Chapter 9: The Secret They Should Never Know

He knows about the child.

I read the message again, hoping the words would somehow change.

They didn't.

My hand moved instinctively to my abdomen. Beneath my palm, there was nothing to see, nothing that would tell a stranger the secret I had carried for years. Yet someone had sent those four words with the confidence of a person who knew exactly where to strike.

Daisy stood beside me, watching my face.

“Mara, what does it say?”

I handed her my phone.

She read the message, and the color drained from her expression.

“Who sent this?”

“I don't know. The same anonymous number that has been sending messages about the trust.”

“Does this person know you're pregnant?”

“I don't know.”

“Has anyone seen you at a medical appointment? Have you told anyone connected to the Delimans?”

“No.”

The answer came quickly, but my thoughts were already racing through every conversation, every appointment, every moment when I might have been careless.

I had hidden my pregnancy because I wanted to protect my child from a man whose betrayal had shattered my trust. I had kept the secret because I believed that leaving Dorico meant I could build a life beyond his family's reach.

Now I wondered whether someone had been watching me long before I returned to Silvercrest City.

Daisy returned the phone.

“We're not going to panic over an anonymous message. It could be a threat designed to make you reveal something.”

“But what if it isn't?”

“Then we'll deal with the facts. Not the fear.”

I wanted to believe her.

I really did.

But fear had already found a home inside me.

“What do we do now?” I asked.

“First, we get you somewhere safe. Second, we preserve every message and find out whether the sender can be identified through lawful channels. Third, we don't tell anyone anything about your personal life until we know who we're dealing with.”

I nodded.

Daisy collected the documents and placed them in her briefcase. Then she called a trusted colleague to arrange a car to the underground exit.

As we walked toward the elevator, my phone vibrated again.

Another message.

You should have stayed away from the Deliman family. Your mother tried to protect you. Don't make the same mistake she did.

My steps faltered.

My mother.

The sender wasn't simply threatening me. They were using my mother's memory to make me afraid.

I saved the message and showed Daisy.

She read it without speaking, then looked directly at me.

“Whoever this is, they want you to believe they know everything. That doesn't mean they do.”

“What if they knew my mother?”

“Then we'll find out who they are.”

The elevator doors opened.

I stepped inside, holding my phone so tightly that my fingers hurt.

For years, I had thought my mother's greatest legacy was the love she left behind.

Now I was beginning to suspect she had left me a battle she had never been able to finish.

And I wasn't going to let anyone use my child to make me surrender.

Daisy drove me to her office's private parking area and waited until the car she had arranged arrived.

“You can stay with me tonight,” she offered. “Or I can arrange somewhere else. Somewhere the Delimans wouldn't immediately think to look.”

“I don't want to put you in danger.”

“You're not putting me in danger by asking for help.”

I looked at her, grateful for her steadiness.

“Thank you.”

“Don't thank me yet. We still have a lot to investigate.”

Before I got into the car, I checked my phone one last time.

No new messages.

I should have felt relieved.

Instead, the silence made me wonder what the sender was doing while I waited.

Watching?

Planning?

Or simply waiting for me to make a mistake?

The driver took me to a small serviced apartment Daisy used when she needed to work late in the city. It wasn't luxurious, but it was quiet, secure, and away from my usual routine.

I checked the locks, closed the curtains, and placed my phone on the table.

Then I sat on the edge of the bed and let myself breathe.

For the first time that day, I allowed the fear to catch up with me.

If Dorico discovered the truth about the child, he would have questions. He would want to know why I hadn't told him, why I had raised our daughter without him, and why I had decided he had no right to be part of her life.

I knew those questions would hurt.

But I could survive his anger.

What frightened me was the possibility that Joaquin might see my child as another piece of the trust, another way to control me.

I pressed my hand over my abdomen.

“I won't let them turn you into a weapon,” I whispered.

The promise sounded small in the empty room.

But it was the only thing I could be certain of.

The next morning, Daisy arrived with coffee and a folder of preliminary notes.

She looked tired but determined.

“I made a few calls,” she said. “The anonymous messages are worth investigating, but we shouldn't assume they all came from the same person. The sender might have access to information from more than one source.”

“Could it be Vivi?”

“Possibly. But she gave us documents that may help establish the truth. We don't have enough evidence to accuse her of sending the threats.”

“What about Joaquin?”

“He has the motive to protect his family's interests, but motive isn't proof. We need to be careful not to let suspicion replace evidence.”

I nodded, though the thought of Joaquin still made my stomach tighten.

Daisy opened her folder.

“I also reviewed the documents Dorico provided. There are references to a protective trust and a designated representative. We need the complete instrument before we can understand exactly what authority that representative holds.”

“Joaquin.”

“His name appears on the copies, yes. But we need to confirm whether his authority remains valid and what conditions limit it.”

“And the original will?”

“Still unaccounted for.”

I stared at the table.

Everything led back to that missing document.

My mother's photograph. The agreement. Joaquin's threats. Dorico's signature. Vivi's warnings.

The missing will was no longer just a piece of paper.

It was the key to understanding why my life had become entangled with the Deliman family.

“What if the will changes everything?” I asked.

“Then we need to find it before someone destroys it or uses it to mislead us.”

Daisy closed the folder.

“I want to ask you something, Mara. Has anyone ever contacted you about your mother's estate before now?”

“No.”

“Not a lawyer? Not a trustee? Not someone claiming you were entitled to an inheritance?”

“No one. After my mother died, I received the personal belongings she had left to me. I thought that was all.”

“Did she ever tell you she had property or investments you didn't know about?”

I thought carefully.

“My mother wasn't wealthy, at least not in the way people imagine. We lived comfortably, but she was careful with money. She kept old documents in a locked cabinet, and she never liked me going through them.”

“Do you still have that cabinet?”

“No. I sold the house after she died.”

“Did you keep the contents?”

“Some. Her letters, photographs, and a few personal papers. Most of the financial documents went to the solicitor who handled her estate.”

Daisy leaned forward.

“Do you remember the solicitor's name?”

I closed my eyes, searching through old memories.

“Martin Ellery.”

Daisy went very still.

I opened my eyes.

“What?”

“That's the same lawyer Dorico mentioned as having prepared the agreement.”

For several seconds, neither of us spoke.

The name seemed to hang between us, connecting two parts of my life that should never have touched.

Martin Ellery had handled my mother's estate.

Martin Ellery had worked with Joaquin Deliman.

And Martin Ellery might have known why my marriage had been tied to the trust.

“Did he ever explain the estate documents to you?” Daisy asked.

“He sent a letter after the funeral. I remember it saying that the estate had been administered according to my mother's instructions. I didn't question it.”

“Do you still have that letter?”

“I don't know. It might be in one of the boxes I kept.”

“Then we need to find it.”

A strange feeling moved through me.

For the first time since the messages began, we had a lead that wasn't based on an anonymous threat.

A real name.

A real connection.

A letter I might still possess.

Perhaps the past had left a trail after all.

By noon, I had contacted the storage company where I kept several boxes from my old home.

The employee confirmed that the boxes were still there and arranged access for the following morning.

I told Daisy immediately.

“We'll go together,” she said. “Don't sort through the documents alone, and don't discard anything.”

“I won't.”

I almost smiled.

It was strange how quickly my life had changed. A week earlier, I had been thinking about business plans and trying to keep my daughter's routine stable. Now I was searching through old boxes because a lawyer's name had surfaced in a secret agreement connected to my marriage.

And all the while, I was trying to keep the truth about my child from reaching the wrong people.

My phone rang.

Dorico.

I stared at his name before answering.

“What do you want?”

“I need to know that you're safe.”

The concern in his voice irritated me more than it should have.

“You don't get to ask that as if nothing has changed.”

“I know.”

“Do you? Because someone is sending me messages about my mother and my child. Someone knows enough to frighten me, and your father's name keeps appearing in every part of this mess.”

“I heard about the messages.”

My stomach tightened.

“From whom?”

“My father called me this morning. He said you were making accusations and that your investigation could damage both families.”

“Both families?” I repeated. “You mean his reputation and my mother's memory?”

“I told him I wouldn't discuss your investigation with him.”

“That's not what I asked. How does he know what I'm doing?”

“I don't know.”

“You keep saying that.”

“Because it's the truth, Mara.”

“Then tell me something useful. Why was your father so interested in my mother?”

Dorico was silent for a moment.

“I found an old calendar entry in my father's records. It shows several meetings with Martin Ellery in the months before our wedding.”

I straightened.

“Martin Ellery handled my mother's estate.”

“I know. I found his name in the agreement files, then searched my father's old calendar.”

“Why didn't you tell me earlier?”

“Because I only found the entry this morning.”

I closed my eyes briefly.

“Can you prove the meetings happened?”

“I have a copy of the calendar entry. I'll send it to Daisy so she can verify it independently.”

That was the right answer.

It didn't repair anything, but it was the first time Dorico had offered evidence without demanding that I believe him.

“Thank you,” I said reluctantly.

He seemed surprised by the words.

“Mara, there's something else.”

My guard rose again.

“What?”

“My father asked me whether I'd spoken to you about the child.”

The room seemed to lose its air.

I gripped the phone.

“What did you tell him?”

“I asked him what he meant. He said someone had reported that you were hiding a child from me.”

My heart hammered so loudly I could barely hear his next words.

“I told him I wouldn't discuss your private life with him, and I ended the conversation.”

I stared at the wall.

Dorico knew.

Or at least, he suspected.

“Do you believe him?” I asked.

“I don't know what to believe yet. But I know you wouldn't hide something important without a reason.”

The words should have comforted me.

Instead, they hurt.

Because I had hidden something important.

I had hidden his daughter.

“Don't assume you understand my reasons,” I said.

“I won't.”

“And don't let your father use this to get close to me.”

“I won't allow him to use you.”

“You couldn't stop him from controlling our marriage.”

The silence that followed was heavy.

“No,” Dorico said. “I couldn't. And I won't pretend I can undo that. But I can choose what I do now.”

I wanted to believe him.

I also wanted to believe I could protect my daughter without ever needing him.

Neither desire felt entirely safe.

“Send the calendar entry to Daisy,” I said. “She'll decide what it means.”

“I will.”

I ended the call before the conversation could become personal.

For a long time, I stood beside the window, watching the city below.

Joaquin had apparently heard about a child.

But did he know the child was mine?

Did he know she was Dorico's?

Or was he simply casting a net, hoping I would reveal something in my fear?

I couldn't afford to guess.

I needed to find the letter.

I needed to understand the trust.

And I needed to protect Lucia before the secrets surrounding my marriage reached her.

That evening, I returned to my temporary apartment and opened my laptop.

Daisy had forwarded the calendar entry Dorico provided. The image showed several appointments between Joaquin and Martin Ellery, including one scheduled two days before my mother's final estate documents were filed.

The meeting description was brief.

Beneficial interest agreement final review.

I enlarged the image.

The date was clear.

The meeting had taken place six months before my wedding—the same period shown on the photograph of my mother standing beside Joaquin.

My mother had met Joaquin.

Joaquin had met Martin Ellery.

And Martin Ellery had prepared an agreement that tied my marriage to a trust.

The pieces were no longer scattered.

They were beginning to form a pattern.

My phone vibrated.

An unknown number.

I almost ignored it, but a message appeared before I could put the phone down.

You found Martin Ellery's name. Good. Now find the letter he sent after your mother's funeral.

I froze.

The message continued.

Read the final paragraph carefully. Your mother left you a warning, and someone made sure you never understood it.

I felt cold all over.

How could this person know about the letter?

Had they seen it?

Had they helped prepare it?

Or were they simply watching every step I took?

I forwarded the message to Daisy, then opened my storage appointment confirmation and checked the time.

Tomorrow morning.

I would find the boxes.

I would find the letter.

And I would read every word my mother had left me.

I was about to close my laptop when another message arrived.

This one contained a photograph of a page from an old letter.

The paper was yellowed, and the handwriting looked familiar.

My mother's handwriting.

Only a few lines were visible.

If anything happens to me, Mara must never be left entirely under Joaquin's control. The marriage may satisfy the condition, but it does not give him ownership of what belongs to her.

I stopped breathing.

Beneath those words was a final sentence.

If Dorico has signed the agreement, he must be made to understand what his signature means before the original will is found.

I stared at the screen, my hands trembling.

My mother had known about the agreement.

She had known Dorico might sign it.

And she had written a warning that someone had kept from me.

The last line of the photograph was cut off, hiding the signature and the date.

I zoomed in, desperate to read more, but there was nothing else.

Then a final message appeared.

Ask Dorico what happened the night your mother disappeared from the hospital.

My entire body went still.

My mother had died after a short illness. That was what I had been told. I remembered the hospital room, the machines, the doctor who explained that there had been complications.

I remembered holding her hand.

But I had never heard that she had disappeared from the hospital.

I read the message again.

Then I called Daisy.

She answered immediately.

“Mara?”

I struggled to find my voice.

“I think someone is sending me pieces of my mother's past.”

“What's happened?”

I sent her the photograph of the letter.

There was a long silence on the line.

Then Daisy spoke, her voice suddenly careful.

“Mara, don't contact Dorico or Joaquin about this yet.”

“Why?”

“Because if that letter is authentic, it raises a question we need to answer before anyone has the chance to influence your memory of what happened.”

“What question?”

Daisy took a breath.

“Who had access to your mother's hospital records and why would someone want you to believe she left the hospital that night?”

I looked at the photograph on my screen.

For the first time, I wondered whether the story of my mother's final days had been incomplete from the beginning.

And if someone had concealed what happened to her, then the trust was only one part of a much larger secret.

Tomorrow, I would search the boxes for the letter.

But tonight, I couldn't escape the question that had followed me since the first photograph arrived.

What had really happened to my mother before I lost her?