Abigail’s voice was barely a whisper. Alison almost thought she’d misheard her.
“Mom… I know who he means.”
For a second, nobody moved.
Around them, the food court went on like normal. Trays clattered. A blender shrieked at a juice stand, and a toddler giggled nearby while his dad tried to wipe ketchup off his shirt.
At their table, though, the world shrank down to Abigail’s pale, terrified face.
Alison crouched beside her. “What do you mean, sweetie?”
Abigail white-knuckled the straps of her backpack. “I heard Gregory say her name.”
Christopher leaned in close. “Whose name?”
Abigail looked at her mother. “Grandma Catherine.”
Alison blinked, completely thrown. “My mom?”
Abigail nodded. “He said, ‘Catherine’s share is the real problem.’ Then the lady in the video said something about papers from a long time ago.”
Alison stared at her daughter. “That doesn’t make any sense.”
The condo belonged to Alison. At least, that’s what she’d always believed. Her father, Samuel Carter, had bought the downtown place back when she was a teenager. When he passed away fourteen years ago, she inherited it. She’d seen the deed herself—her name was right there on it. Catherine had never claimed to own a single square foot.
Christopher unplugged the flash drive from his phone. “We need to stop guessing.”
He called a family attorney, Miriam Cole, who agreed to meet them immediately at Catherine’s house. Miriam gave Alison strict instructions: don’t go anywhere near her condo, and under no circumstances answer Gregory’s calls.
They slipped out through a side exit of the mall.
Catherine pulled into the parking lot in her beat-up gray sedan, her jaw set and her hands gripping the wheel so hard her knuckles were white.
The second Alison climbed into the passenger seat, her mother turned to her. “Where’s Abigail?”
“She’s with Christopher. They’re right behind us.”
Catherine gave a single nod.
Alison didn’t hesitate. “Mom, do you own part of my apartment?”
Her mother’s hands froze on the wheel. That split-second reaction was all the answer Alison needed.
“Mom?”
Catherine stared straight through the windshield. “Not here.”
Alison’s chest tightened. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“It means we aren’t discussing family property in a parking garage when Gregory could be looking for us.”
That response scared Alison far more than a flat-out denial would have.
On the drive over, Alison’s phone vibrated nonstop. Gregory called six times, then started texting:
You’re making a huge mistake.
Christopher is manipulating you.
Your mother has been lying to you your whole life.
Alison caught her breath as another text flashed across the screen:
Ask Catherine who actually paid for that place.
She immediately thrust the screen toward her mother.
Catherine glanced over, and her entire face changed. It wasn’t shock. It was cold recognition.
“Turn off your phone,” she commanded.
“Mom, what is he talking about?”
“Turn it off.”
“Did you know about Gregory?”
“No.”
“Then what does he mean?”
Catherine’s voice snapped. “I said turn it off!”
Alison hadn’t heard her mother use that tone since she was a kid. She powered the phone down.
Twenty minutes later, they pulled up to Catherine’s modest brick house on the south side.
Miriam Cole was already waiting on the porch. She was a sharp, compact woman in her late fifties with silver hair and a habit of listening intently without interrupting. Christopher and Abigail pulled up right behind them.
Once they were inside with the doors deadbolted and curtains drawn, Miriam examined the photo Gregory had sent. She pinched her fingers on the screen to zoom in on the document.
“This isn’t a standard purchase agreement,” Miriam said.
“What is it?” Alison asked.
“A distressed property transaction.” Miriam pointed to a block of fine print near the bottom. “The listed sale price is four hundred and ten thousand dollars.”
Christopher’s eyebrows shot up. “That condo is worth way more than that.”
“Easily seven hundred thousand in this market,” Miriam corrected. “Maybe more.”
Alison’s head swam. “So Gregory was trying to dump it for almost half its value?”
“Which means the seller is either completely desperate, or this whole deal was set up to flip ownership fast before anyone noticed.” Miriam studied the screen again. “And these yellow tabs mark where you were supposed to sign.”
“If he forged a power of attorney, why would he even need my signature?”
“Because forged documents leave a paper trail and carry huge risks. A smart buyer or title company would demand your direct signature to cover their assets.”
Abigail, sitting beside her grandmother, suddenly spoke up. “The lady said they needed Mom on camera.”
Everyone froze and turned to look at her.
Abigail swallowed hard. “She said if Mom signed while someone recorded it, nobody could claim Gregory forced her.”
A cold chill ran down Alison’s spine.
Christopher began pacing the floor. “They were going to corner her, pressure her into signing, and record it as proof of consent.”
Miriam gave a grim nod. “That would be my guess.”
Alison turned her gaze back to her mother. “And your share?”
Catherine closed her eyes. In an instant, she aged ten years. Finally, she pushed herself up from her chair.
“Come with me.”
She walked toward the basement stairs. Alison followed, with Christopher and Miriam right behind her. Abigail started to tag along, but Catherine held up a hand.
“No, sweetie.”
“I’m the one who found the flash drive,” Abigail said, her chin lifting stubbornly. “And Gregory knows I found it.”
Catherine hesitated, but Christopher placed a protective hand on his daughter’s shoulder. “She stays with me.”
Catherine gave a reluctant nod and headed down the stairs.
At the far end of the basement stood an old storage cabinet Alison remembered from her childhood. Catherine shifted a stack of dusty blankets aside and pulled out a heavy metal lockbox.
“Your father made me swear never to open this unless someone came asking about the apartment.”
Alison stared at her. “And someone came?”
“Three weeks ago.”
Alison’s heart stopped. “Who?”
“Gregory.”
Catherine unlocked the box, revealing a stack of documents protected in plastic sleeves. Miriam laid them out across a wooden workbench.
The first paper was an agreement dated twenty-three years ago. The second was an old mortgage statement. The third was a handwritten letter bearing Samuel Carter’s signature.
Miriam read through them silently before looking up. “Well.”
“What is it?” Alison demanded.
Miriam tapped the old agreement. “Your father didn’t buy that apartment by himself.”
Catherine sank heavily into a metal folding chair.
“Talk to me, Mom,” Alison urged.
Catherine rubbed her hands together nervously. “Your father had lost almost everything. When he bought that place, his business was collapsing. He didn’t have the money for a down payment.”
“He always told me that place was his best investment!”
“It was.” Catherine looked up at her daughter. “He just wasn’t the only person who put money into it.”
“Who else was there?”
Catherine fell silent for way too long.
Christopher stepped closer to the workbench, and Miriam spoke up. “There were three buyers.”
Alison blinked. “Three?”
“Samuel Carter.” Miriam pointed to the first line, then moved her finger. “Catherine Carter.”
She paused at the final signature.
Alison leaned over her shoulder. Below a faded signature sat a third name: Margaret Vale.
Alison shook her head. “I’ve never heard of a Margaret Vale.”
“Yes, you have,” Catherine whispered.
Alison whipped around. “What?”
“She was my sister.”
The basement went dead silent.
Alison let out a nervous laugh. “You don’t have a sister.”
“I had one.”
“You told me you were an only child!”
“I lied.”
Abigail shifted nervously beside her father.
Catherine wiped a stray tear from her eye. “Margaret was six years younger than me. We stopped speaking when you were just a little girl.”
“Why?”
Catherine looked down at the old documents. “Because of you.”
Alison’s anger vanished, replaced by complete confusion. “What are you talking about?”
Catherine stood up abruptly. “This doesn’t have anything to do with Gregory trying to steal your home!”
“It has everything to do with it if he knows who she is!”
“Alison—”
“Tell me!”
Catherine glanced nervously at Abigail, then at Christopher, before finally breaking. “Margaret put up most of the cash.”
Alison felt another piece of her life dissolving right in front of her. “Why?”
“Because she had it.”
“That’s not an answer, Mom!”
“She inherited money from our grandfather—money I never got. Your father convinced her that buying the condo was a safe investment.”
“So she owned part of it?”
“Thirty percent.”
“Then what happened to her share?”
Catherine hesitated. “Nobody knows.”
Miriam raised an eyebrow. “That seems highly unlikely.”
Catherine turned to the attorney. “She disappeared.”
Alison stared at her mother. “When?”
“Twenty-one years ago.”
Two years after they bought the apartment. Alison did the quick math in her head—she would have been sixteen at the time.
Suddenly, a hidden memory flickered to life. A woman with dramatic red hair wearing oversized sunglasses… the faint scent of orange perfume… a Christmas gift wrapped in shiny silver paper…
“Aunt Maggie,” Alison whispered.
Catherine closed her eyes tightly. “You remember.”
Barely. But now the suppressed memories came flooding back. A woman with a loud, booming laugh. A woman who bought Alison lavish gifts that made Catherine tense up. A woman who had once picked her up from school without asking her parents first.
And then, just like that, Aunt Maggie had vanished from every family story.
“You told me she moved to California.”
“It was easier to say that.”
“Easier than what?”
Catherine’s voice cracked. “Easier than admitting nobody knew where she went.”
Miriam carefully adjusted her glasses as she examined the paperwork. “If Margaret Vale retained a thirty-percent stake, that financial interest had to be resolved legally.”
“Samuel took care of everything,” Catherine insisted.
Alison shot her a sharp look. “Did Dad forge something too?”
“No.”
“You sound awfully sure about that.”
“Because your father was terrified of going to prison.”
The words hung heavy in the damp basement air. Christopher stopped pacing. “Why would he be afraid of prison?”
Catherine glanced toward the stairs, as if expecting someone to be listening at the door.
“Because the week before Margaret vanished, she accused Samuel of stealing from her.”
Alison’s mouth went dry. “What?”
“She claimed money was missing from an investment account. Samuel swore he didn’t take it.”
“How much money?”
“Nearly two hundred thousand dollars.”
Christopher let out a low whistle.
“They fought constantly,” Catherine continued. “Margaret threatened to take him to court.”
“And then she vanished?”
“Yes.”
Alison took a step back, horrifying realization dawning on her. “You let me spend my whole life idolizing Dad, knowing all of this?”
“There was never any proof Samuel hurt her!”
“I didn’t say he hurt her!”
Catherine went dead silent.
Alison felt a wave of nausea hit her. “You thought he killed her.”
“No!”
The denial came out way too fast.
Miriam stepped in to break the tension. “Before we get derailed by twenty-year-old suspicions, we need to focus on the immediate threat. Gregory has your identification, your property records, and potentially forged documents. We need to alert law enforcement and the county recorder’s office right now.”
Christopher nodded. “I’m taking Alison and Abigail to my place.”
“No,” Abigail blurted out.
Everyone turned to look at her. She was staring at the laptop Christopher had set down on the workbench.
“It moved.”
Christopher frowned. “What moved?”
“The little light.”
He looked down. The flash drive was still plugged into the USB port. On the screen, a folder had opened up all on its own.
Inside was a single text file.
Miriam stepped closer. “What is that?”
Christopher clicked on it. A single line of text appeared on the screen:
IF YOU FOUND THIS, HE KNOWS YOU HAVE IT.
Christopher immediately ripped the Wi-Fi card offline, but the screen flickered anyway. A media player popped open, launching a pre-recorded video.
Gregory appeared on screen, sitting in Alison’s living room. Behind him, the kitchen table and the purchase contract were clearly visible.
“Alison,” his voice echoed through the laptop speakers, sending a shudder through the room. “If you’re watching this, it means Abigail took the drive.”
Alison gripped the edge of the workbench to steady herself.
Gregory offered a faint, chilling smile. “She has a bad habit of touching things that don’t belong to her.”
Christopher’s face hardened into a mask of rage.
“You’ve probably figured out who Margaret Vale is by now,” Gregory continued on screen.
Catherine gasped, pressing a hand to her chest.
Gregory leaned in toward the camera lens. “Your mother is going to tell you I’m trying to steal your home. Christopher is going to tell you I’m dangerous. Your lawyer is going to tell you to cut off all contact.” His smile vanished. “And they’re all partly right.”
Alison’s stomach twisted into knots.
“But none of them will ever tell you why I picked you.” He paused dramatically. “I didn’t meet you by accident, Alison.”
Alison’s mind raced back to the night they met at a charity fundraiser. He’d bumped into her while holding two glasses of wine, spilled a drop, made her laugh, and asked for her number. For eight months, she’d thought it was sweet serendipity.
“I spent nearly a year studying your routine before I made my move,” Gregory confessed smoothly. “I knew where you worked, where Abigail went to school, where Catherine bought her groceries, and where Christopher took Abigail on the weekends.”
Christopher swore under his breath.
“Before you write me off as just another stalker…” Gregory stared straight into the lens, “…understand that I was looking for something.”
He reached off-camera and pulled up an old, faded photograph of a woman with vibrant red hair.
Aunt Maggie.
“Margaret Vale,” Gregory said quietly.
Catherine let out a ragged, choking sob.
Gregory held the picture up to the lens. “You’ve all spent the last twenty years pretending she just walked away.”
“No…” Catherine whimpered.
“She didn’t walk away.” Gregory lowered the frame. “My mother was Margaret Vale.”
Dead, suffocating silence filled the basement.
Alison stared at the screen, her mind racing to process the words. Gregory’s mother? But that would mean… he’s my cousin.
She stumbled backward, and Christopher caught her by the arm to keep her upright.
“No,” Catherine whispered, shaking her head in denial.
Gregory went on, his voice eerily calm. “She was pregnant when she left Milwaukee.”
Catherine stared at the screen in horror. “No, she wasn’t!”
“You didn’t know,” Gregory countered smoothly from the recording. “But Samuel did.”
Alison’s head was spinning. Her dad, Margaret, Gregory, the missing money, the condo… all these scattered pieces were connected, but she couldn’t piece the puzzle together.
“My mother spent the rest of her life telling me how Samuel Carter ruined her,” Gregory said, his voice dropping an octave. “She told me he stole her money, took her share of the building, and made threats until she was forced to run.”
Catherine held onto the workbench for support. “That’s not how it happened!”
“She died six years ago from cancer,” Gregory said, genuine grief breaking through his cold demeanor for the first time. “Before she passed, she handed over records—letters, bank wire transfers, copies of property deeds. And she told me one last thing.”
The video flickered black for a second. When Gregory reappeared, he was standing up.
“She told me that condo was never Samuel Carter’s greatest investment.” He leaned so close his face filled the screen. “It was evidence.”
The recording cut out.
Nobody moved. Nobody said a word.
Suddenly, the doorbell upstairs rang.
All five of them jumped. Christopher instantly stepped in front of Abigail, shielding her. “Were you expecting someone?”
Catherine shook her head, terrified.
The bell rang again, followed by three slow, deliberate knocks on the front door.
Miriam pulled out her cell phone. “I’m calling the police.”
Christopher moved cautiously toward the stairs. “Stay down here.” He climbed halfway up, listening intently.
A muffled voice called through the door. “Mrs. Carter? It’s Detective Harris with the Milwaukee Police Department.”
Miriam frowned. “Did anyone call the police to this address?”
“I did,” Catherine whispered, her voice trembling. “Earlier today.”
“Verify his badge before you open that door,” Miriam instructed.
Catherine called the station. After a few agonizing minutes, the dispatcher confirmed that Detective Eric Harris had indeed been dispatched to take a statement.
Only then did Christopher unlock the front door.
Two officers stepped inside. Detective Harris was a broad-shouldered man in his mid-forties with tired eyes, while his partner, Officer Nguyen, stayed posted by the entryway.
Harris pulled out a notepad as Alison laid out the whole story: the forged power of attorney, the sketchy purchase agreement, the threats, the flash drive, and Gregory’s video.
However, the moment she mentioned Margaret Vale, Harris stopped writing.
“What was that name again?”
“Margaret Vale.”
He turned to Catherine. “Your sister?”
Catherine gave a slow nod.
Detective Harris closed his notebook. “Mrs. Carter, I need you to come down to the station with us.”
Alison stepped in. “Why?”
Harris ignored her, keeping his eyes on Catherine. “Mrs. Carter?”
Catherine went pale. “Am I under arrest?”
“No.”
“Then why do I need to go to the station?”
Detective Harris took a slow breath. “Because the name Margaret Vale is tied to an active criminal investigation.”
Alison stared at him. “That makes no sense. She disappeared over twenty years ago!”
“I’m aware.”
“How could it possibly still be an active case?”
Harris glanced back at his partner before answering. “Because last month, a construction crew tearing down an old warehouse near the Menomonee Valley dug up human remains.”
Catherine let out a strangled gasp. Alison grabbed her mother’s arm to support her.
“We found jewelry and personal items with the remains,” Harris explained gently. “We haven’t gotten a positive ID yet, but…” He looked straight at Catherine. “One of the items was an engraved piece of jewelry with the initials M.V.”
Catherine’s legs gave out, and she collapsed into a chair.
Alison could barely breathe. “Are you saying… that’s Margaret?”
“I’m saying we don’t know for sure yet.”
Christopher chimed in. “And Gregory knew about this?”
“That’s one of the things I’m trying to figure out.”
Harris instructed Alison to stay somewhere safe where Gregory couldn’t easily track her down.
“He has access to my condo,” Alison pointed out.
“We’ll send a squad car to check it out.”
“He has my passport too.”
“If it’s still there, we’ll secure it.”
Christopher stepped up. “I’m taking Alison and Abigail to a safe location tonight.”
Harris nodded. “Smart move.”
Abigail wasn’t paying attention to the adults. She was staring wide-eyed at her grandmother.
“Grandma?”
Catherine looked up, tears streaking her face. “Yes, honey?”
“Did you know where Aunt Margaret was?”
Every eye in the room shifted to Catherine.
She looked at her granddaughter and said, “No.”
Abigail looked confused. “But Gregory said you did.”
“When?”
“Last night.”
Alison’s heart started hammering again. “Abigail, what exactly did he say?”
Abigail squeezed her eyes shut, trying to remember the phone conversation. “He was talking to someone and said, ‘Catherine knows where Margaret ended up. She always did.’”
Catherine bolted out of her chair. “That’s a lie!”
“Then who was he talking to?” Christopher asked.
“I have no idea!”
Abigail’s eyes popped open. “The lady.”
“What lady?”
“The woman from the video.”
Alison pictured the sharp-dressed woman sitting beside Gregory. “Did you hear her name?”
Abigail nodded. “Elaine.”
Detective Harris’s demeanor shifted instantly. “What did you say?”
“He called her Elaine,” Abigail repeated.
Harris pulled out his phone. “What did she look like?”
“Dark hair. Maybe forty years old. She was wearing a gold necklace shaped like a leaf.”
Harris walked toward the hallway and dialed a number.
Miriam watched him closely. “You recognize that name.”
Harris didn’t answer, waiting for the call to connect. “This is Harris. I need a records check on a name tied to the Vale case… Elaine Mercer.”
Catherine suddenly grabbed the edge of the table, her face draining of all color.
Alison noticed immediately. “Mom?”
“No…” Catherine whispered.
Alison took a step closer. “You know that name too, don’t you?”
Catherine stared blankly ahead. “I haven’t heard that name in twenty years.”
“Who is she?”
Before Catherine could answer, Harris hung up his phone, looking visibly rattled. “Elaine Mercer was questioned when Margaret first vanished.”
“Why?” Alison asked.
“She was Margaret’s accountant.”
Catherine shook her head slowly. “She wasn’t just her accountant.”
Everyone turned to her.
“She was Samuel’s mistress,” Catherine confessed, her voice barely a whisper.
Alison felt like her entire childhood was crumbling. “Dad was having an affair with Margaret’s accountant?”
“For almost three years.”
“And you stayed with him?!”
“I didn’t find out until after Margaret went missing!”
Christopher exhaled sharply. “This just keeps getting worse.”
Detective Harris fixed his gaze on Catherine. “What else are you holding back, Mrs. Carter?”
Catherine broke down crying. It wasn’t a loud sob, but a quiet, broken weeping that felt so much worse.
“I found a letter,” she admitted.
“When?”
“The morning after Margaret disappeared.”
Harris stepped closer. “What did the letter say? Do you still have it?”
Catherine shook her head. “I burned it.”
Alison stared at her mother in complete disbelief. “You burned evidence?!”
“I was trying to protect our family!”
“From what?!”
Catherine finally looked up at her daughter. “From the truth about who your father really was.”
Alison’s chest burned. “What was in the letter, Mom?”
Catherine opened her mouth, then hesitated.
“Mrs. Carter,” Harris warned sternly.
“She accused Samuel and Elaine of using her business accounts to launder money,” Catherine blurted out.
Nobody moved.
“She claimed the apartment was purchased with stolen money. Margaret caught them and threatened to turn them in to the feds.”
Harris’s face hardened. “Why on earth didn’t you hand that letter over to the police?”
“Samuel convinced me Margaret was out of her mind!”
“And you actually believed him?”
“I wanted to believe him!”
Alison turned away, unable to look at her mother for another second. Outside, dusk was settling in, casting long, eerie shadows through the basement windows. The home she had grown up in felt like a museum of lies.
Detective Harris gathered the old documents and prepared to take Catherine down to the station for formal questioning. Before leaving, he turned to Alison.
“Do not go anywhere Gregory might expect to find you.”
She nodded numbly.
“And if he reaches out, do not respond.”
Once Harris and Catherine left, Christopher insisted on taking Alison and Abigail to his sister’s vacant condo in Wauwatosa—a spot Gregory knew nothing about. They decided to drive in separate cars: Christopher took Abigail, while Alison followed behind Miriam.
Halfway there, Alison’s phone—which she’d turned back on only so the police could track incoming signals—vibrated in her cup holder.
A text from Gregory. She ignored it.
Then another popped up. And another.
At a red light, she finally caved and looked down:
You found the lockbox.
Her throat closed up. How could he possibly know that?
A second message flashed:
Catherine is finally spilling her secrets. Good.
Then a third:
Ask the detective why he omitted the DNA results.
Alison’s heart hammered against her ribs. She immediately hit speed dial for Harris.
He picked up on the second ring. “Harris.”
“What DNA test?” Alison demanded.
Silence on the line.
“Detective?”
“Where are you right now, Alison?”
“That’s not what I asked!”
“Alison, tell me where you are.”
“I’m in my car!”
“Pull over into a well-lit, public area right now.”
Panic set in. “Why? What’s going on?”
“Just pull over!”
Alison swerved into a brightly lit gas station, and Miriam pulled her car in right behind her.
Harris remained on the line. “We got preliminary DNA results back this afternoon.”
“From the remains in the warehouse?”
“Yes.”
“Is it Margaret?”
Another agonizing silence. “No.”
A strange wave of relief washed over Alison, but Harris wasn’t finished.
“The remains are related to Margaret.”
Alison gripped the steering wheel. “How? A parent? A sibling?”
“A first-degree relative.”
“…A child?”
Alison thought back to Gregory’s video—his claim that Margaret was his mother. “Are you saying it’s Gregory?”
“We’re trying to track him down right now.”
“What aren’t you telling me, Harris?”
Harris let out a heavy sigh. “The remains belong to a female.”
Alison stopped breathing. A female child of Margaret Vale? “That’s impossible.”
“Which is why we’re running additional tests.”
Suddenly, a memory flashed through Alison’s mind—Gregory’s video message: My mother was Margaret Vale. But he had never said Margaret only had one child.
“Detective—”
A horn honked sharply behind her in the gas station lot.
Alison glanced into her rearview mirror. A black SUV had pulled in and flashed its high beams once.
Her phone buzzed with an incoming text from an unknown number. It was a photo of Alison sitting in her car, taken just seconds ago.
She whipped around in her seat. The black SUV started crawling toward the exit, then came to a stop. The passenger side window rolled down smoothly.
Sitting inside was a woman with dark hair, wearing a gold leaf pendant necklace.
Elaine Mercer.
Alison recognized her instantly from the video. Elaine raised a single finger to her lips in a «shh» gesture. Then the SUV accelerated onto the street and sped off.
Alison’s phone buzzed again with a text from the unknown number:
Gregory lied to you about almost everything.
A second text followed:
Especially about why he wants that apartment.
Then a third:
There’s something underneath it.
Alison stared at the screen, completely baffled. Her condo was on the fourth floor—there was nothing beneath it except other units. Unless Elaine wasn’t talking about her specific apartment… but the entire building. Or something buried deep in its past.
A final text arrived with an old black-and-white photo attached.
It showed Samuel Carter standing outside the condo building twenty-three years ago. Beside him stood Catherine, Margaret Vale, and Elaine Mercer.
Standing next to them was a fifth person Alison didn’t recognize—a young man holding a baby wrapped in a light blanket.
Scrawled across the back of the photo were five words:
THE REAL OWNER KNOWS EVERYTHING.
Alison zoomed in on the image. The young man’s face looked strangely familiar, but it definitely wasn’t Gregory.
Her phone rang, startling her. It was Christopher.
She picked up immediately. “Alison, listen to me!”
In the background, she could hear Abigail sobbing hysterically.
“What happened?!” Alison cried out.
“We made it to the condo in Wauwatosa—”
“And?”
“The front door was wide open.”
Alison’s blood ran cold. “Get out of there!”
“We did! We’re back in the car.”
“Is Gregory inside?!”
“No.” Christopher’s voice was shaking uncontrollably. “There was a package left on the kitchen table.”
“What package?”
“It had Abigail’s name on it.”
Alison closed her eyes tight. “What was inside it, Christopher?”
“A birth certificate.”
Alison frowned. “Abigail’s?”
“No.” Christopher went quiet. When he finally spoke again, he sounded utterly broken. “It’s Gregory’s.”
Alison opened her eyes. “I don’t understand.”
“Neither did I.”
“What does it say?”
After another long, excruciating pause, Christopher whispered: “Alison… Margaret Vale isn’t listed as Gregory’s mother.”
Alison could hear her own pulse thumping in her ears. “Then who is?”
Christopher took a shaky breath. “Your mother.”
The gas station lights seemed to flare blindingly bright around her. “No…”
“I’m looking right at it, Alison.”
“That’s impossible!”
“Catherine Carter is listed as Gregory’s mother.”
Then Christopher dropped the bomb that shattered everything she thought she knew.
“…And Samuel Carter is listed as his father.”
Alison stared at the old photograph on her phone screen—at her parents, at Margaret, at Elaine, and at the unknown young man holding the infant.
Gregory wasn’t her cousin.
According to the official document sitting in Christopher’s hands, Gregory was her brother.
Her phone buzzed one last time. It was a message directly from Gregory.
Just six words:
Now ask Catherine about yourself.
