Chapter 3 - The Missing Memory Card
Joyce lifted the memory card toward the glass and whispered, "Looking for this?"
My father stood beside her.
Neither of them looked surprised to find my hospital door locked.
That scared me more than anger would have.
Maria stepped away from the window.
"Do not open that door."
"I wasn't planning to."
Gabriel quietly closed his laptop.
"Did they see this?"
"I don't know."
He unplugged the damaged camera and slipped it into his backpack.
Another knock.
Harder.
My father's voice came through the door.
"Open it."
I stared at Joyce.
She held the tiny black memory card between two fingers.
She smiled.
The same almost invisible smile she'd given me while Alexander carried her out of the fire.
"How did she get that?" Gabriel whispered.
"That's what I intend to find out."
My father knocked again.
"This is ridiculous."
Maria walked toward the door but didn't unlock it.
"She's my patient."
"She's my daughter."
"Then you should have treated her like one."
His face hardened through the glass.
I almost smiled.
Nobody spoke to my father that way.
He had spent my entire childhood making sure of it.
I pushed myself higher against the pillows.
"Let them in."
Maria turned.
"Are you sure?"
"No."
That was the truth.
"But I need to hear what they say."
Gabriel moved toward the bathroom.
"I shouldn't be here."
"Stay."
"If they know we recovered footage—"
"They don't."
At least I hoped they didn't.
Gabriel placed his backpack behind the visitor chair.
Maria unlocked the door.
My father entered first.
Joyce followed.
She had changed clothes.
The white bridesmaid dress was gone.
Now she wore gray sweatpants, a cream sweater, and hospital slippers.
Her tiny hand bandage remained.
My father looked at Gabriel.
"Who are you?"
"My brother," Maria said immediately.
Gabriel nodded.
My father clearly didn't believe her, but Joyce didn't seem interested.
She was watching me.
I looked at her hand.
The memory card was gone.
"Where is it?"
Joyce blinked.
"Where's what?"
"The thing you were holding."
She looked at my father.
Then back at me.
"I wasn't holding anything."
There it was.
The performance.
Calm.
Simple.
Almost believable.
"I saw it."
"You've been given strong medication."
Maria stepped forward.
"Don't do that."
Joyce frowned.
"Excuse me?"
"Don't blame her medication when she tells you what she saw."
My father sighed.
"We didn't come here to argue with hospital staff."
"Why did you come?"
He looked at me.
"To fix this before you destroy what's left of this family."
I stared at him.
"My wedding burned down six hours ago."
"And Joyce says you're accusing her of setting the fire."
"I haven't accused her publicly of anything."
"You told Alexander."
"Alexander told you?"
My father hesitated.
Tiny mistake.
I noticed.
"Where is Alexander?" I asked.
"He went home."
"Which home?"
My father frowned.
"Your apartment."
"Our apartment."
"That's what I said."
"No. You didn't."
Joyce stepped closer.
"Can we stop fighting?"
I laughed.
It hurt my ribs.
"You're asking me to stop fighting?"
"I came because I'm worried about you."
"Show me your hand."
She froze.
"What?"
"The injured one."
Joyce looked down at her bandage.
"Why?"
"You nearly died, remember?"
Her face changed.
Only slightly.
My father intervened.
"Enough."
"She told everyone I pushed her into the fire. I want to see the injury."
"That's unnecessary."
"Why?"
Joyce suddenly pulled the bandage off.
A tiny red scratch crossed her palm.
That was it.
I looked at my father.
"Three broken ribs. Torn shoulder. Facial stitches. Burns. Smoke inhalation."
Then I pointed at Joyce.
"That is the woman you said I tried to murder."
His expression remained stone.
"Injuries don't determine intent."
"No. Evidence does."
Joyce's eyes flickered.
There.
That was what I wanted.
Fear.
I had mentioned evidence.
And Joyce reacted.
"What evidence?" she asked.
I smiled.
"I thought you weren't worried."
"I'm not."
"Then why ask?"
My father stepped between us.
"What have you found?"
Interesting.
Not what are you talking about.
What have you found.
I leaned back.
"You tell me."
He stared at me.
I remembered the photograph.
Ten years ago.
Alexander.
Joyce.
My father.
Before Alexander and I supposedly met by accident.
I wanted to throw the photograph in his face.
Instead, I said nothing.
Silence made guilty people nervous.
Joyce broke first.
"The police will get the security footage."
"I hope they do."
Her mouth tightened.
"The main cameras were damaged."
"That's unfortunate."
Another reaction.
Small.
But definite.
She knew about the cameras.
"How do you know?"
"What?"
"That the cameras were damaged."
"The fire destroyed half the building."
"I didn't say which cameras."
Joyce looked at my father.
He stepped forward.
"You're confused."
"No."
"You've had a traumatic night."
"I'm becoming less confused every minute."
He lowered his voice.
"Listen carefully. The fire investigators will ask questions tomorrow. You need to be very careful what you say."
"Is that advice?"
"Yes."
"Or a warning?"
His eyes hardened.
"Don't be dramatic."
"My husband left me under a burning steel rack while carrying your stepdaughter to safety. Then you made me kneel on fractured ribs and confess to something I didn't do. I think we've passed dramatic."
Joyce began crying.
Again.
My father immediately turned toward her.
And suddenly I saw it.
Not favoritism.
Something deeper.
Fear.
My father wasn't protecting Joyce because he loved her more.
He was afraid of what Joyce might say.
"Why were you with Alexander ten years ago?"
Everything stopped.
Joyce's tears vanished.
My father's face went completely blank.
Maria glanced at Gabriel.
"What are you talking about?" my father asked.
"You heard me."
"No."
"Ten years ago. Outside my college apartment."
Joyce took a step backward.
I saw it.
My father saw it too.
He turned toward her.
"What did you tell her?"
"I didn't tell her anything."
"Then how does she know?"
That was the first honest sentence either of them had spoken.
My father realized it immediately.
His face changed.
I whispered, "Thank you."
He looked at me.
"For what?"
"For confirming it."
My father turned toward the door.
"We're leaving."
"No."
Joyce followed him.
I pushed myself upright despite the pain.
"Dad."
He stopped.
"Alexander didn't meet me by accident, did he?"
He didn't turn around.
Joyce did.
And for one second, I saw hatred on her face.
Pure hatred.
Then she smiled.
"You always thought everything happened because you were special."
My father grabbed her arm.
"Joyce."
She pulled away.
"Why keep pretending?"
"Stop."
"She already knows."
"She knows nothing."
Joyce looked at me.
"Ask him why Alexander transferred colleges."
My chest tightened.
Alexander had transferred during sophomore year.
That was how we met.
At least, that was the story.
He spilled coffee on my economics textbook.
Bought me another one.
Asked me to dinner.
Ten years later, I married him.
"Why?" I whispered.
My father opened the door.
"Joyce, we're leaving."
She didn't move.
"Ask him who paid Alexander's tuition."
My father spun around.
"Enough!"
The monitor beside me accelerated.
I stared at him.
"You paid?"
He said nothing.
Joyce laughed softly.
"You really didn't know."
"Know what?"
My father grabbed Joyce.
This time hard.
She winced.
"You're hurting me."
"Then stop talking."
I had never seen fear like that in my father's eyes.
"Get out," Maria said.
My father released Joyce.
He looked at me one last time.
"Whatever you think you've discovered, leave it alone."
"Why?"
His voice dropped.
"Because the fire was supposed to end this."
My blood turned cold.
He realized what he'd said.
Everyone did.
My father walked out.
Joyce followed.
But at the doorway, she looked back.
Her hand slipped into her pocket.
The memory card.
She wanted me to see it.
Then she disappeared.
Maria locked the door again.
For several seconds, nobody spoke.
Gabriel finally said, "Your father knows about the fire."
"Yes."
"You should call the police."
"Not until we copy everything."
"Someone tried to kill you."
"And if my father is involved, I don't know who else is."
Gabriel retrieved his laptop.
"I saved three copies."
"Make another."
He nodded.
I opened the email with the old photograph again.
Alexander.
Joyce.
My father.
Ten years ago.
I zoomed in.
Something was different.
"Wait."
"What?" Maria asked.
I enlarged the image.
Alexander wasn't looking at the camera.
Neither was Joyce.
They were looking toward someone outside the frame.
I cropped the photograph.
Brightened it.
Nothing.
Then Gabriel leaned over.
"There's a reflection."
"Where?"
He pointed.
Behind my father was a parked car.
Its passenger window reflected part of the sidewalk.
A fourth person stood there.
A woman.
Only half her face was visible.
I knew her.
"Katrina."
My stepmother.
All four of them had been together before I met Alexander.
I felt sick.
My entire relationship suddenly looked manufactured.
College.
The coffee.
Our first date.
The apartment.
The proposal.
The wedding.
How much had been real?
My email chimed.
Another message.
This one came from my attorney.
CALL ME IMMEDIATELY.
I used Maria's phone.
My attorney, Rebecca Sloan, answered on the first ring.
"Thank God."
"What happened?"
"I've been trying to reach you."
"My phone burned."
"Are you safe?"
"For the moment."
A pause.
"Don't tell anyone I'm speaking to you."
My stomach tightened.
"Why?"
"Someone accessed your company records tonight."
"Alexander?"
"I don't know."
"What did they do?"
"They attempted to finalize the trust transfer."
"But I didn't authorize it."
"I know."
"Stop it."
"I already froze the transaction."
I closed my eyes.
"Rebecca, who created the trust?"
Silence.
"Rebecca?"
"Your father contacted my office six weeks ago."
My hand tightened around the phone.
"Why?"
"He said you wanted estate planning completed before the wedding."
"I never told him that."
"I know that now."
"Who are the beneficiaries?"
"Alexander is trustee."
"And Joyce?"
"Joyce Harper is listed as secondary beneficiary."
My stomach dropped.
"So if I died—"
"Alexander would control the company."
"And eventually Joyce could inherit it."
"Yes."
I stared at the hospital ceiling.
Ten years.
They had been waiting ten years?
That made no sense.
Why spend a decade stealing something I hadn't owned when Alexander met me?
My business hadn't existed then.
I was a college student with twelve hundred dollars in savings.
"Rebecca."
"Yes?"
"What did I have ten years ago that anyone would want?"
Another silence.
Longer this time.
"Your mother."
I stopped breathing.
"My mother died when I was sixteen."
"That's what your father told you."
The room seemed to tilt.
"What does that mean?"
"I shouldn't do this over the phone."
"Do what?"
"Tell you why your father was paying Alexander before you met him."
My pulse hammered.
"You knew?"
"I found the payments while reviewing the trust documents."
"How much?"
"Initially? Tuition. Later, monthly transfers."
"For ten years?"
"Almost."
I couldn't speak.
Alexander had been taking money from my father throughout our relationship.
Rebecca continued.
"There's more."
"Of course there is."
"Your company isn't what they're after."
I closed my eyes.
"Then what?"
"The company was supposed to make the transaction look legitimate."
"What transaction?"
"An inheritance."
I opened my eyes.
"I don't have an inheritance."
"Yes, you do."
"No."
"It's held under your mother's maiden name."
My throat tightened.
"How much?"
Rebecca gave me the number.
For several seconds, I genuinely thought I had misunderstood.
"Say that again."
She did.
Thirty-eight million dollars.
My father had told me my mother left debts.
Instead, she'd left a fortune.
And apparently everyone except me knew.
"Why couldn't my father take it?"
"Because of the trust conditions."
"What conditions?"
"You gain full control after your first marriage."
My wedding.
Yesterday.
The timing wasn't coincidence.
The marriage activated the inheritance.
Then my death would transfer control according to the documents they'd slipped among my wedding papers.
"Rebecca, send me everything."
"I already did."
My email refreshed.
Documents appeared.
Trust agreements.
Bank records.
Payments.
Then one PDF caught my attention.
ORIGINAL BENEFICIARY INSTRUCTIONS.
I opened it.
My mother's signature appeared at the bottom.
Above it was a handwritten note.
IF MY DAUGHTER IS EVER TOLD I DIED, DO NOT TRUST HER FATHER.
My hands started shaking.
Maria whispered, "What?"
"My mother knew."
Another email arrived.
Unknown sender again.
One attachment.
A video.
The thumbnail showed a woman sitting in a dark room.
I couldn't see her face clearly.
I pressed play.
Static.
Then the woman leaned toward the camera.
Older.
Blonde hair streaked with gray.
Green eyes.
My eyes.
She spoke my name.
Not the nickname everyone used.
My full childhood name.
The name only one person had ever called me.
I dropped the phone.
Maria caught it before it hit the floor.
"What is it?"
I couldn't answer.
The video continued.
The woman looked directly into the camera.
"If you're watching this, your father finally tried to collect what he thinks belongs to him."
My heart stopped.
Then she said the words that shattered everything I had believed for seventeen years.
"My daughter, I am alive."
A sound came from the hallway.
Gabriel looked toward the door.
Someone was inserting a key into the lock.
Maria whispered, "Nobody should have that key."
The lock clicked.
May you like
The door slowly opened.
And someone who had been declared dead seventeen years ago stepped inside.
