Chapter 6 - THE WOMAN WHO BUILT THE HOUSE ON LIES
Eleanor Cole had been dead for three years.
But suddenly she was everywhere.
In my stolen promotions.
My mother’s death.
My grandmother’s silence.
Adrian stood completely still.
“My mother was there?”
Helen nodded.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“She wanted Clara’s documents.”
“What documents?”
“The shipping records.”
Helen looked at me.
“Your mother had copies.”
I could barely speak.
“What happened?”
Helen told us.
Clara drove toward the Maine highway.
Eleanor blocked the road with another vehicle.
Clara swerved.
Lost control.
Hit the guardrail.
The car rolled.
“She was alive afterward,” Helen whispered.
My knees weakened.
Adrian caught my elbow.
This time I let him.
“What happened then?”
Helen cried harder.
“I wanted to call an ambulance.”
“But?”
“Eleanor stopped me.”
Adrian’s face went pale.
“She let her die.”
Helen nodded.
“Why?”
“Because Clara had seen too much.”
I pulled away from Adrian.
The kitchen felt too small.
Too warm.
Helen reached for me.
“Nora, I’m sorry.”
I stepped back.
“You knew who I was the day I arrived.”
“Yes.”
“You watched me work here for five years.”
“Yes.”
“You treated me like family.”
Her face broke.
“Because I loved you.”
I laughed.
“No.”
“Nora—”
“You loved your guilt.”
She flinched.
I hated saying it.
But it was true.
She had cared for me because she could not save my mother.
Adrian turned away.
His own mother had been responsible.
He looked like he might be sick.
I should have hated him too.
Part of me tried.
But he had not known.
That mattered.
Helen reached into her apron.
“I kept something.”
A key.
Small.
Brass.
“Rose gave it to me after Clara died.”
“What does it open?”
“Your grandmother’s storage unit in Maine.”
I stared.
“She had a storage unit?”
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t she tell me?”
“She said not until the Cole family truth came out.”
Adrian looked at the key.
“When was the last time anyone checked it?”
“Never.”
We flew to Maine that afternoon.
No private entourage.
Just Adrian, me, and one security man.
The storage facility sat outside Bangor.
Unit 214.
The key worked.
Inside were boxes.
Furniture.
Old photographs.
And one locked trunk.
Adrian broke the rusted clasp.
Inside were letters from my mother.
Clara.
Hundreds.
Most addressed to Rose.
One addressed to me.
Nora, my sweet girl.
If you ever read this, I need you to know I did not leave you willingly.
I stopped breathing.
Another line.
Your father is alive.
My hands shook.
Adrian leaned closer.
I kept reading.
His name is Michael Vale.
He does not know about you.
I looked up.
Michael Vale.
The name meant nothing to me.
But Adrian went pale.
“You know him.”
“Yes.”
“Who is he?”
Adrian sat down slowly.
“My godfather.”
The room went silent.
“He’s been my family attorney for twenty-five years.”
My heart pounded.
May you like
Then Adrian said the part that made everything worse.
“And he is the man currently handling Vanessa Whitmore’s legal defense.”
