Chapter 2 - The Letter I Never Wrote
I stood perfectly still.
Another knock.
“Daniel?”
Emily.
From downstairs.
But the voice that had answered her had come from somewhere behind me.
Or had I imagined it?
I turned.
The hallway outside the study was dark.
“Hello?”
Nothing.
I grabbed my phone and switched on the flashlight.
The upstairs landing was empty.
“Daniel!”
“I’m coming!”
I hurried downstairs and opened the door.
Emily stood on the porch wearing jeans, boots, and a dark jacket instead of her uniform.
Her hair was loose.
For one stupid second, I forgot why I was terrified.
Then she saw my face.
“What happened?”
“Come inside.”
She hesitated.
“You asked for answers,” I said.
“I said I was deciding whether I wanted them.”
“Well, I think they just found us.”
That got her inside.
I locked the door.
Emily noticed.
“Someone here?”
“I don’t know.”
“That’s not reassuring.”
“I heard someone.”
“Where?”
“Upstairs.”
Her entire demeanor changed.
Cop.
Focused.
Controlled.
“Stay here.”
She reached beneath her jacket.
“Are you carrying?”
“I’m a police officer, Daniel.”
“Right.”
She moved toward the staircase.
I followed.
She looked back.
“I said stay.”
“You didn’t actually.”
She gave me the exact annoyed stare she used in high school.
“Some things really don’t change.”
We searched every room.
No one.
The attic door was locked.
The windows were closed.
Back downstairs, Emily checked the kitchen door.
Unlocked.
“You leave this open?”
“No.”
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
She frowned.
“Could someone have a key?”
“My aunt Margaret.”
Emily looked at me.
“Margaret still lives here?”
“Two streets over.”
Her expression became unreadable.
“You remember her?”
“Everyone remembers Margaret Harper.”
That was true.
My mother’s younger sister had been one of Millbrook’s most prominent residents for years.
Church committees.
School board.
Charity events.
The kind of woman who remembered birthdays and quietly judged what people wore to funerals.
She had practically helped raise me after my father died.
“She handled Mom’s funeral arrangements,” I said.
Emily nodded slowly.
“Of course she did.”
Something in her tone bothered me.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You keep saying that.”
“Because not every thought needs to become a conversation.”
“That didn’t used to be your philosophy.”
“Twelve years happened.”
I swallowed.
“Yeah.”
The silence became heavier.
Then I remembered the letter.
“Come here.”
I led Emily into the study.
The envelope was still beneath the lamp.
She picked it up.
Her fingers began shaking before she read a word.
“That isn’t my handwriting.”
“You're sure?”
She shot me a look.
“Daniel.”
“Sorry.”
“I know my handwriting.”
She unfolded the letter.
I watched her read the sentences that had changed my life.
Her mouth tightened.
When she finished, she read it again.
Then again.
Finally she placed it on the desk.
“I never wrote this.”
“I believe you.”
She looked at me sharply.
“You do?”
“Yes.”
That answer seemed to hurt her more than suspicion would have.
“After twelve years?”
“I didn’t have you standing in front of me twelve years ago.”
She looked away.
I showed her the pencil shading.
Emily leaned closer.
“…cannot let Daniel find out,” she read.
Then:
“…Emily leaves tomorrow.”
She stared at the words.
“You said that handwriting is your mother’s?”
“Yes.”
“Why would your mother…”
“I don’t know.”
Emily sat down.
I had never seen her look that lost.
“What happened after graduation?” I asked.
She shook her head.
“You first.”
“I already told you.”
“No. Everything.”
So I did.
Graduation ceremony.
Dinner with my mother and Margaret.
Driving home.
Calling Emily twice that night.
No answer.
Calling the next morning.
No answer.
Going to her house two days later.
Her mother telling me Emily wasn’t home.
Then the letter appearing on my porch.
“My mother told you I wasn’t home?”
“Yes.”
“What day?”
“Monday.”
Emily’s face hardened.
“I was upstairs.”
I stared at her.
“What?”
“I was in my bedroom.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“She said you were staying with your cousin.”
“I didn’t have a cousin nearby.”
“I know.”
“She refused to let me leave my room.”
My mouth went dry.
“Why?”
Emily stood.
“Because Saturday night, the night after graduation, my mother told me you came to our house.”
“I didn’t.”
“She said you were drunk.”
“I wasn’t.”
“She said you told her Boston would be easier without a hometown girlfriend.”
I stood too.
“What?”
“She said you laughed when she asked what she should tell me.”
“Emily, none of that happened.”
“I know that now.”
Her voice cracked.
She hated that.
I remembered.
Whenever Emily felt close to crying, she got angry.
“She said you left something.”
“What?”
“My necklace.”
I instinctively touched my chest.
Of course nothing was there.
I had bought Emily a silver heart necklace for our first anniversary.
She wore it every day.
Until graduation.
“You had it that night,” I said.
“Yes.”
“How could I have returned it?”
Emily's eyes met mine.
“Because it disappeared from my room while I was asleep.”
The room seemed to tilt.
“What?”
“I woke up Sunday and it was gone. Mom showed it to me at breakfast. Said you had brought it back.”
“That’s impossible.”
“Yes.”
“Who could have taken it?”
“My mother.”
The answer came instantly.
Emily sat again.
“For years, I thought she took it because you gave it to her.”
“Why would she do this?”
“You think my mother liked you?”
“She was polite.”
Emily almost smiled.
“You really were clueless.”
“She hated me?”
“She hated what you represented.”
“And that was?”
“Leaving.”
I remembered Mrs. Carter.
Perfect hair.
Perfect house.
Perfect smile.
She had always been friendly.
But Emily had told me repeatedly that her mother expected her to stay in Millbrook after graduation.
Work locally.
Eventually marry someone respectable.
Someone established.
Not an eighteen-year-old scholarship kid with dreams of Boston.
“Your mother wanted you here.”
“She wanted control.”
“What happened after she gave you the necklace?”
“I tried to see you.”
“I never saw you.”
“I know.”
“How?”
“Every time I left the house, she stopped me. Said I was hysterical. Said I needed time.”
“You were eighteen.”
“She threatened to report my car stolen.”
“Jesus.”
“I called you.”
“I got nothing.”
“Your number disconnected Tuesday.”
My heart stopped.
“No, it didn’t.”
“Yes.”
“I kept the same number through college.”
Emily pulled out her phone.
“Do you remember it?”
I recited the number.
Her expression changed.
“That isn’t the number I had.”
“What?”
She opened an old cloud contact backup.
I watched her scroll.
There.
Daniel.
A phone number.
One digit different.
“That was never my number.”
Emily stared.
“Someone changed your contact in my phone.”
“Your mother?”
“Maybe.”
“Then the letters?”
“I mailed them.”
“To Boston?”
“Yes.”
“My first dorm?”
“Yes.”
“How did you know the address?”
“Your mother gave it to me.”
We both went silent.
There it was.
The connection.
My mother.
Her mother.
The fake letter.
Wrong phone number.
Returned necklace.
Two teenagers being pushed apart from opposite directions.
“But why would my mother help yours?” I asked.
Emily walked slowly toward the window.
“Maybe she didn’t.”
I showed her the handwriting again.
“She knew something.”
“That isn’t the same thing.”
“She wrote ‘cannot let Daniel find out.’”
“About what?”
I didn’t know.
Emily folded her arms.
“I spent years thinking you left because I wasn’t enough.”
“That wasn’t true.”
“You didn’t come back.”
“You told me not to.”
“The fake letter told you not to.”
“I didn’t know it was fake!”
“I know.”
“But you’re still angry.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Her eyes filled.
“Because part of me is relieved.”
That stunned me.
“Relieved?”
“I wanted to hate you.”
“Why?”
“Because hating you was easier than wondering whether I had imagined everything.”
I took a step toward her.
She didn’t move.
“We didn’t imagine it.”
“Don’t.”
“What?”
“Don’t make twelve years disappear because we found one fake letter.”
“I’m not.”
“You live in Chicago.”
“Boston first. Chicago now.”
“You have a life.”
“So do you.”
“Yes.”
“Are you married?”
She stared at me.
“No.”
I felt a shameful flash of relief.
She saw it.
“Don’t look happy.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
“Maybe a little.”
She almost laughed.
Then her face changed.
“My mother kept your necklace.”
“What?”
“When she died, I found it.”
“When did she die?”
“Four years ago.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Her things are still in storage.”
“You think there might be something there?”
“I don’t know.”
My phone vibrated.
A text.
Aunt Margaret.
YOU’RE BACK IN TOWN?
I hadn’t told her.
Emily read my expression.
“What?”
“Margaret knows I’m here.”
“So?”
“I arrived twenty minutes before you did.”
“She might have seen your car.”
“She lives two streets away.”
“People talk.”
Another message arrived.
PLEASE DON’T GO THROUGH YOUR MOTHER’S DESK.
I turned the phone toward Emily.
Her face went white.
“How does she know you’re in the study?”
We both looked toward the dark window.
No one.
Emily moved closer.
“Call her.”
I did.
Margaret answered immediately.
“Daniel?”
“Aunt Margaret.”
“Thank God.”
“How did you know I was here?”
A pause.
“Small town.”
“Why shouldn’t I go through Mom’s desk?”
Another pause.
Longer.
“You’ve been through enough.”
“What does that mean?”
“Some things are better left buried.”
Emily stared at me.
I put the phone on speaker.
“What things?”
Margaret exhaled.
“Daniel, please.”
“Did Mom write a fake breakup letter from Emily?”
Silence.
Emily’s hand gripped the edge of the desk.
Then Margaret whispered, “Where did you find that?”
The room became impossibly quiet.
“You knew.”
“Daniel—”
“You knew!”
“I can explain.”
“Then explain.”
“Not over the phone.”
“Come here.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re not alone.”
My eyes went to Emily.
“How do you know?”
Margaret hung up.
Emily walked to the window again.
“Someone’s watching the house.”
I joined her.
A dark SUV sat across the street.
Engine running.
Headlights off.
“Do you know it?”
“No.”
The SUV suddenly pulled away.
Emily grabbed her jacket.
“Stay here.”
“Absolutely not.”
We rushed outside.
By the time we reached the sidewalk, the vehicle was already turning the corner.
But something had been left on my windshield.
A photograph.
Old.
Faded.
Emily picked it up.
It showed our mothers standing together outside Millbrook High School on graduation night.
On the back was a date.
And one sentence.
HE WAS NEVER SUPPOSED TO FIND OUT ABOUT THE BABY.
Emily dropped the photograph.
Neither of us moved.
May you like
Then she whispered one name.
“My sister.”
