Chapter 35 - The Night My Mother Died
For twenty-two years, I had believed my mother died because a truck crossed the center line on a wet road.
The police report called it driver fatigue.
No criminal charges.
No conspiracy.
No mystery.
Rebecca said that report was wrong.
“The truck driver was paid.”
“By James?”
“No.”
“Then who?”
“Charles Whitmore.”
The name landed like a stone.
Julian’s father.
The man who had sat across from me at countless dinners.
The man who criticized my manners.
The man who treated my children like financial inconveniences.
He had known my mother.
And may have ordered her death.
I wanted proof.
Rebecca had it.
Or claimed she did.
“A recorded phone call,” she said.
“Where?”
“With me.”
“You expect me to meet you?”
“Yes.”
“Absolutely not.”
“Then you never hear it.”
She gave me an address.
An abandoned chapel outside Stirling.
Midnight.
Of course.
Everything about it sounded like a trap.
So we treated it like one.
Fiona coordinated the operation.
Armed officers concealed themselves around the property.
I wore a recording device.
Logan argued against my participation until his voice went hoarse.
Then I told him the truth.
“If Charles killed my mother, I need to hear it.”
His jaw tightened.
“I hate this.”
“So do I.”
He pressed his forehead against mine.
“Come back to me.”
“I will.”
At eleven fifty-eight, I entered the chapel.
Rebecca stood near the ruined altar.
She looked surprisingly ordinary.
Dark hair streaked with gray.
Black coat.
No theatrical madness.
No weapon visible.
She held a small cassette recorder.
“You look like Margaret.”
“You knew my mother.”
“She was the only person who tried to help me.”
“Then why threaten my family?”
Rebecca’s face tightened.
“Because every time I asked politely, Ashford lawyers buried me.”
“That wasn’t me.”
“You inherited their walls.”
“And you photographed my daughter.”
Pain flashed across her face.
“I know.”
“That was unforgivable.”
“I know.”
She placed the recorder on a wooden pew.
“My father took my child.”
“James.”
“Yes.”
“And Charles helped?”
“Charles helped cover it.”
“Why?”
“Because the child’s father was married.”
“To whom?”
Rebecca laughed bitterly.
“Another Whitmore scandal.”
I almost lost patience.
Then she said the name.
“Harrison Vance.”
Everything connected again.
Harrison had been twenty-eight.
Rebecca nineteen.
He got her pregnant.
James forced the adoption.
Years later, Harrison apparently knew about the child but chose career and status over finding her.
That explained Rebecca’s complicated relationship with Harrison.
They hated each other.
But shared secrets.
She pressed play.
Charles’s younger voice crackled through static.
**Margaret Ashford has copies.**
James answered.
**Then frighten her.**
Charles said:
**She doesn’t frighten easily.**
Then silence.
Then:
**The driver understands. No permanent loose ends.**
My stomach turned.
Rebecca stopped the tape.
“That conversation was recorded three days before your mother died.”
“Why did you keep it?”
“Insurance.”
“And now?”
“I want my daughter.”
“I don’t have her.”
“But Margaret found her.”
“How do you know?”
“She sent me one letter before she died.”
Rebecca handed me a folded copy.
My mother had written:
**Your daughter is safe. She has been placed outside the reach of both families. When she is old enough, the truth will belong to her.**
No name.
No location.
Nothing.
Rebecca’s eyes filled with tears.
“I have searched for thirty-five years.”
For one dangerous second, I almost felt sorry for her.
Then police lights flooded the chapel windows.
Rebecca did not run.
She simply closed her eyes.
“I knew you’d bring them.”
“You kidnapped Thomas.”
“Yes.”
“You stalked my children.”
“Yes.”
“You threatened my family.”
“Yes.”
“Then you knew how this ended.”
Police entered.
Rebecca raised her hands.
Before Fiona cuffed her, Rebecca looked at me.
“If you find my daughter…”
I waited.
“Tell her I looked.”
I said nothing.
Because some messages were not mine to promise.
But the following morning, Alistair received a call from Boston.
Investigators had matched Case 22-R through sealed adoption records.
Rebecca’s daughter had been found.
Alive.
May you like
And she already knew exactly who Claire Ashford was.
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