Chapter 7
I couldn't stop staring at Rachel's photograph.
She looked young.
Maybe twenty-five.
Her hair fell over one shoulder.
She stood beside Daniel and my grandfather, holding a small purse.
I searched her face for something familiar.
Anything.
But I didn't know what I was looking for.
"Disappeared?" I whispered.
Patricia nodded.
I looked at Rebecca.
"Did anybody report her missing?"
Rebecca turned toward Patricia.
"Do you know?"
Patricia shook her head.
"Not officially, as far as I know."
My stomach tightened.
"Then what happened?"
Patricia took a slow breath.
"Rachel left town."
I stared at her.
"That's not disappearing."
She nodded.
"You're right."
I felt frustrated.
"Then why did you say it like that?"
"Because nobody in Harold's office knew where she went."
I leaned back.
For the first time, I realized how much of this story depended on people repeating things they didn't actually know.
Rachel might have left voluntarily.
She might have been frightened.
She might have had nothing to do with the hidden report.
But everyone was treating her absence like proof of something terrible.
I looked at Rebecca.
"Can we find her?"
She nodded.
"We can try."
I turned toward Patricia.
"Did Rachel ever contact you again?"
She hesitated.
"Once."
My heart jumped.
"When?"
"About five years ago."
I stared at her.
"What did she want?"
"She asked whether Harold was still alive."
I frowned.
"Why?"
Patricia looked down.
"She said she wanted her family's records back."
I swallowed.
"What records?"
"Documents connected to Daniel's marriage."
I looked toward Dad.
He was listening carefully.
Patricia continued.
"Rachel believed Harold had kept papers that belonged to her brother."
My stomach tightened.
"Did you help her?"
Patricia nodded.
"I told her Harold was still alive, but retired."
"And then?"
"She said she wasn't ready to face him."
I stared at the photograph.
Something about that answer felt different from the rest.
Rachel wasn't necessarily missing.
She was avoiding someone.
I wondered whether she'd been carrying fear for seventeen years too.
Rebecca promised to locate her.
Then she asked Patricia about the note found on our staircase.
Patricia studied a photograph of it.
HE IS LYING.
Her expression changed.
"I've seen that handwriting."
My heart stopped.
"Whose?"
She hesitated.
"Rachel's."
I stared at her.
"Are you sure?"
"Not completely."
She pointed toward the letter G.
"She always wrote her G like that."
I leaned forward.
"Then Rachel might be the person who came upstairs?"
Patricia shook her head.
"I don't know."
I looked at Dad.
He was staring at the note.
Then he said something unexpected.
"Claire received a letter last month."
My heart jumped.
"What letter?"
Dad looked uncomfortable.
"She told me it was from an old friend."
I stared at him.
"Did you read it?"
"No."
"Do you know where it is?"
He hesitated.
"Maybe."
We drove home together.
For the first time in days, Dad and I talked normally during the drive.
Not about the investigation.
Not about DNA.
Just school.
Basketball.
My college applications.
He asked whether I'd still attend practice that evening.
I shrugged.
"I don't know."
He glanced at me.
"Jordan, you can't stop living because the adults in your life made mistakes."
I looked out the window.
"Feels like everybody wants me to."
He shook his head.
"I don't."
I turned toward him.
He smiled sadly.
"You're still seventeen. You deserve to enjoy that."
My throat tightened.
I nodded.
"Thanks, Dad."
When we arrived home, Mom was in the kitchen.
She looked exhausted.
Dad approached her.
"Claire, where's the letter you received last month?"
Her expression changed.
"What letter?"
I felt my stomach twist.
"Mom."
She looked at me.
I continued.
"Please don't lie."
Her eyes filled.
She slowly walked toward the kitchen drawer.
Then removed a small envelope.
Dad took it.
I recognized the handwriting immediately.
The same thick black letters.
The same unusual G.
My heart pounded.
Dad unfolded the letter.
He read silently.
Then his face changed.
I couldn't wait.
"What does it say?"
He handed it to me.
Claire,
You can't keep pretending the past doesn't exist.
Daniel is coming back.
Marcus deserves the truth.
So does Jordan.
I know what Harold did.
And I have the original report.
Rachel.
I stared at the page.
My hands began shaking.
Rachel had the report.
The original report.
I looked at Mom.
"You knew?"
She nodded.
Tears rolled down her cheeks.
"Yes."
I stepped backward.
"You knew someone had the truth, and you didn't tell me?"
She began crying.
"I was afraid."
I shook my head.
"I'm tired of hearing that."
Dad took the letter from me.
His expression was dark.
"Claire, did you contact Rachel?"
Mom hesitated.
Then nodded.
My stomach tightened.
"What did you say?"
She whispered.
"I asked her to stay away."
I stared at her.
"Why?"
She began sobbing.
"Because Daniel told me he'd destroy our family if I didn't pay him."
Dad closed his eyes.
I looked toward the staircase.
The place where the note appeared.
Then I remembered something.
The figure I'd seen three nights earlier had moved quickly.
The person wasn't especially tall.
And the jacket had looked loose.
I'd assumed it was a man.
But maybe it wasn't.
I looked at Mom.
"Did Rachel come here?"
Her expression changed.
She stared at me.
Then whispered.
"Yes."
My heart stopped.
"When?"
"Three nights ago."
I couldn't breathe.
"The person I saw?"
Mom nodded.
I stared at her.
"You let Rachel into your room?"
She began crying.
"She came through the window because she didn't want Daniel to know she was here."
My chest tightened.
"Why?"
Mom swallowed.
"She said Daniel had become dangerous."
I looked at Dad.
His expression hardened.
"Claire, why didn't you tell us?"
She whispered.
"Because Rachel begged me not to."
I felt anger rising.
"Mom, somebody was hiding in our house today."
She nodded.
"I know."
My heart pounded.
"Was it Rachel?"
Mom hesitated.
Then whispered.
"I think so."
I stared at her.
Then I heard a sound from the hallway.
A soft knock.
We all turned.
The front door.
Dad moved toward it.
I followed.
He opened the door carefully.
A woman stood on the porch.
She wore a dark jacket.
Her hair was pulled into a low ponytail.
She looked tired.
Frightened.
But determined.
I recognized her from the photograph.
Rachel Brooks.
She looked directly at me.
Then whispered.
"Jordan, I'm sorry."
My heart hammered.
She held up a sealed envelope.
"I should have come seventeen years ago."
May you like
I stared at the envelope.
And realized the answer I'd been searching for was finally standing on my doorstep.
