Chapter 5 - The Woman Who Was Supposed to Be Dead
"Mom?"
Clara couldn't move.
Michael stared at her.
"Who is it?"
"My mother's voice."
He looked at the door.
"That's impossible."
Clara's hand trembled above the handle.
Her mother had been dead for ten years.
Clara knew that.
She had attended the funeral.
She had watched the coffin disappear beneath the earth.
She had lived through every anniversary.
Yet the voice outside sounded exactly the same.
"Clara," the woman said softly.
"Please open the door."
Michael stepped between Clara and the entrance.
"Don't."
The woman outside whispered:
"I don't have much time."
Clara looked at him.
"What if it's her?"
"It isn't."
"You don't know that."
"Your mother is dead."
The woman knocked again.
Then she said something only Clara's mother could have known.
"Your favorite childhood song was the one you used to sing when you were afraid of thunderstorms."
Clara's eyes filled with tears.
Michael's face changed.
The woman continued.
"You called it the blue song."
Clara remembered.
No one else knew that.
She opened the door.
A woman stood in the hallway.
Older.
Paler.
Her hair was gray.
But the eyes—
Clara stepped backward.
"Mom?"
The woman nodded.
"My name is Margaret."
Clara stared at her.
"That's my mother's name."
"I know."
"Who are you?"
The woman looked at Michael.
"Someone who tried to protect her."
Clara's voice shook.
"From David?"
"From everyone."
They brought the woman inside.
She explained that she wasn't Clara's mother.
She had been a nurse at the hospital where Margaret died.
She had known Margaret.
She had helped her hide evidence before she died.
"But why pretend to be her?"
"I needed you to listen."
Clara sat down.
"Tell me the truth."
The woman opened a folder.
Inside were copies of medical records.
"Your mother discovered a network of falsified medical documents."
Clara frowned.
"What network?"
"People were changing records to hide mistakes."
"Who?"
"I don't know everyone."
"But you know someone."
The woman nodded.
"Your mother's physician."
Clara's heart sank.
"Dr. Richard Hale?"
"Yes."
Michael looked at the documents.
"He's still practicing."
"Yes."
"How?"
"Because someone protected him."
Clara looked at the name.
"David?"
The woman shook her head.
"No."
Clara waited.
"The person who protected him was someone in your family."
Silence filled the room.
Clara thought of everyone.
Her father.
Her aunt.
Her cousins.
Then one name came to her.
"Uncle Robert."
The woman didn't answer.
That was answer enough.
Clara stood.
"Where is he?"
"I don't know."
Michael interrupted.
"Why would David know about this?"
"Because David discovered part of it."
"Then why did he lie?"
The woman looked at Clara.
"Because he was afraid."
"Of whom?"
The woman closed the folder.
"The person who has been watching you."
Clara's phone vibrated.
Unknown number.
She opened it.
A photograph.
Robert.
Standing outside the hospital.
Another photograph appeared.
David.
Then another.
Emily.
All three were connected.
Clara looked up.
"What is this?"
The woman whispered:
"Your husband didn't crash in Vancouver by accident."
Clara's stomach tightened.
"What do you mean?"
"He was meeting someone."
"Who?"
The woman looked at her.
"Your uncle."
Michael stared.
"Why?"
"Because Robert wanted the original evidence."
Clara's mind raced.
"David was supposed to give it to him?"
"No."
"Then what?"
The woman hesitated.
"David was supposed to destroy it."
Clara looked at the folder.
"What evidence?"
The woman opened the final page.
A hospital authorization form.
The signature was David's.
But beneath it was another signature.
Robert Whitmore.
Clara's blood ran cold.
"Both of them?"
The woman nodded.
"They were there the night your mother died."
Clara stepped backward.
Her phone vibrated again.
This time it was a message from David.
I know you're with her.
Clara's eyes widened.
Another message followed.
Don't trust the woman pretending to know your mother.
Then:
She's the reason your mother died.
Clara looked at the woman.
The woman slowly stood.
Her face had gone pale.
"David found us."
A sound came from the hallway.
Footsteps.
Approaching the room.
Michael moved toward the door.
The footsteps stopped.
Someone whispered outside:
"Clara."
She knew the voice.
It belonged to her uncle.
May you like
Robert.
And then the door handle began to turn—
