Chapter 11 - The Daughter Nobody Mentioned
I had grown up in a house filled with photographs.
My parents' wedding.
My first bicycle.
School graduations.
Family vacations.
My father's awards.
Every important moment had been framed, polished, and displayed.
There had never been a photograph of a girl named Emily.
Whitcomb sat across from me, looking as though he regretted every word.
"Tell me," I said.
He hesitated.
"Grant, this isn't the time."
"My wife is missing. My father is alive after we buried him. My company is being investigated for fraud."
I leaned forward.
"Tell me about my sister."
Whitcomb folded his hands.
"Emily was born three years before you."
I stared.
"She was your parents' first child."
"Where is she?"
He looked down.
"She disappeared when she was seven."
My stomach tightened.
"What?"
"Your father told the family she had died."
"How?"
"He claimed there had been an accident."
"What accident?"
Whitcomb didn't answer immediately.
Then he said, "A fire."
I felt cold.
"Was there a body?"
"No."
I stared at him.
"Then why did everyone believe she was dead?"
"Because your father controlled the information."
I shook my head.
"Why would he do that?"
Whitcomb's expression darkened.
"Because Emily witnessed something."
"What?"
"A meeting between your father and Richard Vale."
I stared.
"She was seven."
"Yes."
"What could she possibly have understood?"
"Enough to tell your mother that a man had been hurt."
The room went silent.
Whitcomb continued.
"Your father and Richard were involved in a dispute over an investment property. A business associate disappeared shortly afterward."
I swallowed.
"Who?"
"A man named Samuel Brooks."
I had heard the name.
My father once mentioned him as a former partner who had stolen money and fled the country.
"Did Richard kill him?"
"We don't know."
"What happened to Emily?"
Whitcomb looked toward Sloan.
"Your mother believed someone took her."
My heart pounded.
"Richard?"
"Possibly."
I leaned back.
For years, my father had told me that my mother was emotionally fragile.
That she worried too much.
That she imagined threats where none existed.
I had believed him.
Now I wondered how much of my childhood had been built on lies.
"Did my mother ever find her?"
"No."
"Did she keep looking?"
"Until the day she died."
I covered my face.
Whitcomb's voice softened.
"She never stopped believing Emily was alive."
I thought of Corinne.
Searching for answers while caring for our newborn son.
I thought of my mother.
Searching for a missing daughter while living with a husband she no longer trusted.
Two women.
Two generations.
Both trapped by the same men.
And I had spent my life defending those men.
Sloan interrupted gently.
"Mr. Whitcomb, did Corinne know about Emily?"
He nodded.
"Yes."
I looked up.
"What?"
"She discovered the old records while reviewing your mother's estate."
"Why didn't she tell me?"
"She intended to."
"When?"
"After she confirmed what happened."
I stared at him.
"Did she find Emily?"
Whitcomb hesitated.
Then he said, "She found someone who may be Emily."
My heart hammered.
"Who?"
"A woman living in North Carolina."
"What's her name?"
"Sarah Bennett."
I repeated it silently.
Sarah Bennett.
My sister.
Possibly alive.
Possibly living under another name.
Whitcomb continued.
"Corinne contacted her."
"When?"
"About two months ago."
"What happened?"
"They met."
I leaned forward.
"And?"
"Sarah agreed to undergo DNA testing."
I could barely breathe.
"Did they get the results?"
Whitcomb nodded.
"Yes."
I stared at him.
"Was she Emily?"
He looked at me.
"Yes."
The room seemed to stop.
My sister was alive.
For decades, I had believed I was an only child.
Now I had a sister.
A woman who had been taken from our family.
A woman my mother had spent the rest of her life searching for.
"Where is she?"
Whitcomb's expression changed.
"That's the problem."
"What?"
"Sarah disappeared three days ago."
I stared.
"Disappeared?"
"She left work and never came home."
Sloan immediately reached for her phone.
Whitcomb looked at me.
"Grant, Corinne believed Sarah knew something about Richard Vale."
"What?"
"Something from the night she was taken."
I swallowed.
"Did she remember?"
"Only fragments."
"What fragments?"
Whitcomb hesitated.
Then he said, "A basement. A locked room. A man with a silver watch."
My stomach tightened.
Richard always wore a silver watch.
An antique Patek Philippe.
He never took it off.
Whitcomb continued.
"And one other thing."
"What?"
"Sarah remembered a woman crying."
I stared.
"Who?"
"She didn't know."
Whitcomb's voice dropped.
"But she remembered the woman saying one sentence."
I waited.
"'Please don't hurt my children.'"
My hands began shaking.
My mother.
It had to be my mother.
Then Sloan's phone rang.
She answered.
Her expression changed.
"Where?"
She listened.
Then stood.
"We've located Sarah Bennett."
I jumped up.
"Is she alive?"
Sloan looked at me.
"Yes."
Relief flooded through me.
Then she continued.
"She's in protective custody."
I stared.
"Where?"
"At a federal facility."
"Why?"
"Because she came forward voluntarily."
I frowned.
"What did she tell you?"
Sloan hesitated.
Then she said, "She claims Richard Vale isn't the person who ordered Corinne's abduction."
I felt a chill.
"Then who did?"
May you like
Sloan looked directly at me.
"Your father."
