We found Sophie the next morning.
Not because Michael told us where she lived.
He didn’t.
Instead, he sent one photograph.
A school.
A classroom.
A girl sitting beside the window.
She looked about Lily’s age.
Dark hair.
Brown eyes.
A small scar above her eyebrow.
And around her neck was a silver pendant.
The same symbol as Lily’s bracelet.
The triangle.
I stared at the photograph.
“She’s one of them.”
Lily nodded.
“We have to find her before they do.”
We went to the school.
The principal refused to give us information at first.
Then I showed him the photograph.
His expression changed.
“You know her?”
He nodded.
“Her name is Sophie Bennett.”
“Is she here?”
“She left twenty minutes ago.”
“Where did she go?”
He hesitated.
“Her grandmother picked her up.”
“What’s her grandmother’s name?”
He looked at the file.
“Claire Bennett.”
My stomach dropped.
“Claire?”
He nodded.
“Why?”
I didn’t answer.
Because there was only one Claire I knew.
And she had spent the last six months helping us.
We rushed outside.
Lily called Claire.
No answer.
Again.
Nothing.
Then my phone rang.
Unknown number.
I answered.
“Emily.”
It was Michael.
“You found Sophie.”
“Yes.”
“Then listen carefully.”
“What?”
“Her grandmother isn’t Claire.”
My blood ran cold.
“Who is she?”
Michael paused.
“The woman who killed your mother.”
I stopped walking.
“What?”
“Your mother didn’t die naturally.”
I couldn’t breathe.
“What are you saying?”
“She was murdered.”
“By whom?”
Michael answered:
“Rachel.”
My stomach turned.
“But Rachel was arrested.”
“She escaped.”
I looked at Lily.
She had heard enough.
“Where is Sophie?”
Michael gave me an address.
“An old church on Riverside.”
We drove there immediately.
The church was empty.
Except for Sophie.
She sat alone in the front pew.
Lily approached first.
“Hi.”
Sophie looked up.
“You’re Lily.”
“Yes.”
“My grandmother told me about you.”
Lily sat beside her.
“What did she tell you?”
“That you’re dangerous.”
Lily smiled.
“She’s wrong.”
Sophie looked at me.
“Are you Emily?”
“Yes.”
She reached into her pocket.
“My grandmother told me to give you this if you ever came.”
She handed me an envelope.
My name was written on it.
I opened it.
Inside was a photograph of two women.
My mother.
And Rachel.
Standing together.
On the back:
Rachel didn’t kill your mother.
I looked at Sophie.
“Who did?”
Sophie pointed toward the church doors.
A man stood there.
Michael.
But he wasn’t alone.
Beside him stood Claire.
And behind them…
Daniel.
Alive.
Again.
My heart stopped.
Sophie whispered:
“That’s my grandfather.”
I stared at Daniel.
“You were supposed to be in prison.”
He smiled.
“I was.”
“What happened?”
“Someone opened the door.”
“Who?”
Daniel looked at Claire.
“She did.”
I turned toward Claire.
She shook her head.
“No.”
Daniel laughed.
“You still don’t understand.”
He looked at Lily.
“Your mother has been working for me from the beginning.”
Lily stepped backward.
“Mom?”
Claire’s eyes filled with tears.
“Don’t listen to him.”
Daniel smiled.
“Then ask her.”
I looked at Claire.
“Is it true?”
She didn’t answer.
“Claire.”
Finally, she whispered:
“I had no choice.”
Daniel smiled.
“Exactly.”
Michael raised his weapon.
“Enough.”
Daniel turned toward him.
“You still think you’re the hero.”
Michael’s face hardened.
“You murdered my mother.”
“No.”
Daniel shook his head.
“Your mother is alive.”
Michael froze.
“What?”
Daniel smiled.
“She’s been living under another name for twenty years.”
Michael lowered his gun.
“Where?”
Daniel pointed toward Sophie.
“Ask her.”
Sophie began crying.
“My grandmother isn’t who she says she is.”
I looked at her.
“Then who is she?”
Sophie whispered:
“Rachel.”
Silence.
Again.
Another identity.
Another lie.
Another dead woman who wasn’t dead.
I looked at Lily.
She looked exhausted.
“Mom…”
I took her hand.
“Yes?”
“Will this ever end?”
I wanted to promise her.
But after everything we’d survived, I knew better.
So I told her the truth.
“I don’t know.”
Daniel smiled.
“Neither do I.”
Then the church doors slammed shut.
And every light went out.
A voice came from the darkness.
Not Daniel.
Not Claire.
Not Michael.
A woman’s voice.
Old.
Calm.
And terrifyingly familiar.
“Enough.”
The lights came back on.
An elderly woman stood at the altar.
I stared at her face.
I knew her.
From the photograph.
From my mother’s files.
From the original trust.
She smiled at me.
“My name is Margaret Carter.”
My mother’s name.
She looked at Lily.
“And I am your great-grandmother.”
I couldn’t speak.
Because she’d been declared dead thirty years ago.
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