Chapter 4 - The Woman Who Was Supposed to Be Dead
I did not remember leaving the lake house.
I remembered police officers.
Questions.
Victoria giving a statement.
Adrian sitting alone on the stone steps with a blanket around his shoulders.
Celeste insisting there had been “a marital misunderstanding.”
Mason telling officers that private family documents had been stolen.
And Walter Vale refusing to say another word without an attorney.
But I did not remember getting into Priya's car.
I only remembered what Walter said.
Your mother is alive.
My mother, Rebecca Brooks, died when I was six.
That was the story.
A highway accident.
Rain.
A truck that crossed the median.
Closed casket.
My father never talked about it afterward.
Whenever I asked, his face shut down.
Now, at thirty-one years old, sitting in Priya's apartment with coffee going cold between my hands, I realized something horrifying.
I had never seen a death certificate.
I had never visited a grave.
My father told me she wanted to be cremated.
I had been a child.
I believed him.
“Lena.”
Priya's voice pulled me back.
“What?”
“You haven't moved in ten minutes.”
“I don't know where to start.”
“Start with the divorce.”
I almost laughed.
“That's somehow the easiest part.”
My attorney, Rachel Kim, arrived twenty minutes later.
She was still in sweatpants beneath a trench coat.
Rachel had represented my gym company since location number two.
She listened without interrupting as I described the marital amendment, the threats, Victoria, and the documents.
When I finished, she said, “You're not going back to that house.”
“Agreed.”
“Do not speak privately to Adrian.”
“Fine.”
“Do not sign anything.”
“Obviously.”
“And the folder?”
I placed it on the table.
Rachel stared.
For the next hour, she photographed every page.
The supposed transfer agreement involving my father was the strangest.
According to the paperwork, Daniel Brooks had assigned a dormant ownership interest in Northline Industrial Development to the Vale Family Trust.
Three months ago.
Eleven years after his death.
“Forgery,” Priya said.
Rachel frowned.
“Maybe. But this document was notarized.”
“So?”
“So either the notary participated knowingly, or somebody appeared under Daniel's identity.”
My stomach tightened.
“Can we trace it?”
“I can try.”
At 4:13 a.m., my phone rang.
Adrian.
Rachel shook her head.
I declined the call.
He called again.
Declined.
Then a message arrived.
I know where your mother is.
I stared.
Rachel saw it.
“Do not respond.”
Another message.
I didn't know until tonight.
Then:
My father kept a file. I found it when I was twenty-two.
And finally:
Rebecca Brooks. Current name: Rebecca Sloan. Vermont.
My hands began shaking.
Priya whispered, “Could he be lying?”
“Probably.”
But part of me already knew he wasn't.
Because Adrian had included an address.
Rachel stopped me before I could search it myself.
“I'll verify.”
At sunrise, she returned from the kitchen with her laptop.
“There is a Rebecca Sloan at that address.”
“How old?”
“Fifty-eight.”
My mother would have been fifty-eight.
“Anything else?”
“Former nurse. No criminal record. Divorced. No social media I can find.”
I stood.
“I need to go.”
“Not alone.”
“I don't care.”
“I do.”
Rachel closed the laptop.
“Lena, someone forged your dead father's signature. Your husband's family tried to take control of your assets. His sister says she was effectively imprisoned in their house. Now suddenly you're being told your dead mother isn't dead.”
She looked straight at me.
“This is exactly when you do not go somewhere alone.”
By noon, the divorce filing was underway.
By two, my gym managers knew I was taking several days away.
By four, Adrian had been served with an emergency protective order prohibiting contact except through attorneys.
By six, I was on a flight to Vermont with Rachel sitting beside me.
I barely spoke.
After landing, we rented a car and drove north through towns that seemed too peaceful for the chaos inside me.
The address Adrian sent led us to a modest white house at the edge of a lake.
No gates.
No guards.
No Vale wealth.
Just wind chimes on a porch and a faded green Subaru.
I stood at the walkway for nearly a minute.
Rachel remained several steps behind.
“You want me beside you?”
“No.”
I walked to the porch.
Raised my hand.
Knocked.
Nothing.
Then footsteps.
The door opened.
A woman stood there.
Gray threaded through dark hair.
Her face was older.
Thinner.
But I recognized her instantly.
Not from photographs.
From my own mirror.
She looked at me.
A grocery bag slipped from her hand.
Apples rolled across the porch.
Neither of us spoke.
Then her eyes filled with tears.
“Lena?”
My knees almost gave out.
I gripped the porch rail.
“You're alive.”
She covered her mouth.
“Oh, sweetheart.”
“Don't call me that.”
She stopped.
Thirty-one years of questions collided inside me.
“Why?”
Rebecca looked past me toward Rachel.
“Are you safe?”
I almost screamed.
“Safe? You disappeared for twenty-five years and you're asking if I'm safe?”
She began crying.
“I had to.”
“No, you didn't.”
“I did.”
“My father told me you were dead!”
“He had to.”
“Stop saying that!”
The words echoed across the lake.
Rebecca stepped backward.
“Come inside.”
I almost refused.
But then she said the one thing that made me move.
“Walter Vale found you, didn't he?”
I entered.
Rebecca locked the door behind us.
On the living-room wall was a photograph.
A younger version of my father.
A younger version of Walter Vale.
And my mother.
All three standing in front of a building marked NORTHLINE DEVELOPMENT.
Rebecca followed my gaze.
“Your father wasn't the one who discovered what Walter was doing.”
She wiped her eyes.
“I was.”
I turned.
“What did you discover?”
Her expression changed.
Twenty-five years of fear returned to her face.
“Enough to make Walter Vale convince my husband that the only way to keep you alive was to make the world believe I was dead.”
Then Rebecca opened an old wooden cabinet.
Inside were dozens of notebooks.
Financial ledgers.
Photographs.
Cassette tapes.
And one sealed envelope.
On the front, written in my father's unmistakable handwriting, were four words:
FOR LENA, WHEN IT'S SAFE.
My hands shook as I reached for it.
Rebecca grabbed my wrist.
“Before you open that, you need to know something.”
“What?”
“Your father didn't die of a heart attack.”
The room went silent.
I stared at her.
May you like
Rebecca's voice broke.
“He was killed.”
