Chapter 3 - THE MOTHER I BURIED FIVE YEARS AGO
I stopped breathing.
My mother was alive.
Or someone wanted me to believe she was.
The woman on the screen moved exactly like Margaret.
Same slight limp in her left leg.
Same habit of touching her necklace when nervous.
Same way of tilting her head before turning.
I knew those movements better than my own.
“That’s her,” I whispered.
Nathan looked skeptical.
“Are you certain?”
“Yes.”
Malcolm stared at the screen.
Then his face hardened.
“Find her.”
Nathan nodded and left.
I turned toward Malcolm.
“You knew my mother.”
“Yes.”
“How well?”
He hesitated.
Too long.
“Very well.”
My stomach tightened.
“How well?”
Malcolm looked down at the watch.
“Margaret saved my life once.”
I stared.
“When?”
“Thirty-eight years ago.”
He took a slow breath.
“My father discovered someone inside the family was stealing from him.”
“Vincent?”
“No. Vincent was a teenager.”
“Then who?”
Malcolm’s expression darkened.
“My uncle, Raymond Avery.”
I had heard the name.
Everyone in Chicago had.
Raymond Avery died in prison fifteen years earlier.
Or apparently, in this family, death certificates meant nothing.
Malcolm continued.
“My father wanted to expose Raymond. Margaret helped copy the financial records.”
“And then your father disappeared.”
“Yes.”
I swallowed.
“What happened to Mom?”
“She disappeared too.”
I stared.
“But she raised me.”
“She resurfaced under the name Margaret Reed about ten years later.”
My hands trembled.
“Was Reed even her real name?”
Malcolm shook his head.
“No.”
I felt like the floor shifted beneath me.
“What was it?”
He looked at me.
“Margaret Hale.”
I whispered the name.
It meant nothing.
Then Malcolm added:
“She was once married to Vincent.”
I stared.
My mother had been married to Malcolm’s brother?
“No.”
“Yes.”
“Then why didn’t she tell me?”
“Because she was trying to keep you away from the Averys.”
My heart pounded.
I thought of every warning she gave me.
Never trust rich men who say they can solve everything.
Never let anyone own your choices.
Never accept money you don’t understand.
I had thought those were lessons from poverty.
Maybe they were survival instructions.
Then my phone rang.
Tyler.
I answered immediately.
“Hannah?”
His voice was shaky.
“Where are you?”
“At work.”
There was a pause.
“Some man came to the apartment.”
My blood turned cold.
“What man?”
“He said he knew Mom.”
I stood.
“Tyler, lock the door.”
“He already left.”
“What did he want?”
My brother swallowed.
“He gave me an envelope.”
“What envelope?”
“It has your name on it.”
May you like
Then Tyler whispered:
“Hannah, there’s a picture inside of Mom holding a newborn baby—and the baby isn’t me.”
