PART 4 — THE SECRET MY MOTHER COULDN’T BURY
“He said…it would still look like an accident.”
For several seconds, nobody in Emma’s ICU room moved.
Not me.
Not Marcus.
Not Detective Warren.
Even the nurse beside the monitor seemed frozen.
My four-year-old daughter had just said the sentence every part of me had been praying I would never hear.
Marcus was the first to move.
He turned away from the bed and pressed both hands against the wall.
I knew why.
He didn’t want Emma to see his face.
Because the expression on it terrified even me.
Detective Warren stepped closer to the bed but kept his voice gentle.
“Emma, sweetheart, you did very well.”
Emma’s eyes were already drifting closed.
“Do I have to talk more?”
“No,” Warren said immediately. “Not right now.”
She looked at me.
“Is Grandpa mad?”
My heart shattered.
“No, baby.”
“Because I told?”
“No.”
I bent close enough that my forehead almost touched hers.
“You never have to keep a secret when somebody tells you not to tell Mommy or Daddy. Okay?”
Her fingers curled around mine.
“Okay.”
“And none of this is because of you.”
She blinked slowly.
“I climbed when Grandpa said not to.”
Marcus turned around.
“What?”
Emma looked toward him.
“He told me not to climb yet.”
A terrible silence followed.
I glanced at Warren.
He noticed it too.
“Why did Grandpa tell you not to climb?” I asked.
Emma frowned as if searching through a fog.
“Because he was fixing it.”
“Fixing what?”
“My castle.”
That was what Emma called the treehouse.
Her castle.
“What was he fixing?”
She lifted one weak finger.
“The wood.”
My stomach twisted.
“Did Grandpa tell you anything else?”
Emma nodded.
“He said it was a surprise for Mommy.”
Marcus shut his eyes.
The doctor stepped forward.
“That’s enough for now.”
I wanted answers.
Every cell in my body wanted answers.
But Emma had survived two surgeries.
She was exhausted.
And whatever truth she carried could wait.
Her life could not.
I kissed her forehead.
“You sleep, sweetheart.”
“Mommy?”
“Yes?”
“Can Grandpa still come to my birthday?”
I nearly broke.
Her fifth birthday was six weeks away.
Until that moment, Emma still believed her grandfather was someone who belonged at birthday parties.
I forced my voice to remain steady.
“We’ll talk about that later.”
She accepted the answer with the innocence only a four-year-old could possess.
Within minutes, she was asleep.
Detective Warren asked Marcus and me to step into the hallway.
The moment the door closed, Marcus exploded.
“You heard her.”
“I did.”
“She saw him.”
“Yes.”
“She saw both of them.”
“Yes.”
“He sabotaged that railing.”
“We have evidence consistent with that possibility.”
“Possibility?”
Marcus stepped closer.
“Stop saying possibility.”
“Marcus,” I whispered.
“No, Becca.”
He pointed through the glass.
“Our daughter is lying there because that man loosened a railing.”
Warren remained calm.
“I understand your anger.”
“No, you don’t.”
“You’re right.”
That stopped Marcus.
Warren continued.
“I don’t know what it feels like to hear your child say something like that. But I do know what happens when anger gives a defense attorney an opportunity to claim an investigation was rushed.”
Marcus said nothing.
“So we do this correctly,” Warren said. “We document everything. We corroborate Emma’s statement. We establish who was at your property, what they touched, why they were there, and what they intended.”
“And then?”
“Then we follow the evidence wherever it goes.”
Marcus slowly nodded.
I asked the question I was afraid to ask.
“What about the insurance policy?”
“We’re investigating it.”
“Was it active?”
Warren hesitated.
“Yes.”
My stomach dropped.
“Since when?”
“Approximately five months.”
“And my mother was the beneficiary?”
“Yes.”
“Could she actually have collected if Emma died?”
“That is one of the questions being reviewed with the insurer because the application appears to contain fraudulent information.”
Half a million dollars.
I looked through the glass at Emma.
Five months.
For five months, someone had maintained a $500,000 policy on my child without my knowledge.
“What did they say when you confronted them with it?”
“Your mother requested an attorney.”
“Of course she did.”
“Your father is still talking.”
Marcus looked at him sharply.
“What is he saying?”
Warren studied us.
“Your father claims the treehouse was never intended to hurt Emma.”
I laughed.
The sound came out ugly.
“That’s supposed to make me feel better?”
“He says your mother wanted him to create property damage.”
“What kind?”
“Initially, he claims she suggested damaging a water line.”
I stared at him.
“A water line?”
“Something expensive enough to frighten you financially.”
“Because I wouldn’t give them money?”
“That is his account.”
Marcus folded his arms.
“And somehow he ended up underneath my daughter’s treehouse with tools.”
Warren nodded.
“According to your father, he decided the railing would be easier.”
My knees weakened.
“Easier.”
“He claims he loosened it expecting an adult to notice before anyone used the structure.”
“That makes absolutely no sense.”
“I agree there are significant problems with his statement.”
“Did he know Emma played there every day?”
Warren didn’t answer.
He didn’t need to.
Of course my father knew.
Emma showed that treehouse to everyone who visited.
She had drawings taped inside.
Plastic teacups.
A stuffed rabbit named Captain Bun.
A little sign Marcus helped her paint:
EMMA’S CASTLE.
My father had sat inside that treehouse drinking imaginary tea with her.
And then he crawled underneath it with a wrench.
I covered my face.
Marcus pulled me against him.
For several minutes, we just stood there.
Then Warren’s phone buzzed.
He checked the screen.
His expression changed.
“What?”
He looked at me.
“We found the missing piece.”
“What missing piece?”
“The camera.”
I frowned.
“What camera?”
“Your father had a dash camera.”
My heart began pounding.
“He told investigators it hadn’t worked in months.”
“But?”
“It works.”
Marcus stepped forward.
“What’s on it?”
“We’re reviewing the footage now.”
“When can we see it?”
“Not yet.”
“Detective—”
“Marcus, give us time.”
Warren left.
Three hours later, everything changed again.
Emma slept while Marcus and I sat beside her.
Josh had gone home to collect clothes.
I was staring at the monitor when someone knocked gently.
Detective Warren.
Behind him stood another detective carrying a laptop.
“Can we talk?”
We stepped into a consultation room.
Warren placed the laptop on the table.
“We recovered video from your father’s dash camera.”
My hands became cold.
“Does it show our house?”
“Yes.”
He opened a video.
Timestamp:
THURSDAY — 2:34 P.M.
A suburban street appeared.
Our street.
My father’s car slowed.
Then stopped.
The camera faced forward, so our house sat near the edge of the frame.
The audio was clearer than the image.
My father’s voice came first.
“This is stupid.”
Then my mother.
“You said you’d handle it.”
“I said I would scare her.”
“Then scare her.”
“She has a child here.”
“So?”
Marcus’s hand tightened around mine.
My father said, “If Rebecca finds out we came here—”
“She won’t.”
“How do you know?”
“Because she still thinks we’re her parents.”
My stomach turned.
The video continued.
A car door opened.
My father disappeared.
My mother stayed inside.
For almost eleven minutes, nothing happened.
Then my father returned.
He climbed into the car.
“You went too far,” my mother said.
“I barely loosened them.”
Them.
Not it.
Them.
Multiple fasteners.
“You were supposed to make it expensive,” my mother snapped.
“It will be.”
“What if Marcus fixes it?”
“Then we find something else.”
My mother sighed.
Then came the sentence that made my skin crawl.
“We don’t have time for something else.”
My father asked, “Why?”
She didn’t answer.
He asked again.
“Why are you suddenly desperate for Rebecca’s money?”
My mother said, “Drive.”
The footage ended.
Marcus stared at the black screen.
“What did she mean?”
“We wondered the same thing,” Warren said.
“And?”
“We searched your parents’ financial records after obtaining the appropriate authorization.”
My heart sank.
“They’re broke?”
“Worse.”
He slid a document toward me.
My parents had accumulated hundreds of thousands of dollars in debt.
Credit cards.
Loans.
A second mortgage.
Tax liabilities.
But one number stood above the rest.
$312,000.
“What is that?”
Warren answered.
“Money transferred into an investment account controlled by your sister’s husband.”
“Charlotte’s husband?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“We’re investigating.”
I shook my head.
“Charlotte told me they were doing well.”
“They weren’t.”
Apparently my parents had been funding Charlotte and her husband for years.
The beautiful house.
The private preschool.
The vacations.
The expensive birthday parties.
The lifestyle Charlotte constantly displayed online.
Much of it wasn’t Charlotte’s money.
It was my parents’.
And increasingly, my parents’ money had actually been borrowed money.
“Why didn’t they just tell me?”
Marcus looked at me.
I immediately realized how ridiculous the question sounded.
Because they had told me.
Not the truth.
But the solution.
Pay.
Pay Charlotte’s expenses.
Pay Madison’s party.
Pay Dad’s emergency.
Pay Mom’s bill.
Pay.
Pay.
Pay.
I had spent years helping keep a collapsing illusion alive.
Then Warren slid another document toward me.
“This is where the insurance becomes important.”
My hands trembled.
The $500,000 policy.
“The first premium payment was made from your mother’s account.”
“And the others?”
“Three from hers.”
He paused.
“Then two from an account belonging to Charlotte.”
I stared at him.
“Charlotte knew?”
“We believe she knew the policy existed.”
The room went silent.
My sister.
My own sister had helped pay premiums on a secret life insurance policy covering my daughter.
“No.”
I shook my head.
“No, Charlotte is selfish. She’s cruel. But this?”
Warren didn’t argue.
He simply turned the laptop toward us again.
“We recovered deleted messages.”
I didn’t want to read them.
But I did.
Mom:
The policy is handled.
Charlotte:
Are you sure Rebecca won’t find out?
Mom:
She never reads paperwork.
Charlotte:
And if nothing happens?
Mom:
Then nothing happens.
Charlotte:
We can’t keep paying this.
Mom:
Just trust me.
My fingers went numb.
Marcus whispered, “Jesus.”
Another exchange.
Two weeks before Emma fell.
Charlotte:
How much longer?
Mom:
Not long.
Charlotte:
Dad is getting nervous.
Mom:
Dad always gets nervous.
Charlotte:
I don’t want anyone actually hurt.
Mom:
Then stop asking questions.
I stood.
I couldn’t sit anymore.
I walked to the corner.
Pressed my palms against the wall.
My family.
My mother.
My father.
My sister.
People whose photographs were in our home.
People Emma hugged.
People I had defended to Marcus again and again.
“You knew they used me,” I whispered.
Marcus didn’t answer.
I turned.
“You knew.”
He looked devastated.
“I knew they took advantage of you.”
“Why didn’t you stop me?”
“I tried.”
He was right.
God, he was right.
He had tried.
When my father asked for $5,000.
When Charlotte needed tuition.
When my mother demanded we cancel a vacation because Charlotte needed help.
Marcus always said the same thing.
Becca, they only call when they need something.
And I always defended them.
They’re my family.
Now my daughter was in an ICU because I had spent years teaching my parents that no matter what they did, eventually I would give in.
The guilt hit me so hard I could barely stand.
“This is my fault.”
Marcus was beside me immediately.
“No.”
“I kept letting them back.”
“No.”
“I gave Mom the key.”
“Becca.”
“I told them about the payout.”
“Stop.”
“If I had cut them off years ago—”
Marcus grabbed my shoulders.
“Look at me.”
I did.
“They made these choices.”
Tears streamed down my face.
“They did this. Not you.”
“But Emma—”
“Emma needs her mother.”
He touched my face.
“Not your guilt.”
Something about those words broke through.
Emma needs her mother.
Not your guilt.
I wiped my face.
Then looked at Warren.
“What happens now?”
“Your father has been arrested.”
I swallowed.
“And my mother?”
“Her attorney is with her.”
“Charlotte?”
“We’re speaking with prosecutors regarding her involvement.”
I nodded.
I expected satisfaction.
There was none.
Only exhaustion.
Then Warren said, “There’s one more issue.”
Of course there was.
“What?”
“Your father wants to speak with you.”
“No.”
My answer was immediate.
“He specifically requested you.”
“No.”
“He says he has information about your mother.”
“I don’t care.”
“He says the insurance policy was not her original plan.”
That stopped me.
“What does that mean?”
“He refused to elaborate.”
Marcus shook his head.
“No. Absolutely not.”
I agreed.
For almost ten minutes.
Then my phone buzzed.
A message from an unknown number.
I opened it.
One photograph.
My parents.
Charlotte.
Charlotte’s husband.
All sitting around my parents’ dining table.
The timestamp showed it had been taken seven months earlier.
In the middle of the table was paperwork.
Insurance paperwork.
Underneath the photograph was a message:
ASK YOUR FATHER WHO TOOK THIS.
I showed Warren.
His face changed immediately.
“Do not respond.”
“Who sent it?”
“We’ll find out.”
Another message arrived.
YOU STILL THINK THIS STARTED WITH EMMA?
My skin went cold.
Marcus took the phone.
A third message appeared.
ASK WHAT HAPPENED TO YOUR BROTHER.
I stared at it.
My brother.
Daniel.
A name we almost never said.
Daniel had died when I was thirteen.
My parents told everyone it was an accident.
He was seventeen.
He fell from the roof of an abandoned warehouse.
At least, that was the story.
My mother refused to discuss him afterward.
No photographs in the living room.
No birthday memorials.
Nothing.
It was as though Daniel had been erased.
I looked at Detective Warren.
“My brother died in a fall.”
His expression sharpened.
“When?”
“Twenty-one years ago.”
“How?”
“From a roof.”
Marcus stared at me.
“You never told me that.”
“I told you he died.”
“Not how.”
I suddenly remembered something I hadn’t thought about since childhood.
After Daniel died, my parents renovated the kitchen.
New cabinets.
New appliances.
New floors.
I had never wondered where the money came from.
I was thirteen.
Why would I?
My phone buzzed again.
This time there were only six words.
YOUR MOTHER HAS DONE THIS BEFORE.
My knees almost buckled.
Warren took the phone.
“Whoever is sending these knows details about your family.”
“Could it be Charlotte?”
“Possibly.”
“Then call her.”
“We will.”
But I was already thinking about Daniel.
My big brother.
The boy who taught me to ride a bicycle.
Who sneaked cookies into my room.
Who told me scary stories and then slept on the floor beside my bed because I became too frightened.
Daniel had been seventeen when he died.
I remembered the funeral.
My father staring at the ground.
My mother not crying.
I remembered asking why Daniel climbed onto the warehouse roof.
My mother said:
Boys do stupid things.
I had accepted that explanation for twenty-one years.
Now I couldn’t.
“Detective.”
“Yes?”
“Was there insurance on Daniel?”
“We don’t know.”
“Find out.”
He nodded.
“And I want to speak to my father.”
Marcus turned.
“Becca.”
“I need to know.”
“You don’t owe him anything.”
“This isn’t for him.”
I looked through the window toward Emma’s room.
“This is for her.”
Two hours later, they arranged a monitored video call.
My father appeared on the screen wearing county-issued clothing.
He looked twenty years older.
For once, he didn’t look powerful.
He looked small.
“Rebecca.”
I said nothing.
“Is Emma alive?”
My hands curled into fists.
“You don’t get to ask that.”
His face crumpled.
“I never meant for her to get hurt.”
“Then why did you touch her treehouse?”
“Your mother said—”
“No.”
I leaned toward the camera.
“Don’t hide behind Mom.”
He looked down.
“You took the tools.”
“Yes.”
“You came to my house.”
“Yes.”
“You loosened the railing.”
His eyes closed.
“Yes.”
My breath caught even though I already knew.
Marcus stood behind me, silent.
“Why?”
“Your mother wanted you frightened.”
“Why?”
“Money.”
“Why did she need it that badly?”
My father stared at the table.
“Dad.”
He flinched.
Maybe because I hadn’t called him that since Emma fell.
“What happened to all your money?”
“Bad investments.”
“Charlotte’s husband?”
He nodded.
“How much?”
“Everything.”
I swallowed.
“And the insurance?”
His face changed.
“I didn’t know about that at first.”
“When did you find out?”
“Two months ago.”
“And you did nothing?”
“I told her to cancel it.”
“But she didn’t.”
“No.”
“Why was Charlotte paying premiums?”
He looked away.
“Dad.”
“I don’t know.”
“You’re lying.”
“Rebecca—”
“You have destroyed enough of my life with lies.”
His eyes filled with tears.
I felt nothing.
“Tell me about Daniel.”
Every bit of color disappeared from his face.
Even Marcus noticed.
My father stared at me.
“Who told you?”
“That isn’t an answer.”
“Rebecca, leave Daniel alone.”
“Was there life insurance on him?”
Silence.
“Dad.”
His mouth opened.
Nothing came out.
“Was there insurance on Daniel?”
Finally:
“Yes.”
My stomach dropped.
“How much?”
“In today’s money?”
“I don’t care. How much?”
“Seventy-five thousand dollars.”
I closed my eyes.
“Who was the beneficiary?”
“Your mother and me.”
“Did Daniel really fall?”
My father began crying.
Not politely.
Not quietly.
His shoulders shook.
I had seen my father cry only once before.
At Daniel’s funeral.
“What happened?”
“It wasn’t supposed to happen.”
My blood froze.
Those words.
Almost the same words he had used about Emma.
“What wasn’t supposed to happen?”
“Your mother had debts.”
“Twenty-one years ago?”
“Yes.”
“What kind?”
“She was gambling.”
I stared at him.
“Mom?”
“She stopped later. At least I thought she did.”
“What does that have to do with Daniel?”
My father covered his face.
“I can’t.”
“You can.”
“I can’t.”
“Then spend the rest of your life knowing you protected her twice.”
He lowered his hands.
His eyes were red.
“Daniel found out about the policy.”
I couldn’t breathe.
“What?”
“He found paperwork.”
“When?”
“A week before he died.”
“Then what happened?”
“He confronted your mother.”
My heart hammered.
“He threatened to tell you.”
“Tell me what?”
“That she had forged signatures.”
The room seemed to shrink.
“Just like Emma’s policy.”
My father nodded.
I felt sick.
“What happened at the warehouse?”
“I wasn’t there.”
“Who was?”
He couldn’t look at me.
“Dad.”
“Your mother.”
Marcus inhaled sharply behind me.
I gripped the edge of the table.
“What did she do?”
“I don’t know exactly.”
“Liar.”
“I SWEAR.”
He slammed both hands against the table.
A guard moved behind him.
My father lowered his voice.
“She came home alone.”
“What did she say?”
“That they argued.”
“And?”
“She said Daniel climbed onto the roof because he was angry.”
“And fell?”
My father started crying again.
“I believed her.”
“You believed what you wanted to believe.”
“Yes.”
The word barely escaped.
“Then the insurance paid?”
“Yes.”
“And you spent it?”
He nodded.
I felt something inside me turn to ice.
“You knew enough to suspect her.”
“Yes.”
“And twenty-one years later, when she asked you to frighten me for money, you went to my house and sabotaged my daughter’s treehouse.”
“I didn’t think Emma would—”
“STOP SAYING THAT.”
My voice echoed through the room.
“You loosened something a four-year-old climbs on.”
He lowered his head.
I stared at the man who had spent my childhood teaching me about responsibility.
“Did Mom kill Daniel?”
“I don’t know.”
“Look at me.”
He did.
“Do you believe she did?”
He stared into the camera for a long time.
Then whispered:
“Yes.”
My heart stopped.
Marcus put his hand on my shoulder.
I could barely feel it.
Then my father said something else.
“But Daniel left proof.”
I leaned forward.
“What proof?”
“A recording.”
“Where?”
“I never found it.”
“How do you know it exists?”
“Because Daniel told me.”
“When?”
“The morning he died.”
My pulse roared in my ears.
“What did he say?”
My father looked directly at me.
“He said, ‘If something happens to me, Becca gets the truth.’”
I stopped breathing.
Me.
I had been thirteen.
“What truth?”
“I don’t know.”
“Where is the recording?”
“I told you, I never found it.”
“Then why are you telling me now?”
“Because someone else did.”
I thought of the anonymous messages.
“Who?”
My father swallowed.
“Charlotte.”
My mouth fell open.
“What?”
“Charlotte found Daniel’s recording three months ago.”
Everything suddenly made terrible sense.
Charlotte’s panic.
Her payments toward the insurance policy.
The photograph.
The anonymous messages.
“What was on it?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did Charlotte listen to it?”
“Yes.”
“What did she say?”
“Nothing.”
“Then how do you know she found it?”
“Because she confronted your mother.”
“When?”
“The same week your mother took out the larger policy on Emma.”
The air left my lungs.
“Why would Mom insure Emma after Charlotte found evidence about Daniel?”
My father stared at me.
And then I understood.
Maybe the policy wasn’t only about money.
Maybe it was leverage.
Maybe Emma had become part of something my mother was trying desperately to keep buried.
“Where is Charlotte now?” I asked.
My father shook his head.
“I don’t know.”
The video call ended minutes later.
Detective Warren immediately tried contacting Charlotte.
No answer.
Officers went to her house.
Nobody was there.
Her husband claimed she had left that morning.
Her car remained in the garage.
Her purse was inside.
Her phone was turned off.
At 8:43 that night, Warren came back to the ICU.
“We can’t locate your sister.”
I looked at Marcus.
“Do you think Mom did something to her?”
“We don’t know.”
“Charlotte knows what happened to Daniel.”
“Possibly.”
“And now she’s missing.”
“Yes.”
My phone vibrated.
Unknown number.
Everyone froze.
I opened the message.
One audio file.
Nothing else.
Detective Warren immediately told me not to touch anything further.
He photographed the screen and had the file preserved.
Then, with investigators present, we played it.
Static filled the room.
A teenage boy’s voice followed.
My brother’s voice.
Twenty-one years disappeared in an instant.
I knew that voice.
I had almost forgotten it.
But the second I heard him, I was thirteen again.
Daniel sounded frightened.
“If you’re hearing this, something happened.”
My hands started shaking.
Marcus reached for me.
The recording continued.
“Mom doesn’t know I’m recording this.”
A door slammed somewhere in the background.
Then Daniel whispered:
“She took out insurance on me.”
I covered my mouth.
“She forged Dad’s name.”
A woman’s voice could faintly be heard in the distance.
My mother.
Daniel continued.
“And there’s something else.”
Static.
“I found papers for Becca too.”
My blood stopped.
For me?
“She has one on Becca.”
Marcus stared at me.
I couldn’t move.
Daniel whispered:
“If Mom finds out I know, I don’t know what she’ll do.”
Then my mother’s voice became louder.
“Daniel?”
He whispered quickly:
“Becca, if you ever hear this, don’t believe them.”
Footsteps.
Then the recording cut out.
I stared at the phone.
Nobody spoke.
Detective Warren finally asked:
“Who sent this?”
Before I could answer, another message appeared.
This time it contained an address.
An old storage facility forty minutes outside the city.
Underneath were four words:
DANIEL HID EVERYTHING HERE.
Then another message.
COME BEFORE SHE DOES.
Marcus shook his head immediately.
“We’re not going.”
Detective Warren agreed.
“You absolutely are not going.”
“Then send officers.”
“We will.”
Within minutes, police were moving toward the storage facility.
I stayed with Emma.
I wasn’t leaving her.
Not for my mother.
Not for Daniel’s secrets.
Not for anything.
At 10:31 p.m., Warren received a call.
He listened without speaking.
Then looked at me.
“What?”
“They found the unit.”
“And?”
“It contains boxes.”
“What kind of boxes?”
“Documents. Photographs. Old tapes.”
My heart raced.
“Daniel’s?”
“His name is written on several.”
Then Warren’s expression hardened.
“But the unit wasn’t empty when officers arrived.”
My stomach dropped.
“Who was there?”
He hesitated.
“Your sister.”
“Charlotte?”
“She’s alive.”
Relief rushed through me.
“Is she okay?”
“Physically, yes.”
“Then why didn’t she answer anyone?”
“She was hiding.”
“From Mom?”
Warren nodded.
“Charlotte says your mother discovered she had Daniel’s recording.”
My hands went cold.
“What else did Charlotte say?”
“That Daniel didn’t fall accidentally.”
I closed my eyes.
“And she has proof?”
“Yes.”
I looked through the glass at Emma.
“What kind of proof?”
Warren took a breath.
“Daniel recorded the argument on the roof.”
My entire body went rigid.
“He recorded his own death?”
“Possibly the moments leading up to it.”
I couldn’t speak.
Then Warren added:
“Charlotte also told us something about Emma’s fall.”
I looked at him.
“What?”
“She says your mother knew Emma was on the treehouse before the railing broke.”
My heart stopped.
“No.”
“Charlotte says she has a message proving it.”
I gripped Marcus’s hand.
“What does the message say?”
Warren looked directly at me.
“Your father texted your mother from outside your house.”
I waited.
“He wrote: Emma just climbed up. I’m going back to tighten it.”
I stopped breathing.
“And my mother?”
Warren’s jaw tightened.
“She replied before he could reach the yard.”
“What did she say?”
He turned his phone toward me.
There were four words on the screen.
Four words from my mother.
Four words sent while my daughter stood on a sabotaged treehouse.
DON’T TOUCH IT. LEAVE.
And suddenly, this wasn’t only about a terrible plan that had gone wrong.
My mother had known Emma was in danger.
My father had tried to go back.
And she had told him to leave my four-year-old daughter there.
But before I could process it, Warren’s phone rang again.
He answered.
His expression changed almost instantly.
“Where?”
He stood.
“When?”
Then he looked at me.
“What happened?” I asked.
Warren slowly lowered the phone.
“Your mother’s attorney just reported her missing.”
My stomach dropped.
“Missing?”
“She never arrived where she was supposed to meet him.”
“Where would she go?”
Nobody answered.
Then Marcus suddenly looked toward Emma’s room.
His face changed.
“Becca.”
I followed his eyes.
A woman wearing hospital scrubs was standing at the far end of the ICU corridor.
She wasn’t a nurse I recognized.
She looked at us.
Then turned away.
But not before I saw her face.
My blood turned to ice.
“Mom.”
The woman started running.
And as hospital security alarms erupted around us, I realized my mother hadn’t disappeared.
She had come back.
Back to the one person who could now tell the police exactly what she had seen.
Emma.
END OF PART 4
