Mercer ordered another deputy to detain Chloe.
As the cuffs closed around her wrists, she stared at me with naked hatred.
“This is your fault.”
I looked at my mother standing in the center of the house she had once filled with music, birthday cakes, and Sunday dinners.
“No,” I said. “This is the first thing that hasn’t been.”
The deputies escorted Julian and Chloe outside.
Neighbors had begun gathering across the street, drawn by the flashing lights. Julian lowered his head as he was placed in the patrol car. Chloe continued shouting that Mother was senile and I had manipulated everyone.
The car doors closed.
For the first time since I arrived, the house became quiet.
But it was not peaceful.
Evidence technicians moved from room to room. The nurse recommended immediate hospital evaluation. Renee helped Mother gather a few belongings.
I went into the kitchen to find her coat.
When I lifted it from the chair, something heavy shifted inside the lining.
I checked the pockets.
Empty.
The weight came from beneath the fabric.
A section of the inner seam had been cut and stitched by hand.
“Mom?”
She appeared in the doorway.
“Did you put something inside your coat?”
Her eyes widened.
“I forgot.”
I found a small pair of scissors and carefully opened the seam.
A flash drive fell into my palm.
Taped beside it was a folded sheet of paper.
Mother stared at the objects as though seeing a ghost.
“What is this?” I asked.
She looked toward the officers in the living room.
“Your father gave it to me before he died.”
My father had been gone for four years.
“Why did you hide it?”
“He told me never to let Julian find it.”
I unfolded the paper.
It contained a series of account numbers, dates, and the name of a private investigator.
At the bottom, my father had written one sentence.
If Julian ever comes after the house, Elena must learn what happened to the first family.
I read it twice.
“What first family?”
Mother lowered herself into a chair.
Her face had become pale again, but this time the fear in her eyes was different. Older. Deeper.
“Julian is not your brother’s real name,” she whispered.
I stared at her.
“What are you talking about?”
Before she could answer, the evidence technician emerged from the office carrying one of the recovered hard drives.
“Elena,” he said, “we opened the most recent video folder.”
Something in his expression chilled me.
“What did you find?”
“The files aren’t only recordings of your mother.”
He turned the laptop toward me.
A paused video filled the screen.
The image had been captured in the basement two nights earlier.
Julian stood beside a man in a dark overcoat.
The man’s face was partially turned away, but I recognized him immediately.
Judge Thorne.
The same man I had called for help.
On the recording, Julian handed him a thick envelope.
Then Judge Thorne looked directly toward the hidden camera and said, “Once Elena arrives, we finish what her father started.”
My mother gripped my arm.
Outside, my phone began to ring.
The caller identification showed Judge Thorne’s name.
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