Chapter 4 - The Forty-Minute Lie
I found my father in the greenhouse.
He had always gone there when he was troubled.
My mother had loved roses, and after she died, he had built a glass-walled greenhouse at the back of the property.
For years, he had cared for every plant himself.
I used to think it was romantic.
Now I wondered if it was punishment.
He stood beside a row of white roses, holding a pair of pruning shears.
When he saw me, he set them down.
“Emily.”
“Were you in New York the night Mom died?”
His face went still.
I saw the answer before he said a word.
“Emily, please.”
I stepped closer.
“Were you?”
“No.”
It hurt more than I expected.
“Where were you?”
“In Connecticut.”
“Forty minutes from Lake Briar?”
He closed his eyes.
“Yes.”
I felt my throat tighten.
“Why did you lie?”
“Because I was ashamed.”
“Of what?”
He stared at the flowers.
“Of being too late.”
I shook my head.
“That's not enough.”
“I know.”
“Then tell me everything.”
He pulled a wooden chair toward me.
I didn't sit.
He remained standing.
“The morning your mother died, we fought.”
I remembered that morning.
Not the argument itself.
Only my mother's red eyes at breakfast.
She had made pancakes anyway.
She'd kissed my cheek and told me she loved me.
I had asked why she was sad.
She'd said grown-ups sometimes worried about things children didn't need to carry.
Now I was carrying all of them.
Dad spoke slowly.
“Sophia believed Charles Whitmore was moving money through an offshore company.”
“She also believed Margaret had discovered what he was doing and was helping him conceal it.”
“Mom confronted them?”
“Not directly.”
“She gathered documents.”
“Then she told me she wanted to go to the authorities.”
“Why didn't she?”
“She was waiting for Nathan Price.”
I frowned.
“The assistant controller.”
“Yes.”
“He had access to the original transaction records.”
Dad rubbed his forehead.
“I was afraid the Whitmores would retaliate.”
“So you told her to stop.”
“Yes.”
“And then?”
“She accused me of caring more about our business relationships than the truth.”
I looked at him.
“Was she right?”
His eyes filled.
“At the time, yes.”
I swallowed hard.
He continued.
“That evening, I drove to New Haven to meet an attorney who had agreed to advise us.”
“When Sophia called from the lake, I told her I was still in New York.”
“Why?”
“Because I didn't want her to know I'd gone behind her back.”
“What do you mean?”
“The attorney had advised me to negotiate with Charles.”
“To settle the financial dispute privately.”
I stared at him.
“You were trying to make a deal without Mom.”
“Yes.”
The honesty almost hurt more than another lie.
“Then you heard she was at the lake.”
“I did.”
“Did you go?”
Dad nodded.
“Immediately.”
I felt my heart beating against my ribs.
“When did you arrive?”
“After the emergency crews.”
“Did you see her?”
His face crumpled.
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because they'd already taken her from the water.”
I covered my mouth.
I had been twelve when I learned my mother was dead.
My father had come home near dawn.
He had sat beside my bed for a long time before waking me.
I remembered seeing mud on his shoes.
I remembered thinking it was strange.
Now I understood.
“Why didn't you tell the police where you'd been?”
“I did.”
I looked up.
“What?”
“I gave them a statement.”
He walked to a locked cabinet.
From the bottom drawer, he removed an old file.
Inside was a copy of a handwritten report.
He handed it to me.
I scanned the pages.
His name appeared three times.
The date matched the night of the accident.
“Then why does Daniel know?”
Dad frowned.
“What?”
“Daniel knew you weren't in New York.”
My father looked toward the house.
“That information was supposed to be in the investigative file.”
“Daniel told me to check the toll records.”
Dad's expression darkened.
“Which means someone gave him access to records that weren't publicly available.”
I stared at him.
“Margaret?”
“Possibly.”
“Then why didn't she use them years ago?”
Dad didn't answer immediately.
“Because she may not have needed to.”
I looked at the report again.
One line caught my attention.
Witness arrived approximately 11:42 p.m.
I frowned.
“Witness?”
Dad leaned closer.
A name appeared beneath the entry.
CLAIRE WHITMORE.
“Who is Claire?”
My father stared.
Then his face changed.
“That's impossible.”
“Why?”
“Claire was Margaret's daughter.”
I felt cold.
“The second child.”
Dad nodded.
“But Margaret told everyone Claire had died.”
I looked at the document.
“Then why is she listed as a witness?”
“I've never seen this version.”
His voice was shaking.
“The copy I received didn't include that entry.”
I stared at him.
“Someone changed the report?”
“Or gave me an incomplete copy.”
I looked at the signature beneath Claire's name.
There was no address.
No telephone number.
Only a short statement.
Heard shouting near boathouse. Observed vehicle leaving property before emergency personnel arrived.
I read it twice.
“Someone saw a car leave.”
“Yes.”
“Whose car?”
Dad shook his head.
“The report doesn't say.”
At that moment, Rebecca appeared in the greenhouse doorway.
“Thomas.”
We both turned.
She was holding her phone.
“We have a problem.”
My father straightened.
“What happened?”
“Someone tried to access the house's security system overnight.”
He frowned.
“Who?”
“We don't know yet.”
Rebecca looked at me.
“And someone has been contacting the staff at the hospital where Sophie was born.”
My stomach dropped.
“Why?”
“They asked whether Emily had any documented postpartum mental health concerns.”
I stared at her.
“Who asked?”
“A woman claiming to be an attorney for the Whitmore family.”
My father swore under his breath.
Rebecca continued.
“They also asked for copies of the baby's discharge records.”
I held Sophie tighter.
“Can they do that?”
“They can ask.”
“That doesn't mean the hospital can release private medical information.”
“But the pattern concerns me.”
I looked toward the house.
Margaret had tried to buy me off.
When that failed, she'd tried to frighten me.
Now she was searching for something she could use against me.
My father stepped closer.
“Emily, I need you to understand something.”
I looked at him.
“Margaret isn't just protecting money.”
“What is she protecting?”
He took a breath.
“Her family built its reputation on a lie.”
“And if the truth comes out, it won't just cost them the hotel.”
Rebecca's phone rang.
She glanced at the screen.
“It's our investigator.”
She answered.
“Go ahead.”
We watched her expression change.
“Are you certain?”
A pause.
“Where?”
Another pause.
“Send me everything.”
She ended the call.
My father waited.
Rebecca looked at me.
“Claire Whitmore is alive.”
I stopped breathing.
“Where is she?”
“She's been living under another name for almost twenty years.”
“What name?”
Rebecca hesitated.
Then she looked at my father.
“She's been calling herself Caroline Mercer.”
The name meant nothing to me.
May you like
Until Rebecca spoke again.
“And she's the woman who signed Sophie's hospital discharge papers as the attending nurse.”
