We stood around the kitchen table without speaking.
The message remained on my phone.
Stop looking for the missing page.
My son read it again.
“Who knows we found the ledger?”
“Daniel.”
“And whoever sent this.”
My oldest shook her head.
“Maybe Daniel sent it.”
“No,” I said.
They looked at me.
“I don't think he would.”
“Why?”
“Because he wanted me to find the ledger.”
My youngest glanced toward the windows.
“Then who knew where it was?”
I looked around the kitchen.
The question seemed simple.
My husband had lived here.
Daniel had been here.
My children had grown up here.
And I had been the one who hid the ledger.
Except I wasn't the only person who knew where I kept things.
A memory surfaced.
My husband had once said, “You always put important papers in places you think nobody will find.”
At the time, I had laughed.
Now the sentence sounded different.
He had known me well enough to predict my hiding places.
My son noticed my expression.
“What?”
“Your father knew where I hid things.”
“He lived here.”
“That's not what I mean.”
I told them about the furnace cabinet.
My oldest frowned.
“Did Dad ever go into the basement?”
“Rarely.”
“Then who else?”
I thought.
The answer came quickly.
My husband's sister.
She had helped us after the divorce.
She had keys to the house.
She had visited frequently.
She had always claimed she was helping me.
But I remembered something else.
She had once asked me where I kept the property papers.
I had told her.
My stomach tightened.
“Your aunt.”
My son looked surprised.
“She knew?”
“She asked.”
“When?”
“After the divorce.”
My oldest pulled out her phone.
“She's still in contact with Dad.”
I stared at her.
“What?”
“She doesn't talk about him.”
“Then how do you know?”
“I saw her name in his old contacts.”
My youngest shook her head.
“That doesn't prove anything.”
“No,” I said.
“It doesn't.”
I didn't want to accuse anyone.
Not without evidence.
But the warning had changed the atmosphere in the house.
We stopped speaking freely.
We checked the locks twice.
We kept the curtains closed.
And we began going through the old documents together.
By midnight, we had found another clue.
A receipt.
The furnace cabinet had been repaired seven years earlier.
The contractor's name was on the receipt.
So was the person who authorized the work.
My husband's sister.
I stared at the paper.
“She had access to the cabinet.”
My son took a photograph of the receipt.
“That still doesn't mean she found the ledger.”
“No.”
“But someone knew.”
I nodded.
My youngest suddenly stood.
“Wait.”
She ran upstairs.
A few minutes later, she returned with an old box.
Inside were photographs.
She spread them across the table.
“These were taken when we were kids.”
One showed us standing in front of the house.
Another showed my husband.
Another showed Daniel.
Then she placed down a photograph from the day of the confrontation.
I studied it.
My children were on the porch.
My husband stood near the doorway.
Daniel was inside.
And behind them, barely visible through the window, was another person.
A woman.
I leaned closer.
“That isn't me.”
My oldest shook her head.
“It's Aunt Susan.”
My stomach dropped.
She had been there.
She had witnessed everything.
And she had never told us.
My son stared at the picture.
“Why was she there?”
I didn't know.
Then I remembered.
Susan had arrived that afternoon saying she had forgotten something.
I had been too distracted to question it.
She had stayed less than ten minutes.
Or so I thought.
My youngest pointed at the photograph.
“She has something in her hand.”
It was a small envelope.
My son enlarged the image on his phone.
The envelope had a red mark.
A red ledger.
The same red color.
I stood.
“We're going to see her.”
My oldest caught my arm.
“Tonight?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because if she knows we found the ledger, she'll know we suspect her.”
My son nodded.
“Then we let her come to us.”
The next morning, I called Susan.
She answered cheerfully.
“It's been ages.”
“Yes.”
“Is everything okay?”
“I found an old photograph.”
Silence.
“What photograph?”
“The one from the day Dad came back.”
Her voice changed.
“What do you want?”
The question came too quickly.
I looked at my children.
“I want to understand what happened.”
“I don't remember.”
“You were there.”
“I was there for a few minutes.”
“You had an envelope.”
Another silence.
“I don't know what you're talking about.”
“You were holding one.”
“Then perhaps you're mistaken.”
“I don't think so.”
She ended the call.
My son stared at me.
“That was strange.”
“Yes.”
An hour later, Susan arrived.
She didn't knock.
She used the old key.
I heard the lock turn.
My children froze.
Susan walked into the kitchen.
She looked at the four of us.
Then she smiled.
“Why are you all here?”
I stared at her.
“You still have a key.”
She touched the key ring.
“Of course.”
“How long have you had it?”
“Years.”
“Why?”
She shrugged.
“You were family.”
My son stood.
“Not anymore.”
She looked at him.
“That's a cruel thing to say.”
He didn't move.
I watched her face.
She was nervous.
Not frightened.
Calculating.
“I want to know what happened that day,” I said.
Susan looked at me.
“You don't remember?”
“Not everything.”
She laughed softly.
“Maybe that's for the best.”
My oldest stepped forward.
“What did you take from the house?”
Susan's face hardened.
“Nothing.”
“The envelope.”
“I don't know what you're talking about.”
“The red ledger.”
She went completely still.
That was enough.
My son saw it too.
“You know about it.”
Susan's eyes moved toward the basement door.
Then back to me.
“You shouldn't have found that.”
I felt cold.
“You knew it was there.”
“Yes.”
“Did you tear out page thirty-three?”
She didn't answer.
My youngest whispered, “Aunt Susan?”
Susan finally looked at her.
“I was trying to protect you.”
“From whom?”
“From your mother.”
The room went silent.
I felt as though the floor had shifted beneath me.
Susan continued.
“Your mother didn't understand what your father was doing.”
“I knew he was stealing.”
“No.”
She shook her head.
“You knew what he wanted you to believe.”
I stared at her.
“Then tell me the truth.”
She looked toward the window.
“Your father wasn't trying to take your children.”
My son frowned.
“Then what?”
“He was trying to save them.”
“From what?”
Susan looked at me.
“From you.”
My youngest stepped backward.
“That isn't true.”
Susan's voice softened.
“You were sick.”
I felt something inside me snap.
“No.”
“You don't remember.”
“I remember enough.”
“You had episodes.”
“I was grieving.”
“You threatened him.”
“He threatened me.”
Susan shook her head.
“That's what you remember.”
My oldest looked between us.
“Then why did Daniel protect Mom?”
Susan's face changed.
For the first time, she looked afraid.
“He wasn't protecting her.”
“Then who?”
Susan didn't answer.
My son stepped closer.
“Who was Daniel protecting?”
She whispered, “You.”
Then she turned toward the door.
I called after her.
“Susan.”
She stopped.
“Where is page thirty-three?”
She looked back.
“I burned it.”
My heart sank.
But she added one sentence before leaving.
“I didn't know Daniel had made a copy.”
The door closed.
Nobody moved.
Then my phone buzzed.
A new message.
*Now you know where to look.**
Click here to continue reading: PART 8: Susan’s Confession Opened a Second Secret, and the Children Realized Their Mother’s Missing Memories Were Not the Only Thing Someone Had Hidden
The Last Call Ended Differently Than Any of Us Expected, and I Finally Heard What My Children Had Been Trying to Tell Me
Part 7 of 30
