Chapter 6 — The Memory

I couldn't move. “My mother?” Adrian said nothing. “What happened to my mother?” He looked at me like he was trying to decide how much truth I could handle. That terrified me more than the answer. “Adrian.” “She knew Mara.” My stomach dropped. “How?” “They were working together.” “Working on what?” He looked toward the window again. “The company.” The company from the article. The one whose name had been removed. I shook my head. “No. My mother wasn't involved in any of this.” “She was.” “You don't know her.” “I knew her better than you think.” I stared at him. “What does that mean?” He pulled out his phone again. This time, he opened an old message. A name appeared at the top. Elena Bennett. I stopped breathing. My mother's name. “What is this?” “A message she sent me six years ago.” I took the phone from his hand. There was only one sentence. If anything happens to me, keep my daughter away from them. My fingers went numb. “When did she send this?” “Three days before she disappeared.” I looked up. “Disappeared?” Adrian nodded. “Your mother didn't die.” I couldn't process it. “But I was told—” “I know what you were told.” My throat tightened. “What happened to her?” “She found something.” “What?” “Mara found it first.” I looked down at the photograph again. The little girl. Me. Standing beside Mara. There was something about the picture that bothered me. Something I couldn't explain. “Where was this taken?” Adrian hesitated. “Your mother's house.” I frowned. “My mother never had that wallpaper.” “She did.” “No.” I stared harder at the photograph. Behind us was a bookshelf. A small wooden table. A window. Then I noticed something. A painting. It hung crookedly above the bookshelf. I knew that painting. My breath caught. “I've seen this.” Adrian looked at me. “Where?” “At home.” He went completely still. “What?” “The painting.” I pointed at the screen. “My mother still has it.” Adrian's expression changed. “Are you sure?” “Yes.” He immediately grabbed his jacket. “Where are you going?” “Your house.” “Why?” “Because if that painting is still there…” He stopped. “What?” He looked at me. “Then they may have never found what they were looking for.” My heart began racing. “What are they looking for?” He opened the door. “Something your mother hid.” “Adrian.” He turned. “What?” “What did she hide?” His eyes met mine. Then he said: “Evidence.” And suddenly, somewhere upstairs— something crashed. We both froze. Adrian slowly reached for the door. Another sound. Footsteps. Inside my house. Someone was already there.

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