Chapter 4 - THE WOMAN WHO WAS SUPPOSED TO BE DEADI didn't sleep that night.
Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Sarah Mitchell's face.
Sarah had been my closest friend since seventh grade.
We met when she defended me from three girls who made fun of my secondhand sneakers.
She had flaming red hair, green eyes, and a laugh so loud that teachers could hear it from the opposite end of the hallway.
We were inseparable.
She knew every secret I'd ever kept.
She was the first person I called when I failed my driver's test.
The first person I told when my college boyfriend cheated on me.
And the only person who understood how lonely I felt inside my own family.
Then, six years ago, Sarah moved to Chicago for work.
We stayed in touch for a while.
But our conversations grew shorter as life became complicated.
Two years before I enlisted, my mother told me Sarah had died in a car accident.
"Her family didn't want a public funeral," she'd said.
I remembered sitting on my bedroom floor sobbing.
Mom hadn't hugged me.
She'd simply said, "People die, Emily. You need to learn to move on."
Now I was holding a photograph proving that Sarah was alive.
I called the number that had sent the messages.
Straight to voicemail.
No greeting.
No identifying information.
I tried again.
Nothing.
At six the next morning, I went downstairs.
Mr. Greer was already awake.
He sat at his kitchen table with a newspaper and a cup of black coffee.
The headline stretched across the front page.
RETURNING SOLDIER ACCUSED OF ESCAPING PRISON BY OWN MOTHER.
Beneath it was a photograph of me standing in uniform while my mother pointed at me.
Mr. Greer glanced up.
"Morning."
I held out my phone.
"Can you help me find someone?"
He put down his newspaper.
"Who?"
"Sarah Mitchell."
He frowned.
"The girl with the red hair?"
"Yes."
"I thought she moved to Chicago."
"She did."
He looked confused.
"Then why—"
"My mother told me she died."
Mr. Greer stared.
"What?"
I showed him the photograph.
He studied it.
"That's Sarah."
"I know."
He handed the phone back.
"Emily, I saw her about two months ago."
My heartbeat accelerated.
"Where?"
"At the post office. She was arguing with your brother."
"What were they arguing about?"
"I couldn't hear everything. But she seemed upset. Nathan kept telling her to lower her voice."
I gripped the edge of the table.
"Did she mention me?"
Mr. Greer hesitated.
"Yes."
My stomach tightened.
"What did she say?"
"Something about telling you the truth."
I stood so quickly that my chair scraped across the floor.
"Why didn't you tell me?"
"I didn't know you'd been told she was dead."
I pressed my fingers against my temples.
My mother's lies had spread into every corner of my life.
My friends.
My reputation.
My money.
Even my grief.
I had mourned a living woman.
That morning, I contacted an attorney recommended by a military veterans' support organization.
Her name was Rebecca Sloan.
She was forty-three, sharp-eyed, and had spent more than fifteen years handling fraud, defamation, and financial disputes.
We met at her office above a bank in downtown Ashford.
She listened without interrupting.
When I finished, she sat back.
"Emily, there are several separate issues here."
"I know."
"No," she said gently. "I don't think you fully understand how serious this could become."
She placed the forged document on her desk.
"If this signature was falsified and used to redirect trust assets, we're potentially looking at civil fraud and possibly criminal conduct."
I stared at her.
"Can we prove it?"
"We can investigate it."
She continued.
"The foundation raises additional questions. But we need bank records, governing documents, actual expenditures, and information about what representations were made to donors."
"Will the police investigate?"
"If the evidence supports it, we'll refer the appropriate matters to law enforcement and regulators."
Then she looked at me carefully.
"And Emily?"
"Yes?"
"Do not confront your family alone."
I thought about my mother slapping me.
My father grabbing my wrist.
The anonymous threats.
"All right."
"Document everything. Preserve the original messages. Do not alter files or post accusations you can't substantiate."
She paused.
"Have you contacted your former military command?"
"I can."
"Good. We'll want reliable verification of your service dates, especially if your family continues spreading false claims."
I nodded.
Then handed her the photograph of Sarah.
"My mother also told me this woman was dead."
Rebecca examined it.
Her eyebrows rose.
"Is she connected to the foundation?"
"I think so."
She studied me.
"How do you know her?"
"She was my best friend."
"Then perhaps we should find her."
By lunchtime, the story had exploded.
Channel 7's video had been shared thousands of times.
Strangers were leaving comments beneath the news report.
Some called my parents monsters.
Others accused me of staging the entire confrontation.
Several claimed my Army uniform was fake.
One anonymous account wrote:
Emily Whitmore has always been unstable. Her family has protected her for years.
The username was familiar.
AshfordMom56.
My mother's online account.
I stared at the screen.
Even now, she was trying to convince people I was dangerous.
My phone rang.
Nathan.
For the first time in four years, my brother was calling.
I answered.
"Hello?"
His voice came immediately.
"What the hell are you doing?"
I closed my eyes.
"Nice to hear from you too."
"You're destroying Dad's campaign!"
"Apparently that's more important than discovering your sister is alive."
He exhaled sharply.
"Don't be dramatic."
I almost laughed.
"You've been telling people I was in prison."
"Mom handled that."
"And you benefited from it."
Silence.
Then he said quietly, "You need to stop talking."
"Why?"
"Because you have no idea what you're getting into."
"Then explain it."
He hesitated.
"Meet me tonight. Seven o'clock. The old diner on Route 16."
"Why?"
"Because there are things about Grandpa's money you don't understand."
I felt my pulse quicken.
"Is Sarah going to be there?"
The silence changed.
"What?"
"Sarah Mitchell. My supposedly dead best friend."
Nathan swore under his breath.
"Who told you about her?"
"Answer the question."
"Emily, listen to me carefully."
His voice dropped.
"Stay away from Sarah."
"Why?"
"Because she's the reason Dad started lying about you in the first place."
Then he hung up.
I called back.
No answer.
At 6:45 that evening, I drove to the diner.
Rebecca had advised me not to meet Nathan alone, so Mr. Greer came with me.
We parked across the street.
The diner had changed very little since high school.
Red vinyl booths.
Fluorescent lights.
A flickering OPEN sign.
I could still remember Sarah and me sitting near the window, sharing a plate of fries and making plans to leave Ashford forever.
At 7:03, Nathan arrived.
He wore a black jacket and expensive shoes.
But he wasn't alone.
A woman stepped out of his car.
Long red hair.
Green eyes.
My heart stopped.
Sarah.
I opened the truck door.
"Sarah!"
She turned.
For one brief moment, our eyes met.
Her face crumpled.
"Emily?"
I started toward her.
But Nathan grabbed her arm.
"Get back in the car."
She pulled away.
"No."
I stopped a few feet from them.
"Sarah?"
Tears spilled down her cheeks.
"Oh, God. Emily."
She rushed toward me.
And wrapped her arms around my neck.
I held her so tightly I was afraid I might hurt her.
"You're alive," I whispered.
She began sobbing.
"I thought you'd never come back."
I pulled away.
"My mother told me you died."
Sarah covered her mouth.
Then shook her head.
"No."
I stared at her.
"Why?"
She looked toward Nathan.
Then whispered:
"Because I found out what your father did."
Nathan stepped forward.
"Sarah, don't."
She ignored him.
"Emily, six years ago, I was working as a junior accountant for Whitmore Construction."
I blinked.
"What?"
"I found transfers that didn't match the invoices. Hundreds of thousands of dollars."
My brother's face went white.
Sarah continued.
"I told your father I wanted an explanation. He told me there was nothing to worry about."
"What happened?"
"He offered me money to stay quiet."
I felt cold.
"Did you take it?"
Sarah shook her head.
"No. I made copies."
Nathan swore.
"Sarah!"
She looked at him.
"I'm done protecting you."
Then she turned back to me.
"Emily, your father didn't steal the money."
My breath caught.
She looked directly at Nathan.
"Your brother did."
Nathan took a step backward.
I stared at him.
He didn't deny it.
Sarah continued, her voice breaking.
"And when I threatened to report it, your parents decided they needed someone else to blame."
I could barely speak.
"Me?"
She nodded.
"You."
Then she reached into her purse.
Removed a small black flash drive.
And placed it in my hand.
"This contains the original transactions."
I stared at it.
"But there's one more thing."
Sarah's voice dropped to a whisper.
"Your brother didn't act alone."
I looked up.
She glanced toward the parking lot.
A dark SUV was approaching.
Her expression changed instantly.
Fear flashed across her face.
"Oh, no."
I turned.
The SUV slowed.
Its tinted windows reflected the diner's neon sign.
Sarah grabbed my arm.
"Emily, we need to leave."
"Why?"
She stared at the vehicle.
"Because your father found out I was going to give you the evidence."
The passenger window began rolling down.
May you like
And Sarah whispered:
"That's the man he hired to make me disappear."
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