CHAPTER 7 — THE EMAILS HE NEVER EXPECTED
CHAPTER 7 — THE EMAILS HE NEVER EXPECTED
My mother was waiting for us when we returned home.
She knew immediately.
Not because Daniel was standing beside me.
Not because Olivia followed close behind.
Because I was carrying the folder.
The receipts.
She looked at it once and stopped breathing.
“Maya…”
I placed the folder on the kitchen table.
“Who were you protecting?”
Her face went white.
Olivia closed the door behind us.
For several seconds, nobody spoke.
Then Mom whispered:
“Where did you get those?”
“That doesn't answer my question.”
She looked at Arthur's empty chair.
“He told you.”
“No.”
I shook my head.
“He didn't.”
I opened the folder.
“Someone else did.”
Her eyes moved to the first page.
Then the second.
Then the third.
By the time she reached the payment records, her hands were trembling.
“You shouldn't have these.”
“Why?”
“Because they're dangerous.”
“I've heard that word enough.”
I stepped closer.
“Who were you protecting?”
She closed her eyes.
And when she opened them, I knew she had finally decided to stop lying.
“Your brother.”
I froze.
“My what?”
Olivia stared at her.
Daniel went completely still.
Mom began to cry.
“You had a brother.”
The silence afterward was unbearable.
I stared at her.
“A brother?”
“Yes.”
“Where is he?”
She looked toward the window.
“He died.”
“When?”
“Before you were born.”
I couldn't speak.
Olivia stepped forward.
“Why didn't we know?”
Mom shook her head.
“Because he wasn't supposed to exist.”
I felt sick.
“What does that mean?”
She wiped her tears.
“His name was Ethan.”
“Ethan what?”
“Mercer.”
Daniel's face changed.
I looked at him.
He seemed as shocked as I was.
“You knew about Ethan?”
He shook his head.
“No.”
Mom stared at him.
“You didn't know.”
Daniel's jaw tightened.
“No.”
“Then who did?”
She whispered:
“Your father.”
I looked toward the empty chair.
“Arthur?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because Ethan was his son.”
My mind stopped.
Arthur had a son.
A biological son.
Before me.
Before Olivia.
And my mother had hidden him.
But why?
Then the answer came from the one person I hadn't expected.
Daniel.
“Ethan was my brother.”
Mom nodded.
“Yes.”
I looked between them.
The family tree I had known my entire life was collapsing in real time.
“Start from the beginning,” I said.
Mom sat down.
Her hands shook.
“Your father met Daniel before he met me.”
I frowned.
“Arthur and Daniel knew each other?”
“They were partners.”
Daniel looked away.
“Business partners?”
“Friends,” Mom said.
“Very close friends.”
She looked at Daniel.
“Until Ethan died.”
“What happened to him?”
Her lips trembled.
“He was six.”
Olivia covered her mouth.
“How?”
“An accident.”
I looked at Daniel.
He stared at the floor.
“What accident?”
Mom didn't answer.
Daniel did.
“A warehouse fire.”
My heart sank.
“Who started it?”
“No one knows.”
I looked at the receipts.
“You said no one knows.”
Daniel nodded.
“But someone paid to make the investigation disappear.”
My stomach tightened.
“Who?”
He looked at me.
“That is what we're trying to find.”
Mom went to her bedroom.
When she returned, she was holding a small wooden box.
She placed it on the table.
“I kept these for twenty-three years.”
Inside were photographs.
Letters.
A hospital bracelet.
And a child's drawing.
I picked it up.
Four stick figures stood beneath a yellow sun.
A man.
A woman.
A little boy.
And a baby.
Underneath were four names written in childish handwriting.
Daddy. Mommy. Ethan. Maya.
My fingers trembled.
“I drew this?”
Mom nodded.
“You were three.”
I looked at the picture again.
“Why was Ethan still alive in this drawing?”
“Because you didn't understand that he was gone.”
I swallowed.
“How did he die?”
Mom closed her eyes.
“Because someone wanted to hurt Daniel.”
“Why?”
“Money.”
Of course.
Money.
It always came back to money.
Daniel sat down.
“Ethan was the first warning.”
I looked at him.
“Warning for what?”
“For what they would do to get control of Hartwell Group.”
I frowned.
“But Arthur owned Hartwell.”
“Not then.”
Daniel looked at me.
“Your grandfather did.”
I understood.
“This goes back another generation.”
“Yes.”
“How far?”
“Far enough that some of the people involved are dead.”
“And the ones who aren't?”
Daniel's expression hardened.
“They're still rich.”
That night, I couldn't sleep.
At 2:13 a.m., I opened my laptop.
The receipts were spread across the desk.
I began sorting them by date.
Payments.
Emails.
Contracts.
Bank transfers.
Then I noticed something.
A series of payments had been made exactly three days before every major event in our family's history.
Three days before Ethan's death.
Three days before my mother's accident.
Three days before Daniel disappeared.
Three days before my birth.
And three days before my father created my trust.
It wasn't random.
Someone had been preparing for every event.
I created a spreadsheet.
Then I opened the metadata of the documents.
Most had been scanned years ago.
But one file had a strange timestamp.
It had been accessed yesterday.
After I signed the trust.
Someone had opened it.
From an unknown device.
I stared at the screen.
Then I saw something else.
An email address.
The document had been forwarded to:
My heart stopped.
E.Hartwell.
Ethan Hartwell.
But Ethan was dead.
Unless—
I checked the company domain.
Mercer Holdings.
The account had been active.
Last login:
Today.
I sat back.
My pulse raced.
There was no way.
Ethan had died when he was six.
He couldn't have an email account.
Unless someone was using his identity.
I forwarded the information to Daniel.
His reply came within seconds.
Don't touch it.
I typed:
Why?
His answer:
Because I know that address.
Then:
And I know who created it.
Daniel arrived at my apartment twenty minutes later.
He looked exhausted.
“What is it?”
I showed him.
He stared at the screen.
“That's Ethan's account.”
“You said you didn't know about it.”
“I didn't know it was active.”
“Who created it?”
He didn't answer.
“Daniel.”
He rubbed his face.
“Your father.”
“Why?”
“To store records.”
“What records?”
“Everything connected to Ethan.”
I frowned.
“Then why is someone logging into it now?”
Daniel looked at me.
“Because they want you to find it.”
I felt a chill.
“What if they want me to open it?”
“Don't.”
“Why?”
“Because whoever has access knows exactly what you're doing.”
I stared at the screen.
The inbox showed 1,742 unread emails.
Most were dated decades ago.
But one was from yesterday.
Subject: You finally know.
My hands went cold.
Daniel grabbed my wrist.
“Don't open it.”
I looked at him.
“What if this is the truth?”
“What if it's bait?”
I pulled my hand free.
“I've spent my entire life being told what I can and can't know.”
Then I clicked.
The email contained no text.
Only an attachment.
A video.
The file name:
ETHAN_1987_FINAL.mp4
My heart pounded.
Daniel went pale.
“Where did you get that?”
“It was in the account.”
He stared at the screen.
“Don't play it.”
I pressed play.
The screen flickered.
A grainy image appeared.
A warehouse.
Smoke.
Emergency lights.
Then a little boy appeared on camera.
Six years old.
Dark hair.
Bright eyes.
He was standing beside a woman.
My mother.
I stopped breathing.
The recording date appeared at the bottom.
October 16, 1987.
Three days before the fire.
My mother was crying.
Ethan was holding her hand.
Then another person entered the frame.
Arthur.
Young.
Angry.
He grabbed my mother's arm.
The audio was faint.
But one sentence came through clearly.
“You promised me he would never know.”
My mother screamed:
“He's your son!”
Arthur looked toward the camera.
For a second, his face was perfectly visible.
Then the screen went black.
I stared at the laptop.
Daniel couldn't speak.
“What did we just see?”
He looked at me.
“Your father knew Ethan was alive before the fire.”
I shook my head.
“No.”
“He was there.”
“No.”
“Maya—”
“No!”
I stood.
“You said Ethan died in a warehouse fire.”
“He did.”
“Then why was he alive three days before it?”
Daniel looked at the screen.
“I don't know.”
The laptop chimed.
A new email had arrived.
We both froze.
Sender:
Subject:
YOU WERE NEVER SUPPOSED TO SEE THAT.
I opened it.
The message contained one sentence.
Ask Arthur who gave the order.
Then another email arrived.
Ask your mother why she lied about the fire.
Then another.
And ask Daniel why he disappeared afterward.
I stared at the three messages.
Someone was watching.
Someone knew exactly what we had discovered.
Someone wanted us to turn against one another.
But the final email contained something different.
An attachment.
A bank receipt.
The amount:
$5,000,000.
Recipient:
A. HARTWELL.
Sender:
D. MERCER.
Date:
The day Ethan died.
I looked at Daniel.
“You paid Arthur five million dollars?”
His face went white.
“I didn't.”
“Then who did?”
He stared at the receipt.
Then slowly whispered:
“That account was closed twenty years ago.”
“Then how did someone access it?”
He didn't answer.
The laptop chimed again.
A final message appeared.
The account wasn't accessed.
It was recreated.
Then:
By someone inside Hartwell Group.
I felt the room tilt.
Someone had recreated an account belonging to a dead child.
Someone had resurrected a dead financial trail.
Someone had been preparing for me to discover it.
I closed the laptop.
“We need to find Arthur.”
Daniel shook his head.
“Not yet.”
“Why?”
“Because if someone is manipulating these emails, Arthur may be the target too.”
I stared at him.
“After everything he's done?”
“Yes.”
“Why protect him?”
Daniel looked at me.
“Because if Arthur isn't the person behind this…”
He paused.
“Then the person who is could be much closer to you.”
My blood ran cold.
“How close?”
Daniel looked toward the hallway.
Then he said:
“Inside your family.”
At 6:41 a.m., Olivia called.
Her voice was shaking.
“Maya?”
“What happened?”
“I found something.”
“What?”
“I was going through Mom's old files.”
“Did you find Ethan?”
“No.”
“Then what?”
Silence.
“Olivia?”
“I found a birth certificate.”
“For Ethan?”
“No.”
My heart stopped.
“For me.”
“What does it say?”
She began crying.
“Maya…”
“What?”
“My father's name isn't Arthur.”
I couldn't breathe.
“What?”
“It's Daniel Mercer.”
The phone slipped slightly in my hand.
Behind me, Daniel stood completely still.
Olivia whispered:
“Dad lied about both of us.”
And for the first time, I understood the terrifying possibility.
Maybe the question wasn't who my father was.
May you like
Maybe the question was—
Which of us had been told the truth about our own birth?
