Chapter 7: The Name in the File
Dad hung up.
I stared at him.
“Who was that?””
He slipped the phone into his pocket.
“No one.””
Mom slammed her palm against the table.
“Don't lie to her again.””
Dad flinched.
I had never seen my father flinch at anyone.
“Who is Michael?””
“My brother,” Dad said.
I felt the room tilt.
“You have a brother?””
“I did.””
Mom shook her head.
“He has always been alive.””
Dad looked at her.
“You don't know what you're talking about.””
“I know exactly who Michael is.””
I looked from one to the other.
“Why have I never heard his name?””
Dad sat down.
For a moment, he looked old.
Not like my father.
Like a man who had spent years carrying something too heavy and had finally dropped it.
“Because Michael was involved in the accident.””
My mouth went dry.
“What accident?””
“The one that killed the story we told you.””
Mom whispered, “And almost killed me.””
I pulled out a chair.
“Start talking.””
Dad stared at the table.
“The night of the crash, your mother was driving home with you.””
I frowned.
“I wasn't there?””
“You were asleep at Evelyn's house.””
Mom nodded.
“I had taken you there because I had to meet someone.””
“Who?””
She looked at Dad.
“Michael.””
Dad closed his eyes.
I felt a chill crawl up my arms.
“Why?””
“Because he had found something,” Mom said.
“What?””
“Financial records.””
Dad's jaw tightened.
Mom continued.
“Money had been moved from accounts your father controlled. Large amounts. I discovered payments to companies that didn't exist.””
Dad interrupted.
“I wasn't stealing.””
“I never said you were.””
“You implied it.””
“You were covering for someone.””
Silence.
I looked at Dad.
“Who?””
He didn't answer.
Mom's voice softened.
“That's why Evelyn has the files.””
I remembered the name.
Evelyn Brooks had been my mother's best friend.
The woman Dad always described as “unstable.””
The woman he told me had left town years ago.
The woman who had sent me a birthday card every year until I was twelve.
Then suddenly stopped.
“Where is Evelyn now?””
Mom looked at me.
“She lives two states away.””
Dad stood.
“We're not going.””
I stared at him.
“I'm going.””
“Nia.””
“You lied to me about my mother.””
“Nia—”
“You lied about college.””
His face tightened.
“You told me we couldn't afford it.””
“I was trying to keep you safe.””
“I found the payment records.””
Dad froze.
I stepped closer.
“You paid someone after Mom supposedly died.””
He said nothing.
Mom's face changed.
“You found those?””
I nodded.
She looked at Dad.
“You didn't destroy them.””
“I couldn't.””
“Why?””
Dad looked at me.
“Because I couldn't destroy the last thing that proved you weren't crazy for remembering her.””
My heart stopped.
“What do you mean?””
He reached into the drawer beneath the television.
He removed a folder.
It was old.
Brown.
The edges were burned.
He placed it on the table.
“Your mother didn't die at the scene.””
I stared at the folder.
“You said she did.””
“I said what I had to say.””
Mom's eyes filled with tears.
“She was taken to St. Vincent's.””
I looked at her.
“Did you go there?””
“Yes.””
“Then what happened?””
Dad opened the folder.
Inside were hospital records.
My mother's name.
Sarah Carter.
Admitted: 11:42 p.m.
Condition: critical.
Then another line.
*Transferred: 3:18 a.m.*
Destination:
*Private facility — authorization required.*
I looked at Dad.
“Where?””
He hesitated.
“Blackwell Rehabilitation Center.””
Mom whispered, “That's where they kept me.””
I stared at her.
“You were imprisoned?””
“No.””
She swallowed.
“Not officially.””
I looked at the documents.
There were signatures.
Medical forms.
Payment records.
And one signature appeared again and again.
*Michael Carter.*
I looked at Dad.
“Your brother paid for Mom's treatment?””
Dad nodded.
“Then why was he threatening us?””
“Because he wasn't the one who wanted her hidden.””
Mom stepped closer.
“Daniel.””
He looked at her.
“Tell her.””
He shook his head.
“Not yet.””
“There's no not yet anymore.””
I grabbed the folder.
“Who wanted you hidden?””
Mom didn't answer.
Dad did.
“Vanessa.””
The name hit me like a slap.
My stepmother.
The woman who had raised me after Dad said Mom died.
The woman who always seemed uncomfortable when I asked questions about my childhood.
The woman who had insisted college was a waste of money.
The woman who had once told me, when I was thirteen, “Some mothers leave because they don't want the responsibility.””
I felt sick.
“She knew?””
Dad nodded.
“She knew you were alive.””
Mom's voice trembled.
“She knew where I was.””
“And she never told me.””
“No.””
I backed away from the table.
“Why?””
Dad stared at me.
“Because Vanessa made a deal.””
“What deal?””
“With me.””
Mom's face went pale.
Dad finally said it.
“She agreed to keep you safe.””
I laughed.
It sounded nothing like laughter.
“She ruined my future.””
Dad lowered his head.
“I know.””
“She convinced me I wasn't smart enough for college.””
“I know.””
“She told me Mom abandoned me.””
“I know.””
“And you let her.””
His eyes filled.
“Yes.””
I wanted to scream.
Instead, I whispered:
“What did she get?””
Dad didn't answer.
My phone buzzed.
A message.
Unknown number.
I opened it.
There was a photograph.
Vanessa standing beside a hospital bed.
My mother was unconscious on the mattress.
And beside Vanessa stood Michael.
The timestamp was eighteen years old.
Under the photograph was one sentence:
*Your father isn't the only person who betrayed your mother.*
I stared at the screen.
Then another message appeared.
*Ask Sarah why she was really driving that night.*
I looked at my mother.
May you like
She had already seen my face.
And she was crying.
