Chapter 6: The Truth My Mother Buried With Him
“Your mother’s fingerprints.””
The words stayed in my head long after the call ended.
I sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the phone screen.
It should have made me angry.
Maybe it did.
But mostly, I felt tired.
A different kind of tired.
Not the kind that comes from being awake too long.
The kind that comes from finding out that every answer leads to another question.
Karen noticed something was wrong when she came into the room.
She knocked first.
She always knocked.
Even when the door was open.
Even when she was just bringing me a glass of water.
Small things.
Things that shouldn’t have mattered.
But they did.
“Emma?””
I looked up.
“Ms. Rivera called.””
Karen’s expression changed.
“What happened?””
I hesitated.
“My mom’s fingerprints were found in my room.””
Karen didn’t immediately react.
She didn’t say, “Your mother would never do that.””
She didn’t defend someone she didn’t know.
She just sat beside me.
“Do you know why?””
I shook my head.
“No.””
The truth was, I didn’t know what to believe anymore.
My mother had lied about my father.
She had lied about Bill.
She had asked me to protect the person who hurt me.
But she had also brought me to the hospital.
She had sat beside me.
She had cried.
People were complicated.
That was the hardest thing to accept.
Someone could love you and still hurt you.
Someone could regret something and still be responsible for it.
Someone could be afraid and still make choices that damaged you.
The next afternoon, Ms. Rivera came to Karen’s house.
She brought a folder.
I immediately recognized it.
More documents.
More secrets.
“Is this about my mom?””
Ms. Rivera nodded.
“I need to explain something.””
I sat at the kitchen table.
Karen made tea, even though I didn’t ask for any.
I liked that she did things without making me feel like I owed her.
Ms. Rivera opened the folder.
“We found out your mother had been inside your room the night before you went to the hospital.””
I frowned.
“Why?””
“She said she was looking for something.””
“What?””
“That’s what we’re trying to determine.””
I stared at the papers.
“Did she take the photos?””
“No.””
“Then what did she take?””
Ms. Rivera hesitated.
“A notebook.””
My heart skipped.
“A notebook?””
“Yes.””
“What notebook?””
She looked at me.
“Do you know of any notebook connected to your father?””
I thought.
Then suddenly, I remembered.
The basement.
The boxes.
The old things.
My father’s handwriting.
A small black notebook he carried everywhere.
I had seen it when I was little.
He used to write in it while drinking coffee at the kitchen table.
I remembered asking him what he was writing.
He smiled and said:
“Just reminders.””
But maybe it was more.
“Where is it?””
Ms. Rivera shook her head.
“We don’t know.””
I looked down.
“So my mom took it.””
“Possibly.””
“Why?””
“That’s the question.””
I felt anger rising.
“Everyone keeps saying that.””
“What?””
“That there are questions.””
My voice became louder.
“But nobody gives me answers.””
Ms. Rivera stayed calm.
“You’re right.””
I looked at her.
“I’m sorry.””
She nodded.
“You deserve answers.””
For a moment, nobody spoke.
Then I asked the question I had been avoiding.
“Do you think my mom helped Bill?””
The silence after that question was painful.
Because I knew the answer wasn’t simple.
Ms. Rivera folded her hands.
“I think your mother knows more than she has told us.””
That was not the answer I wanted.
But it was the answer I expected.
The following day, my mother requested another meeting.
This time, she came alone.
No folder.
No excuses.
Just herself.
She looked nervous when she sat down.
“Emma.””
I didn’t respond.
She looked at the table.
“I know about the fingerprints.””
My eyes narrowed.
“Then you know why I’m asking.””
She nodded.
“I went into your room.””
“Why?””
She took a deep breath.
“Because I was trying to find the notebook.””
My chest tightened.
“Dad’s notebook?””
“Yes.””
“Why?””
Her eyes filled with tears.
“Because I knew Bill was looking for it.””
I stared at her.
“What’s in it?””
She looked around the room.
Then back at me.
“Proof.””
“Proof of what?””
“Everything.””
I waited.
She continued.
“Your father kept records.””
“About Bill?””
“Yes.””
“Why didn’t you tell anyone?””
She looked down.
“Because I was afraid.””
I laughed quietly.
“Again?””
She flinched.
“I know.””
“No, you don’t.””
My voice shook.
“You keep saying you were afraid like that makes everything okay.””
“It doesn’t.””
“Then why?””
She cried silently.
“Because after your father died, Bill convinced me I was alone.””
I didn’t speak.
“He told me nobody would believe me. He told me the investigation was over. He told me if I fought him, I would lose everything.””
I stared.
“And you believed him.””
“Yes.””
“Why?””
She looked at me.
“Because I had already lost your father.””
That sentence hurt.
Because I understood grief.
I understood missing someone.
But I didn’t understand letting someone dangerous replace them.
“Where is the notebook?””
My mother looked away.
“I don’t know.””
I watched her carefully.
“Mom.””
“I don’t.””
Something about her answer felt real.
For the first time in a long time.
Not perfect.
Not enough.
But real.
“Then why take it?””
“Because I was trying to keep it from Bill.””
I froze.
“What?””
“He knew about the notebook.””
“How?””
“Because your father mentioned it.””
“Why would Dad tell him?””
“He didn’t.””
She swallowed.
“He overheard him talking about it.””
My stomach dropped.
“So Bill has always wanted it.””
“Yes.””
“What’s inside?””
My mother looked terrified.
“Names.””
“Names of who?””
“People who helped him.””
I stared.
“Helped him do what?””
She looked at me.
And finally, she said the words.
“Fraud.””
The room felt silent.
“He wasn’t just stealing from one company, Emma.””
My mother’s voice trembled.
“He was moving money through different businesses. Using people. Creating fake accounts.””
“And Dad found out.””
“Yes.””
“And the notebook had proof.””
“Yes.””
I looked away.
All this time, I thought Bill wanted my money.
But maybe my money was just part of it.
Maybe the real reason he stayed close was because my father had left behind evidence.
Evidence that could destroy him.
A knock came at the door.
Ms. Rivera entered.
She looked at my mother.
“We need to talk.””
My mother stood.
“About what?””
Ms. Rivera’s face was serious.
“We found Bill.””
My mother went pale.
“Where?””
“He contacted a lawyer.””
I felt a strange wave of fear.
“He’s coming back?””
Ms. Rivera looked at me.
“Not yet.””
“Then why does that sound bad?””
She paused.
“Because he filed paperwork.””
“What paperwork?””
My mother’s face changed.
She already knew.
“What did he file?”” she whispered.
Ms. Rivera answered.
“A petition requesting emergency custody.””
I felt like the room tilted.
“He can’t do that.””
“He can try.””
“He hurt me.””
“I know.””
“He broke my arm.””
“I know.””
“Then why?””
Ms. Rivera looked at me sadly.
“Because people like Bill don’t always fight because they think they’ll win.””
“Then why fight?””
She glanced at the folder.
“Sometimes they fight because they need time.””
My mother suddenly stood.
“He’s looking for the notebook.””
Everyone looked at her.
She continued.
“He knows Emma has it.””
I shook my head.
“I don’t have it.””
My mother stared at me.
And then something changed in her expression.
Fear.
Real fear.
“Emma.””
“What?””
“When you were in the basement…”
I remembered.
The folder.
The papers.
The night I hid.
“What?””
My mother’s voice became barely audible.
“Did you see anything else?””
I thought back.
The boxes.
The cabinet.
The old photographs.
Then I remembered something.
A small wooden box.
Hidden behind the folder.
I had noticed it.
But I never opened it.
Because I heard footsteps.
My face went cold.
“Mom.””
She leaned closer.
“What?””
“I think…”
I swallowed.
“I think Dad’s notebook was never in the folder.””
Everyone became silent.
“Where was it?””
I looked at my mother.
“At the bottom of the cabinet.””
Her eyes widened.
“Emma.””
“What?””
Her voice dropped.
“Did you see the symbol?””
I frowned.
“What symbol?””
She grabbed the edge of the table.
“A small black mark on the wooden box.””
I searched my memory.
The answer came slowly.
“Yes.””
My mother closed her eyes.
And when she opened them again, she looked terrified.
“Emma…”
“What?””
“That wasn’t your father’s hiding place.””
I felt a chill.
“Then whose was it?””
My mother whispered:
“Bill’s.””
At that moment, Ms. Rivera’s phone rang.
She answered.
Listened.
Then her face changed.
“Everyone needs to stay calm.””
Nobody moved.
“What happened?””
She looked directly at me.
“Emma…”
Her voice became quieter.
“Bill just sent a message.””
My heart pounded.
“What did he say?””
She looked at the screen.
Then read the words aloud.
“He said…”
She stopped.
May you like
And for the first time since I met her, Ms. Rivera looked afraid.
“He said, ‘Tell Emma I know where her father hid the real evidence.’”
