Dad switched off the dining room light.
The house fell into darkness.
I stood beside the window, careful not to move the curtain.
The sedan remained at the curb.
Its engine was running.
“Who is that?” I whispered.
“I don't know.”
“You recognize the car.”
Dad didn't answer.
I turned toward him.
“You've seen it before.”
He nodded.
“When?”
“A few months ago.”
“Why didn't you tell me?”
“Because I wasn't sure.”
“Sure of what?”
“That someone was watching the house.”
My stomach tightened.
The sedan's headlights remained off.
A person sat behind the wheel.
I couldn't see the face.
Dad moved toward the hallway.
“Stay here.”
“No.”
“Rachel.”
“You've hidden enough.”
He stopped.
For once, he didn't argue.
We waited.
After several minutes, the sedan moved.
It drove slowly past the house, continued down the street, and disappeared around the corner.
Neither of us spoke.
Then Dad turned on one small lamp.
“You need to leave.”
“I need answers.”
“You'll get them.”
“You said that before.”
He looked at me.
“This time I mean it.”
I placed the list of names on the table.
“Who are Ella and Jonah?”
“I don't know.”
“Where are they?”
“I don't know.”
“Then let's find out.”
Dad looked frightened.
“Rachel, you don't understand.”
“Then explain.”
He sat down.
“Your grandfather kept records because he needed to remember what he'd done.”
I looked at the folders.
“What did he do?”
“He transferred properties through companies that didn't really operate.”
“Shell companies.”
“Yes.”
“And the children?”
He nodded.
“Their identities were used in some of the records.”
“Why?”
“To make certain transfers look legitimate.”
I stared at him.
“That doesn't make sense.”
“I know.”
“Then why would children be involved?”
“Because nobody questioned records attached to people who couldn't defend themselves.”
I felt sick.
“What happened to Ella and Jonah?”
Dad shook his head.
“That's what Evelyn was trying to discover.”
“And she disappeared.”
“Yes.”
“Did someone hurt her?”
“I don't know.”
“Did she leave the state?”
“I don't know.”
I slammed my hand against the table.
“Stop saying you don't know.”
He flinched.
“I am telling you the truth.”
“Then tell me what you do know.”
He looked at the list.
“I know that Evelyn believed the children were alive.”
I froze.
“What?”
“She wrote that in her last letter.”
“Why didn't you tell me?”
“Because I never wanted you involved.”
“I was already involved.”
Dad's eyes filled.
“I know.”
He reached into the box again.
This time he pulled out a small envelope.
“This was attached to the ledger.”
“You have the ledger?”
His expression changed.
“No.”
“Then what is that?”
“The key.”
He handed me a brass key.
A number was stamped into the metal.
17.
I stared at it.
The number felt familiar.
“Where does it go?”
“I don't know.”
“You've had it all this time?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Your grandfather told me never to use it.”
I turned the key over in my fingers.
A small tag was attached.
P.O. BOX 17.
My father's warning from years ago suddenly came back to me.
If you still own the Willow Creek house, do not sell it.
There is something your father left behind that was never meant for Daniel to find.
But that warning had been from another set of circumstances.
I looked at Dad.
“Does this connect to the post office?”
“Yes.”
“Which one?”
He gave me the town.
It was less than an hour away.
I looked at the clock.
“We're going tonight.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because if someone is watching the house, they may be watching the post office too.”
“Then we'll go separately.”
Dad shook his head.
“You don't understand how dangerous this is.”
I stared at him.
“You used to tell me I was strong.”
“You are.”
“Then trust me.”
He looked at me for a long moment.
Finally, he nodded.
We left through the back door.
The cold air hit my face.
We took Dad's old pickup instead of my car.
He drove slowly through the neighborhood, checking the mirrors every few seconds.
Neither of us spoke until we reached the highway.
Then Dad said, “There is something I should have told you before.”
“What?”
“The house wasn't the only property involved.”
I looked at him.
“What else?”
“There were three.”
I thought of the three names.
“Three properties?”
“Yes.”
“One for each child?”
“I don't know.”
“But the records show addresses.”
“Yes.”
“Do the other two still exist?”
“I believe so.”
“Who owns them?”
Dad tightened his grip on the steering wheel.
“I don't know.”
“You really don't?”
“I stopped looking years ago.”
“Why?”
“Because someone threatened me.”
I turned toward him.
“Who?”
“I never saw his face.”
“What did he say?”
Dad stared at the road.
“He told me to forget Evelyn.”
My throat tightened.
“When?”
“After she disappeared.”
“And you did?”
“I tried.”
“But you kept the records.”
“I couldn't destroy them.”
“Why?”
“Because they were the only proof she had ever existed.”
That answer changed something in me.
Dad wasn't innocent.
He had lied.
He had allowed Eric to exploit my identity.
He had kept secrets from me.
But perhaps some of his silence had been fear rather than cruelty.
That didn't excuse it.
It explained it.
We reached the town shortly before nine.
The post office was closed.
A row of old mailboxes stood beneath a fluorescent light.
Dad gave me the key.
“Box seventeen.”
I found it.
The key turned easily.
Inside was a small envelope.
My name was written across it.
Rachel Whitman.
I pulled it out.
Dad stepped closer.
“Don't open it here.”
“Why?”
“Because we don't know who sent it.”
I looked at the postmark.
It was recent.
Very recent.
Three days earlier.
My hands went cold.
“Dad.”
“What?”
“This was mailed three days ago.”
He stared at the envelope.
Then he whispered, “That's impossible.”
“Why?”
“Because this box hasn't been used in years.”
I looked at him.
“Then someone knew we would come here.”
Neither of us moved.
I opened the envelope.
Inside was a single sheet of paper.
Four words were written in black ink.
“YOU HAVE ONE SISTER.”
I stared at the sentence.
Dad took a step backward.
“What does it say?”
I handed him the paper.
He read it.
His face drained of color.
“You knew,” I said.
“No.”
“You knew something.”
“I didn't.”
“Dad.”
He looked at me.
“I swear.”
I pulled out the second item from the envelope.
A photograph.
A woman stood outside a hospital.
She was older than the woman in Evelyn's photograph.
But the resemblance was unmistakable.
She had my eyes.
My mother's chin.
My father's expression.
On the back was a name.
Ella Ellis.
I stared at it.
“She's alive.”
Dad said nothing.
I turned the photograph over again.
There was an address written beneath the name.
One of the addresses from the list.
The second property.
My heart began pounding.
Then my phone rang.
Unknown number.
I answered.
Nobody spoke.
I could hear breathing.
Then a woman's voice said one sentence.
“Rachel, your father lied about why Evelyn disappeared.”
The call ended.
I looked at Dad.
He was staring at me.
“What did she say?”
I held the phone tightly.
“She said you lied.”
He closed his eyes.
I expected another denial.
Instead, he whispered, “Yes.”
I stared at him.
“What did you lie about?”
He looked toward the dark parking lot.
“I knew where Evelyn went.”
The words left me speechless.
Dad took a slow breath.
“She didn't disappear.”
“Then where is she?”
He looked at the photograph of Ella.
“She ran.”
“From who?”
“Your grandfather.”
“And the children?”
Dad's eyes filled with tears.
“She took one of them.”
I looked at Ella's photograph.
“Which one?”
He didn't answer.
The fluorescent light above us flickered.
Then a car engine started somewhere behind the post office.
Dad grabbed my arm.
“We have to go.”
I pulled away.
“No.”
“Rachel.”
“You're going to tell me everything.”
He looked toward the sound.
The dark sedan rolled slowly into view.
This time, it stopped directly across from us.
The driver's window lowered.
A woman stepped out.
She looked at me.
Then she said my name.
“Mara.”
Click here to continue reading: PART 9: The Woman Called Me by a Name I Had Never Used, Then Looked at My Father as Though He Owed Her the Truth
One Cruel Joke at Dinner Exposed the Price My Family Had Been Quietly Expecting Me to Pay
Part 8 of 20
