Chapter 6 - THE WOMAN IN HAWAII WAS NOT LORRAINE
I called Dana again.
“Tell me exactly when you last saw your mother.”
“This morning.”
“Face to face?”
“Yes.”
“You’re sure?”
Dana sounded offended.
“She’s my mother.”
“Humor me.”
“She was at breakfast.”
“Did she leave with anyone?”
“No.”
“Did she say where she was going?”
“Shopping.”
“In Hawaii?”
“Yes.”
“What time?”
“About ten.”
Camille calculated the time difference.
Impossible.
Lorraine could not physically travel from Hawaii to Monaco in that window.
So either the Monaco identification was false—
Or someone else was using Lorraine’s identity.
Priya leaned toward the camera.
“Claire, ask whether Lorraine’s passport is there.”
I asked Dana.
Silence.
“Dana?”
“I’ll check.”
Two minutes later:
“It’s gone.”
“Her luggage?”
“Most of it is here.”
“Phone?”
“She took it.”
Mark came onto the line.
“What’s happening?”
I told him.
His silence was immediate.
Then:
“Scott has copies of Mom’s ID.”
My chest tightened.
“How?”
“He handled the Scottsdale closing.”
“Did Lorraine know?”
“Yes.”
“So he can impersonate her financially.”
“Yes.”
Camille interrupted.
“The Monaco bank verified passport and live facial identification.”
We all went silent.
“Live?”
“Yes.”
“Then Lorraine was there.”
“But she was in Hawaii.”
Camille looked grim.
“Unless the woman Dana saw was not Lorraine.”
I laughed once.
“That is ridiculous.”
Then I remembered something.
The airport morning.
Lorraine wore huge sunglasses.
She often did.
Dana sent group photos from the airport.
Lorraine was in them.
But most were side angles.
Sunglasses.
Large hat.
Distance.
No clear face.
I opened the family chat archive.
Photographs.
Boarding gate.
Rental car.
Villa balcony.
Lorraine was always behind someone.
Always glasses.
Always turned slightly away.
My skin crawled.
“Mark.”
“Yes?”
“When did you last see your mother clearly?”
“What kind of question is that?”
“Answer.”
Silence.
“Yesterday.”
“Without sunglasses?”
Another silence.
“I don’t remember.”
Dana whispered:
“Oh my God.”
She started searching her phone.
Then sent me a picture.
Lorraine asleep in a lounge chair.
Sunglasses.
Scarf.
Hat.
I zoomed in.
Hands.
My mother-in-law had a small burn scar across the back of her right hand from a Thanksgiving oven accident.
The woman in the photograph did not.
My pulse exploded.
“That isn’t Lorraine.”
Mark started shouting.
“What?”
Dana gasped.
Then silence.
I sent the scar comparison.
Mark swore.
“Who the hell came with us?”
Nobody knew.
Camille immediately contacted U.S. authorities.
Within an hour, Hawaiian police returned to the villa.
The woman pretending to be Lorraine was gone.
Security footage showed her leaving through the service entrance.
Face partially covered.
A rented vehicle had picked her up.
The passport she used at check-in belonged to Lorraine.
Real passport.
Meaning the real Lorraine likely had another identity document.
Or never intended to travel.
I thought back to the front door.
Lorraine smiling.
“This vacation is meant for family, Claire.”
Had that actually been Lorraine?
Yes.
I was almost certain.
Same voice.
Same scar?
I hadn’t looked.
“What if they switched later?” I asked.
Mark went quiet.
“At the airport.”
“When?”
“Mom disappeared for twenty minutes before boarding.”
“Why?”
“She said she forgot medication.”
My stomach tightened.
“Did you see her after?”
“Yes.”
“But not clearly.”
“No.”
The real Lorraine may have gone somewhere else before the plane left.
And a stand-in traveled with the family.
“Who would do that?” Dana whispered.
Camille answered:
“Someone creating an alibi.”
The room went cold.
An alibi.
If Lorraine needed to appear to be in Hawaii while she traveled elsewhere—
Monaco.
Europe.
Maybe to move money.
Maybe something worse.
Then Elena called Priya.
Her face appeared on screen.
“I found Meridian North Trading.”
“The Cyprus entity?”
“Yes.”
“Who owns it?”
“A trust.”
“Whose?”
“Richard Vale Estate Trust.”
Scott’s dead father.
My stomach dropped.
“Scott controls it?”
“Trustee is listed as Lorraine Whitaker.”
Silence.
Lorraine.
Scott’s father.
A twenty-year-old connection.
“What was their relationship?”
Elena hesitated.
“Business records won’t tell me that.”
Then she turned another document.
“Birth records might.”
“What?”
Scott Vale’s birth certificate.
Father:
Richard Vale.
Mother:
Lorraine Whitaker.
I stopped breathing.
“That’s impossible.”
Mark shouted from the phone.
“What?”
Scott Vale was Lorraine’s son.
Not Mark’s college friend by coincidence.
Mark’s half-brother.
Dana’s half-brother.
A man Lorraine had hidden from her family for decades.
Mark whispered:
“Scott is older than me.”
“Yes.”
“Mom never said…”
Dana began crying.
Camille looked at me.
“Then perhaps this is not merely fraud.”
No.
It was family.
Again.
Then Priya asked the question none of us wanted to ask.
“If Scott is Lorraine’s son, did Mark know?”
Mark shouted:
“No!”
Too fast.
Too loud.
I stared at the phone.
“Mark.”
“I swear.”
“Did Scott know?”
Silence.
Then Mark whispered:
“I think so.”
My chest tightened.
“Why?”
“Because in college he used to joke that Mom treated him like family.”
Dana laughed through tears.
“That isn’t funny.”
“No.”
Then my phone buzzed.
A photo from an unknown number.
Lorraine.
The real Lorraine.
No sunglasses.
Burn scar visible.
Standing in front of the Eiffel Tower.
Paris.
Taken that morning.
Underneath:
YOU SHOULD HAVE STAYED HOME, CLAIRE.
A second message appeared.
SCOTT WAS NEVER THE ONE USING MARK.
I stared.
May you like
Then:
MARK WAS USING SCOTT.
