Chapter 3 - THE MOTHER WHO KNEW THE CIRCUS

My mother hated circuses.

That was what I remembered.

When I was six, a traveling show came through Brooklyn.

I begged her to take me.

She refused.

“No circus, Grace.”

“Why?”

“Because some beautiful things hide ugly people.”

I thought she was being dramatic.

Years later, after she died, I joined Aurelia anyway.

Now Celeste’s note claimed my mother knew she would come looking.

I sat in Vincent’s library holding the small brass key.

“What did your mother do?”

he asked.

“Bookkeeper.”

His expression changed.

“What?”

“She handled accounts for shipping companies.”

Vincent leaned forward.

“Which companies?”

“I don’t know.”

I laughed bitterly.

“She never brought spreadsheets to dinner.”

Detective Bennett later found employment records.

My mother, Rebecca Mitchell, had worked for Whitmore Maritime Holdings.

Vanessa’s family.

My stomach dropped.

There it was.

The connection.

Rebecca Mitchell.

Charles Whitmore.

Aurelia.

Celeste.

Me.

I felt suddenly foolish for believing my circus career began because I saw an advertisement and auditioned.

Maybe someone had always known exactly who I was.

The brass key belonged to a storage locker at Grand Central Terminal.

Old.

Rarely used.

Still active.

I went with Detective Bennett.

Vincent stayed behind because I asked him to.

That mattered more than I expected.

Inside the locker was a leather satchel.

A flash drive.

Three old ledgers.

And a photograph.

My mother.

Alive.

Standing beside Celeste.

The photograph was dated nine years after Mom supposedly died.

My knees weakened.

“No.”

Detective Bennett caught my elbow.

I stared at Rebecca’s face.

Older.

Silver beginning at her temples.

But unmistakably my mother.

Alive.

Four years before my accident.

I turned the photo over.

Rebecca Mitchell and Celeste Vale. Montreal. March 2018.

I couldn’t breathe.

My mother hadn’t died when I was fourteen.

Someone had lied to me.

The flash drive contained encrypted files.

Investigators copied it before attempting access.

One folder eventually opened.

Inside was a video.

My mother appeared on screen.

“Grace.”

I covered my mouth.

Her voice.

I hadn’t heard it in eleven years.

“If you’re watching this, Celeste is probably dead.”

Tears streamed down my face.

“I’m sorry.”

She looked exhausted.

“Charles Whitmore discovered that I copied his shipping records. I had to disappear.”

I began sobbing.

Mom continued.

“I wanted to come back for you.”

I whispered at the screen.

“Then why didn’t you?”

As though she could hear me, she answered.

“Because someone threatened to kill you if I returned.”

My hands shook.

Then she said:

“Celeste agreed to help me expose them.”

I stared.

“She knows where the final ledger is.”

The video flickered.

Then my mother’s expression became terrified.

“And Grace, if Vanessa Whitmore ever gets close to you…”

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She paused.

“Run. She is not Charles Whitmore’s daughter. She is his weapon.”