED TO BE DEAD
I couldn't move.
My father's last words kept repeating inside my head.
Your mother.
Dead for twenty years.
That was what I'd been told.
That was what I'd believed.
That was the story I had buried so deeply that I had stopped questioning it.
Until tonight.
I looked at the detective.
“Can you trace that call?”
He was already working.
“We're trying.”
My attorney stared at me.
“Claire, don't make any assumptions yet.”
I turned toward him.
“My father just told me my mother is alive.”
“I know.”
“And he knew about Ryan.”
“I know.”
“He knew about the money.”
“I know.”
My voice dropped.
“So either my father is lying…”
I looked at the phone.
“Or my entire life is.”
Nobody answered.
The detective's phone vibrated.
He checked the screen.
“We have a location.”
My heart jumped.
“Where?”
“Denver.”
I stood too quickly.
Pain shot through my abdomen.
My attorney immediately caught my shoulder.
“Slow down.”
“I need to see him.”
“You're six months pregnant.”
“I don't care.”
“I do.”
He looked at the detective.
“She stays here.”
I stared at him.
“No.”
“Claire.”
“No.”
I pointed toward the door.
“My husband has spent years stealing from me. His father burned my stomach. Someone forged my signature. Someone tried to take legal control of my baby.”
My voice hardened.
“And now my dead mother is apparently alive.”
I took a breath.
“I am done sitting in hospital rooms waiting for people to explain my life to me.”
The detective finally spoke.
“Your father may come to you.”
I looked at him.
“Why?”
“Because he called you.”
“And?”
“He wanted you to know he was alive.”
I shook my head.
“No.”
“What?”
“He wanted me to know something else.”
My attorney looked at me.
“What?”
“That my mother is alive.”
Silence.
Then the detective's expression changed.
“You're right.”
He opened his laptop.
“Your father's location wasn't Denver.”
I frowned.
“You just said—”
“The call bounced through Denver.”
He rotated the screen.
“The actual signal is somewhere else.”
“Where?”
He zoomed in.
My blood turned cold.
Aspen.
My mother had always loved Aspen.
When I was little, she used to tell me that one day we'd have a house there.
Then she died.
At least, that's what I thought.
My attorney looked at the screen.
“That's not all.”
He opened another file.
“Look at this.”
A property record appeared.
Owner:
Evelyn Bennett.
My mother's name.
My hands began shaking.
“That's impossible.”
The detective nodded.
“The property was purchased nineteen years ago.”
One year after her supposed death.
I couldn't breathe.
“Who has been paying the taxes?”
“An offshore trust.”
“What trust?”
My attorney leaned closer.
Then his face changed.
“Bennett Family Holdings.”
I stared at him.
Ryan.
Grant.
My mother.
All connected.
My mind raced.
“Why would Ryan's company own my mother's property?”
My attorney shook his head.
“It doesn't.”
“What?”
“Bennett Family Holdings doesn't own it.”
He zoomed in.
“Your mother's trust owns it.”
My pulse hammered.
“Then why is Ryan connected?”
“Because someone recently tried to transfer the property.”
“When?”
“Three weeks ago.”
I felt cold.
Three weeks.
That was when Ryan had started asking strange questions about my inheritance.
That was when he had insisted I sign documents.
That was when he had become obsessed with whether my mother had left me anything.
I looked at my attorney.
“They weren't after just my money.”
“No.”
“They were looking for my mother's assets.”
“Yes.”
The detective suddenly said:
“There's another connection.”
He opened a surveillance still.
It showed Ryan entering a private office building.
Behind him was Grant.
And beside Grant—
a woman.
Her face was partially hidden.
I stared at the image.
My heart stopped.
I knew that coat.
I knew that posture.
I knew the way she held her purse.
I had seen it in photographs.
Old photographs.
Photographs from my childhood.
I whispered:
“That's her.”
The detective looked at me.
“Who?”
“My mother.”
Nobody moved.
My attorney stared at the photograph.
“Are you sure?”
I nodded.
“I'd know her anywhere.”
The woman in the photograph turned slightly.
Enough for her face to become visible.
There was no mistaking it.
Evelyn Bennett.
Alive.
Standing beside Ryan and Grant.
My husband had met my mother.
My father had known.
And somehow—
everyone had kept me in the dark.
The detective enlarged the photograph.
There was a timestamp.
Two days before our wedding.
My stomach dropped.
Ryan had known my mother before he married me.
I whispered:
“How long?”
My attorney answered quietly.
“At least three years.”
I looked at him.
“No.”
He opened another file.
“Claire, there's more.”
A bank transfer.
From Ryan.
To an account belonging to Evelyn Bennett.
Amount:
$2,000,000.
Date:
Three months after our wedding.
I stared at the number.
Then another transfer appeared.
Five million.
Then eight.
Then twelve.
My father's voice came back to me.
Forty-three million.
My entire body went numb.
The money hadn't simply disappeared.
It had been sent somewhere.
To someone.
My mother.
My dead mother.
Then my phone rang.
Unknown number.
Again.
I answered.
This time, a woman's voice spoke.
Soft.
Calm.
Familiar.
“Claire.”
I couldn't breathe.
“Mom?”
A long silence.
Then:
“You shouldn't have gone looking.”
My eyes filled with tears.
“Why did you leave me?”
Another silence.
Then she whispered:
“Because your father wasn't the man you thought he was.”
My attorney looked at me.
I shook my head.
“No.”
My mother continued.
“And Ryan isn't the man you think he is either.”
“Then tell me the truth.”
“I can't.”
“Why?”
“Because they're listening.”
My blood ran cold.
“Who?”
She whispered:
“Your husband.”
The line went dead.
I looked toward the hospital door.
A shadow moved beneath it.
Someone was standing outside.
The detective reached for his weapon.
My attorney stepped in front of me.
The handle slowly turned.
And then—
May you like
the door opened.
Ryan walked in.
