Chapter 13 - THE WOMAN IN THE RED COATHer name was Anna Reed.
Nora showed me a photograph.
A young woman stood outside the Hale estate wearing a red wool coat.
She had dark hair.
My eyes.
My face.
I knew before anyone explained.
“That’s my mother.”
My father was crying.
“You knew her?”
He nodded.
“Yes.”
My knees weakened.
Daniel caught me.
I pulled away.
Not because I was angry with him.
Because I needed to stand under my own strength.
“Tell me.”
My father looked ashamed.
“Anna worked for the Hale Foundation.”
“As what?”
“An accountant.”
“Were you having an affair?”
“No.”
He answered quickly.
“No.”
I believed him.
“Then how am I her daughter?”
He looked at Nora.
She spoke.
“Anna was Vivian’s younger half sister.”
I stared.
“What?”
Beatrice sat down.
“We have an aunt?”
“Had.”
The word cut through me.
“Had?”
Nora nodded.
“Anna died when you were six months old.”
I could barely hear.
“How?”
“Car accident.”
My father closed his eyes.
I laughed bitterly.
“Apparently car accidents were popular in this family.”
Nora looked at me.
“Anna discovered the foundation theft before Margaret did.”
Everything connected.
“She confronted Vivian?”
“Yes.”
“Why would Vivian raise Anna’s baby?”
My father finally spoke.
“Because Anna named me guardian.”
I stared.
“What?”
“Anna was unmarried.”
He swallowed.
“She trusted me.”
“Was my biological father alive?”
“Unknown.”
“You don’t know?”
“Anna refused to name him.”
I turned toward Nora.
“Why did Vivian pretend I was hers?”
“Because if people knew Anna had uncovered financial theft shortly before dying, questions would follow.”
My father added, “And because your grandmother adored Anna.”
The trust.
Grandmother naming me beneficiary.
Not simply because I was kind.
I was Anna’s daughter.
A direct Hale descendant through Vivian’s side as well.
Nora continued.
“Vivian told everyone she had suffered a private pregnancy and that Laura had been born while she stayed with relatives.”
Beatrice frowned.
“But I was five. I remember Mom being pregnant.”
My father looked at her.
“Do you?”
Beatrice froze.
Memories are strange.
Children believe what adults label for them.
A woman gaining weight becomes pregnancy if everybody calls it pregnancy.
A long absence becomes childbirth.
My mother had constructed a story.
And the family accepted it.
“Why did you agree?” I asked my father.
“I didn’t.”
His voice broke.
“I wanted to tell the truth.”
“But?”
“Margaret begged me to wait until we had investigated Anna’s death.”
My stomach turned.
“You think Vivian killed her.”
“I don’t know.”
Nora did not speak.
I noticed.
“You know.”
She looked away.
“Nora.”
“Walter investigated the crash.”
Her husband.
The corrupt detective.
“What did he find?”
“Anna’s car had been serviced by the same garage later used for Richard’s vehicle.”
The room went cold.
My biological mother may have been murdered.
Then the same technique was used against my father.
Vivian had not raised me because she loved me.
She raised me because keeping me close allowed her to control the evidence left by a dead woman.
And when I began noticing things at eleven, Vivian saw Anna in me.
That was why she feared me.
That was why Grandmother protected me.
That was why my mother spent decades convincing me I was weak.
Because the last woman who challenged her had died.
I stood.
“Where is Anna buried?”
My father looked surprised.
“Westfield Cemetery.”
“Under what name?”
“Anna Reed.”
I took my coat.
Daniel followed.
We drove there together.
No agents.
No reporters.
No lawyers.
Just me, Daniel, my father, and later Beatrice.
Anna’s grave stood beneath an oak tree.
Simple stone.
ANNA MARIE REED.
BELOVED DAUGHTER.
1970–1988.
She had been eighteen.
I stared at the dates.
“No.”
My father looked at me.
“What?”
“She was eighteen?”
“Yes.”
“When she had me?”
“Eighteen.”
“How old was she when she became pregnant?”
He hesitated.
“Seventeen.”
My skin crawled.
“And nobody knows the father?”
“No.”
Beatrice whispered, “Charles?”
I looked at her.
She looked horrified by her own thought.
My father’s face changed.
“I asked Anna once.”
“What did she say?”
“She cried.”
That was all.
Seventeen.
A girl employed by a foundation connected to powerful men.
A pregnancy hidden.
A baby quietly absorbed into her older half sister’s marriage.
My stomach turned.
“We need a DNA test.”
Beatrice understood immediately.
“Against Charles.”
Agent Ruiz could obtain samples through legal procedures now that he was detained.
Results came faster than expected because the federal investigation already had genetic material for identity confirmation.
We waited in the mansion kitchen.
Six hours.
The longest six hours of my life.
Finally Ruiz arrived.
She held an envelope.
“Laura.”
“Tell me.”
She sat.
“The test indicates Charles Whitmore is not your biological father.”
I exhaled.
Then she continued.
“But we compared your DNA to other profiles available through the case.”
My stomach tightened again.
“What other profiles?”
Ruiz looked at my father.
Then Daniel.
“Walter Crane.”
Nora’s husband.
The detective.
My mouth went dry.
“No.”
Ruiz placed the report down.
“Walter Crane is your biological father.”
Nobody spoke.
I stared at the page.
The man who helped cover up Anna’s death had fathered her child.
Me.
“Was she in a relationship with him?”
Nora began crying.
“No.”
I looked at her.
“You know.”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“Walter told me.”
Silence.
“He said Anna threatened to expose Charles’s theft.”
My hands became cold.
“Then what?”
“Charles sent Walter to frighten her.”
Nora could barely speak.
“He assaulted her.”
Daniel’s hand closed around mine.
The room blurred.
I did not need details.
I did not want them.
Seventeen.
My mother had been a teenager.
Walter had been a police officer in his thirties.
I stood so abruptly the chair hit the wall.
“No.”
Nobody tried to stop me.
I walked outside.
Air.
I needed air.
Daniel followed but remained several feet away.
I bent forward.
For the first time that day, I truly cried.
Not for myself.
For Anna.
A girl I never knew.
A girl who uncovered powerful men stealing money.
A girl who had a child forced into her life through violence.
A girl who still arranged for someone safe to raise that baby.
A girl who died before her nineteenth birthday.
My father came outside.
“I loved her.”
I looked at him.
“Like a daughter?”
“Like family.”
He cried.
“She was brave.”
“What did she say about me?”
His face softened.
“She called you Lucky.”
A laugh escaped through my tears.
“Why?”
“Because after everything that happened, she said you were the first lucky thing she had seen.”
I covered my mouth.
My father continued.
“She made me promise you would never believe you were born from shame.”
I closed my eyes.
“You were not.”
He touched my shoulder.
“You were born from her decision to survive.”
Behind us, a car entered the driveway.
Police.
Agent Ruiz walked out.
Her expression had changed.
“What?”
She looked at Nora.
“Walter Crane has been found.”
Nora went pale.
“Where?”
“At a motel two counties north.”
“Is he alive?”
“Yes.”
Relief crossed her face.
Then Ruiz continued.
“He has agreed to cooperate.”
My father stepped closer.
“About Anna?”
“Yes.”
“And my crash?”
“Yes.”
“And Vivian?”
Ruiz nodded.
“Everything.”
I stared toward the gates.
The man whose actions shaped my entire life was finally going to speak.
Then Ruiz said quietly:
“There is one problem.”
“What?”
“Walter claims Anna’s crash was not ordered by Vivian.”
My heart stopped.
“Then who ordered it?”
Ruiz looked toward Beatrice.
“Charles Whitmore.”
Beatrice closed her eyes.
May you like
Her biological father had killed my biological mother.
And suddenly our family was bound together by something far darker than jealousy.
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