And again.
My mouth went dry.
Police recovered a body, but identification was never properly completed. My father altered the report. Your father agreed to identify the remains as Evelyn.
The woman who died inside your house was someone else.
“Who?” I whispered.
Sadie’s hands clenched in her lap.
I kept reading.
Your mother disappeared that night.
For years, I believed she had been forced to run.
Then Rebecca found evidence suggesting Evelyn had planned the entire thing herself.
I stood.
“No.”
The letter fell to my side.
Sadie said nothing.
“My mother loved us.”
“I’m sure she did.”
“She wouldn’t fake her death.”
“I don’t know.”
“She wouldn’t leave me.”
My voice broke.
“She wouldn’t.”
But the memories came anyway.
My mother locking the bedroom door while making phone calls.
My mother hiding envelopes beneath loose floorboards.
My mother forcing me to memorize an address in another state.
I had forgotten that.
God.
How had I forgotten?
“If something ever happens,” she had whispered, kneeling in front of me, gripping my shoulders, “you never tell anyone about Rebecca.”
Rebecca.
I had thought Rebecca was dead.
But my mother had known she wasn’t.
The memory struck so violently I almost collapsed.
“Claire?”
Sadie reached for me.
I pulled away.
“I remember.”
“What?”
“My mother told me never to talk about Rebecca.”
Sadie stared.
I picked up the letter.
There were only two paragraphs left.
Rebecca believed Evelyn was still alive. She spent years searching for her.
Three years ago, Rebecca called me.
