Chapter 1 - A Name Painted in Red
"Get your hands off my daughter."
My mother pushed the heavy oak table against my chest.
The wooden edge bruised my ribs.
"She doesn't know you," my mother hissed.
Six-year-old Lily stood frozen beside the kitchen stove.
She was holding a burnt brass key.
Her thumb traced the jagged metal teeth.
"You smell like the blue house," Lily whispered.
My breath caught in my throat.
I had never owned a blue house.
I had lived in this gray suburb for ten years.
My husband Marcus stepped between us.
His shadow covered the narrow hallway.
"Claire, leave the girl alone," Marcus said.
His voice was too calm.
His fingers twitched against his pocket.
Lily pointed her small finger at my face.
"She was in the water," Lily said.
My mother slapped the table with both palms.
The teacups rattled in their saucers.
"The child is confused!" my mother shouted.
"She spent the morning with fever!"
I looked at Lily’s dry forehead.
She was not sweating.
Her eyes were clear and terrifying.
"Where did you get that key, Lily?" I asked.
I took one step forward.
My mother blocked my path with her forearm.
"Don't touch her, Claire," my mother warned.
"You lost your rights to this family long ago."
"I am her mother!" I screamed.
The room fell completely silent.
Marcus did not look at me.
He looked at the floorboards near the sink.
"You signed the paper, Claire," Marcus said quietly.
"What paper?" I asked.
My chest tightened.
My hands began to shake.
"The medical release," Marcus said.
"Three years ago."
"I was in a coma for three weeks!" I shouted.
"You told me the hospital lost the records!"
Lily walked slowly toward the back porch door.
She did not look at Marcus.
She did not look at my mother.
She held the brass key against her chin.
"The man in the truck gave it to me," Lily said.
My mother’s face turned completely white.
"What man?" Marcus asked.
His voice lost its calm edge.
"The man who sits in the driveway," Lily said.
"He said my real name is Nora."
My heart hammered against my ribs.
Nora was my younger sister's name.
Nora had died twenty years ago.
She had drowned in a lake behind our old farm.
Nobody had ever spoken her name in this house.
"Go to your room, Lily," my mother ordered.
Her voice cracked.
"Now!"
Lily did not run.
She walked slowly up the stairs.
Her shoes clicked on the cold wood.
I looked at Marcus.
"Why is she using Nora's name?" I demanded.
"Ask your mother," Marcus whispered.
He turned his back to me.
He walked into the garage and shut the door.
The lock clicked instantly.
I was left alone with my mother.
She was staring out the window into the dark yard.
"You were never supposed to come back here," my mother said.
"This is my house," I said.
"My father left it to me."
My mother turned around slowly.
Her eyes were cold and dark.
"Your father left nothing to a woman who forgot her own child."
"I didn't forget her!" I cried.
"You told me she was living with Marcus's sister!"
"She was," my mother said.
"Until the sister stopped taking my checks."
My jaw dropped.
"You paid her to keep my daughter away?"
My mother picked up a silver platter.
She began wiping it with a dish towel.
"I paid to protect her from you."
"From what?" I asked.
"From the fire," my mother said.
"What fire?"
My mother did not answer.
She set the platter down hard.
"Check the attic, Claire."
"If you have the courage."
I turned and ran up the stairs.
The carpet was worn in the middle.
The house smelled of old dust and pine oil.
I reached the top landing.
Lily's door was slightly open.
I peeked inside.
Lily was sitting on the floor.
She was drawing on the wall with a red crayon.
It was not a random scribble.
She was writing letters.
I stepped into the room.
The red crayon scraped against the white paint.
I read the words on the wall.
PROPERTY OF NORA.
"Lily, stop," I whispered.
Lily turned her head.
Her eyes were wide.
"I'm not Lily when the sun goes down," she said.
"Who told you that?" I asked.
"The envelope under the mirror," she said.
She pointed to my mother's bedroom across the hall.
My mother's vanity mirror was massive.
It had been passed down for generations.
I walked across the hallway.
My feet felt heavy.
My hands were freezing cold.
The vanity sat in the corner of the dark room.
The large oval mirror was framed in heavy walnut.
I reached behind the wooden backing.
My fingers brushed against thick paper.
I pulled out a yellowed envelope.
It was sealed with red tape.
My name was written on the front in my father's handwriting.
DO NOT OPEN UNTIL CLAIRE TURNS THIRTY.
I turned thirty yesterday.
My fingers trembled as I tore the tape.
Inside was a folded piece of paper.
It was an official birth certificate.
I unfolded it under the dim hallway light.
The child's name was Nora Vance.
The birth date was six years ago.
The mother's name was Claire Vance.
The father's name was not Marcus.
The father's name was listed as David Vance.
David Vance was my father.
The document had an official state stamp at the bottom.
Beneath the stamp was a handwritten note from the doctor.
Child delivered safely during the storm.
Claire Vance remains unconscious.
Do not inform the husband.
My stomach churned violently.
I leaned against the doorframe for support.
Marcus was not Lily's father.
My father was not my real father.
And the child in the room behind me was not named Lily.
A heavy footstep sounded behind me.
I spun around.
Marcus was standing at the end of the hall.
He was holding a crowbar from the garage.
His face was completely devoid of emotion.
"You found it," Marcus said.
"What is this?" I breathed.
May you like
"That girl isn't yours, Claire," Marcus said.
"She's your sister."
