Chapter 5: The Woman in the Photograph
“Stop the car.””
Marcus immediately pulled onto the shoulder.
I stared at the photograph.
My mother was unmistakable.
Dark brown hair.
Green eyes.
The small silver pendant she wore every day.
She was smiling.
Beside her stood Charles Whitmore, nearly twenty years younger.
But it wasn't Charles that terrified me.
It was the baby.
I zoomed in.
A tiny face.
Dark hair.
Green eyes.
A white blanket wrapped around its body.
I looked at the date.
*June 18, 2004.*
My hands started shaking.
I was born in March 2002.
I had been two years old.
“Marcus.””
“Yes?””
“Do you know anything about my mother?””
“No.””
“Did my father ever mention the Whitmores?””
“Never.””
I called my father again.
Straight to voicemail.
I left a message.
“Dad, call me. Now.””
Then I called our family lawyer.
Frank Calloway answered after the fourth ring.
“Maya?””
“Where is my father?””
Silence.
“Frank.””
“I don't know.””
“That's not good enough.””
“I haven't heard from him since this afternoon.””
“Do you know Charles Whitmore?””
Another silence.
That was enough.
“You do.””
“Maya, this isn't a conversation we should have over the phone.””
“Then tell me where to meet you.””
“Don't.””
“Why?””
“Because if they're watching you—”
“Who is they?””
Frank lowered his voice.
“I'll call you from another number.””
The line went dead.
I looked at Marcus.
“Take me somewhere safe.””
He nodded.
We drove another twenty minutes.
Then my phone rang.
Unknown number.
I answered.
“Hello?””
A woman's voice said, “Maya.””
I froze.
I knew that voice.
Not personally.
From somewhere.
A memory.
A childhood memory.
“Who is this?””
“You need to stop looking.””
“Who are you?””
“You're asking the wrong questions.””
“Where is my father?””
“He's alive.””
My grip tightened around the phone.
“Where?””
“He made a mistake.””
“What mistake?””
“He thought he could bury the past.””
My voice trembled.
“What happened to my mother?””
The woman went silent.
Then she said,
“Your mother didn't die the way you were told.””
The call ended.
I stared at the phone.
Marcus asked, “What did she say?””
I looked at him.
“She said my mother didn't die the way I was told.””
Marcus's hands tightened around the steering wheel.
“Do you believe her?””
“I don't know.””
“But you suspect your father lied.””
I looked down at the photograph.
“No.””
I swallowed.
“I suspect someone wants me to believe he did.””
We reached the lake house at 3:17 a.m.
The property sat behind a long iron gate surrounded by bare trees.
Marcus entered the security code.
The gates opened.
The house was dark.
He pulled into the garage.
I stepped out.
“Wait here.””
He frowned.
“I'm coming with you.””
“No.””
“Ms. Bennett—”
“My grandfather built this place with six separate security systems. If someone is already inside, I need to know before they know I'm here.””
Marcus reluctantly stayed.
I entered through the side door.
The house smelled like cedar and dust.
Everything looked exactly as I remembered.
The piano.
The fireplace.
The faded photographs.
I walked into my grandfather's study.
Then stopped.
One drawer was open.
I hadn't opened it.
I moved closer.
Inside was a stack of documents.
At the top was an old medical record.
*Patient: Elise Bennett.*
My mother's name.
I opened it.
The date was two months before she supposedly died.
The diagnosis made my stomach turn.
She had not been dying.
She had been listed as a protected witness.
I read the next page.
*Relocation authorized.*
My mother's signature appeared at the bottom.
Then another document.
*Child: Female.*
My breath caught.
I kept reading.
*Biological mother: Elise Bennett.*
*Biological father: Alexander Bennett.*
I stared.
Of course.
I knew my parents were my parents.
But underneath that was another line.
*Second child: Male.*
My hands went cold.
A son.
My mother had another child.
I flipped the page.
The name had been blacked out.
Only one word remained visible.
*Whitmore.*
I dropped the document.
“No.””
A floorboard creaked behind me.
I spun around.
Nobody.
I grabbed my phone.
“Marcus?””
No answer.
“Marcus!””
Nothing.
I stepped into the hallway.
“Marcus?””
The garage door was open.
The Maybach was gone.
My heart began pounding.
I ran to the front window.
A black SUV was parked outside.
Its headlights were off.
Someone was standing beside it.
A man.
Tall.
Dark coat.
I couldn't see his face.
Then the front door unlocked.
I stumbled backward.
The handle slowly turned.
The door opened.
A woman stepped inside.
I knew her.
Not from memory.
From television.
From business magazines.
From every major financial newspaper in Chicago.
Victoria Whitmore.
Charles's older sister.
The Whitmore family's most powerful executive.
She closed the door behind her.
“Maya.””
I couldn't move.
“What are you doing here?””
She looked around the room.
“This was your grandfather's house.””
“How do you know?””
“Because I spent summers here.””
My blood ran cold.
“You knew my family?””
Victoria smiled sadly.
“Your mother was my best friend.””
I stared at her.
“You knew my mother?””
“Yes.””
“Then why didn't you tell me?””
“Because your father asked me not to.””
“Why?””
Victoria took a slow breath.
“Because your mother left a child behind.””
I stared at her.
“The boy.””
She nodded.
“Your brother.””
“Where is he?””
She looked directly into my eyes.
“You've already met him.””
I couldn't breathe.
“Who?””
Victoria stepped closer.
“The reason the Whitmore family has been watching you for eleven months.””
My mind raced through every person I'd met.
Every employee.
Every friend.
Every conversation.
Then one face appeared.
Ryan.
I shook my head.
“No.””
Victoria's expression didn't change.
“Ryan Whitmore is not your brother.””
I exhaled.
“Then who?””
She reached into her coat and pulled out a photograph.
She handed it to me.
It showed a little boy standing beside my mother.
On the back was a handwritten note.
*Daniel. June 18, 2004.*
I stared at the picture.
“Who is Daniel?””
Victoria's eyes filled with something close to grief.
“Your brother.””
“Where is he?””
She looked toward the window.
“He died.””
I couldn't speak.
“When?””
“Twelve years ago.””
“How?””
Victoria hesitated.
Then she said,
“Because someone wanted him gone.””
My phone buzzed.
A message.
From Ryan.
*Maya, don't trust Victoria.*
I looked up.
Victoria was watching me.
Then she smiled.
“Now you understand.””
“Understand what?””
“Your boyfriend isn't trying to save you.””
She took another photograph from her pocket.
This one showed Ryan standing beside Charles.
And between them was a document.
At the top, I could read the words:
*NORTHSTAR ACQUISITION AGREEMENT.*
May you like
Victoria whispered,
“Ryan was never supposed to fall in love with you.””
