Chapter 6 — The Woman on the Phone
Chapter 6 — The Woman on the Phone
For several seconds after the call ended, I couldn't move.
My mother's voice was still inside my head.
Not a memory.
Not a dream.
Her voice.
Alive.
Real.
And she had just told me something that shattered the last piece of certainty I had.
Your father had another heir.
I looked at the photograph again.
My mother was standing beside me.
I was six years old.
And beside us was a little boy.
I didn't know him.
But there was something about his face that made my stomach twist.
His eyes.
They were my father's eyes.
I picked up the phone.
“Call her.”
Harris was already trying.
“Number is blocked.”
“Trace it.”
“We're working on it.”
“Do it faster.”
He looked at the photograph.
“Who is the boy?”
“I don't know.”
“Could he be your brother?”
“My father never mentioned another child.”
“That doesn't mean there wasn't one.”
I stared at the photograph.
My mother had kept him hidden.
For fourteen years.
Why?
And why had she called me now?
At 3:17 a.m., Harris's phone rang.
He answered.
His expression changed.
“What?”
He listened.
Then looked at me.
“Where?”
He wrote something down.
“Understood.”
He ended the call.
“It's the number.”
“You found her?”
“Not exactly.”
“Then what?”
“The call originated from a prepaid phone.”
“Where?”
“An abandoned train station.”
My heart sank.
“She was there?”
“Maybe.”
“Let's go.”
Harris shook his head.
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because someone wanted us to know where the call came from.”
I stared at him.
“A trap.”
“Exactly.”
I looked at the photograph again.
The woman beside me wasn't merely my mother.
She was bait.
Someone knew I would chase her.
And someone wanted me away from the hospital.
Away from Ethan.
I grabbed my coat.
“We're not going.”
Harris nodded.
“I agree.”
Then his phone rang again.
This time, it was the hospital.
His face changed.
“What happened?”
He listened.
Then looked at me.
“Ethan is gone.”
My heart stopped.
We reached the hospital in six minutes.
The room was empty.
The bed was still warm.
The monitor was running.
The IV had been removed.
The window was open.
I screamed his name.
“ETHAN!”
No answer.
Harris immediately called security.
“Lock down every exit.”
I searched the room.
Then I saw something beneath the pillow.
A folded piece of paper.
I opened it.
Three words.
COME ALONE, MOM.
My hands shook.
“This isn't Ethan's handwriting.”
“No.”
Harris examined it.
“Whoever took him wants you to think he wrote this.”
My phone rang.
Unknown number.
I answered.
“Where is my son?”
The woman spoke.
“Safe.”
“Who are you?”
“You already know me.”
“No, I don't.”
“You've seen me.”
“Where?”
“At your wedding.”
My blood froze.
I remembered the wedding.
Hundreds of guests.
Family.
Friends.
Business associates.
A woman in a dark blue dress standing near the back.
I hadn't remembered her face.
But now...
I did.
“Who are you?”
She whispered:
“Look at your wedding photographs.”
The call ended.
We returned to my house.
Harris spread the wedding photographs across the dining table.
There were dozens.
Me.
Daniel.
Margaret.
Michael.
Nathaniel.
My father.
My mother.
And hundreds of guests.
We searched every photograph.
Then I found her.
The woman in blue.
Standing behind Margaret.
I zoomed in.
My hands went numb.
I knew her.
Not from the wedding.
From somewhere else.
“She was at my father's funeral.”
Harris looked closer.
“She was also at Emily Reed's funeral.”
“And?”
“She's in the background.”
I grabbed another photograph.
There she was.
At Daniel's funeral.
Again.
The same woman.
Different clothes.
Same face.
Same eyes.
Always watching.
“Who is she?”
Harris stared at the photographs.
“I don't know.”
Then I noticed something.
A necklace.
A small silver pendant.
Shaped like a bird.
I had seen it before.
On my mother.
My childhood photograph.
My mother was wearing the exact same pendant.
I whispered:
“She knows my mother.”
At 5:06 a.m., another message arrived.
A location.
An old church.
Harris looked at it.
“This is close.”
“I'm going.”
“Not alone.”
The message included one more line.
ONLY SARAH.
Harris frowned.
“That's what kidnappers say.”
“I don't care.”
“You should.”
“I have to get Ethan.”
“You'll get him.”
“How?”
“We'll follow.”
I shook my head.
“If she sees you, she may kill him.”
Harris didn't answer.
He knew I was right.
So I went alone.
The church was abandoned.
Broken windows.
Dusty pews.
A single light burning near the altar.
I stepped inside.
“Hello?”
No answer.
“Where is my son?”
A woman's voice came from behind me.
“Turn around.”
I did.
The woman in blue stood ten feet away.
She looked older than the photographs.
But unmistakable.
“Who are you?”
She smiled sadly.
“You really don't remember me.”
“No.”
She reached into her coat.
I stepped back.
She pulled out a photograph.
She handed it to me.
I looked.
It was another picture of me as a child.
I was sitting on my mother's lap.
The woman in blue was standing behind us.
My mother was smiling.
The woman was holding my hand.
I stared at the image.
“You were there.”
“Yes.”
“Who are you?”
She whispered:
“Eleanor Whitmore's sister.”
I froze.
“My aunt?”
She nodded.
“I was supposed to be dead.”
Her name was Clara Vale.
My mother's younger sister.
My aunt.
She had disappeared twenty-five years ago.
According to the family records, she had died in a boating accident.
She hadn't.
She had been hiding.
“For how long?”
“Twenty-five years.”
“Why?”
“Because your father wanted me dead.”
“Why?”
“Because I knew what he had done.”
I stared at her.
“What did he do?”
She looked toward the dark hallway.
“Your father didn't just build an empire.”
“What then?”
“He built it on secrets.”
“What secrets?”
“People.”
I didn't understand.
She continued.
“He bought companies from families who were about to collapse.”
“That isn't illegal.”
“He caused the collapses.”
My stomach turned.
“How?”
“Blackmail. Fraud. Manipulated contracts. Stolen information.”
I thought of Margaret's words.
My father had destroyed competitors.
But there was more.
Clara stepped closer.
“He wasn't alone.”
“Michael.”
“Yes.”
“Then why did Michael turn against him?”
“He didn't.”
I stared.
“What?”
“Michael was loyal to your father.”
“Then why did he kill him?”
“He didn't.”
I shook my head.
“The hospital records say poisoning.”
“Yes.”
“Michael changed them.”
“Yes.”
“So Michael killed my father.”
Clara shook her head.
“Michael covered up the death.”
“Who poisoned him?”
She looked at me.
“Your mother.”
My heart stopped.
“No.”
“I know what you think.”
“My mother loved him.”
“She did.”
“Then why?”
“Because he was going to kill you.”
Silence.
“He found out about the trust.”
Clara continued.
“He wanted to destroy it.”
“So my mother poisoned him to save me.”
“Yes.”
I couldn't breathe.
“But why did she disappear?”
“Because she knew Michael would blame her.”
“He did.”
“Exactly.”
I looked at Clara.
“Then why did Margaret say my mother ordered the murder?”
“Because Michael told her to.”
“Why?”
“To make you hate your mother.”
“Why?”
“Because if you found her, she could tell you the truth.”
I stared.
“So Michael needed me to believe my mother was evil.”
“Yes.”
“And Nathaniel?”
“He was blackmailed.”
“Emily?”
“Collateral.”
“Daniel?”
“Collateral.”
“Margaret?”
“Terrified.”
“Michael?”
Clara's expression hardened.
“Michael is only a servant.”
I felt a chill.
“Servant of whom?”
She didn't answer.
“Clara.”
“You're not ready.”
“I've almost been murdered twice.”
“You're still not ready.”
“Tell me.”
She looked toward the door.
Then whispered:
“The person who ordered everything is not Michael.”
“Who?”
She looked at me.
“Your father's first wife.”
I froze.
“My mother?”
“No.”
“My father had another wife?”
“Before Eleanor.”
“Who?”
Clara's face became pale.
“Her name was Victoria Whitmore.”
“Where is she?”
Clara shook her head.
“Dead.”
“Then how could she be behind this?”
“She isn't.”
I stared.
“Then why mention her?”
“Because she had a daughter.”
My heart stopped.
“The boy.”
Clara nodded.
“Your father's other heir.”
She showed me another photograph.
A teenage boy.
He looked like my father.
But older than the child in my photograph.
“Who is he?”
“His name is Adrian.”
“Adrian what?”
“Whitmore.”
“Where is he?”
“Michael has him.”
“Why?”
“Because Adrian is the only person who can legally challenge your claim to the estate.”
I stared.
“So that's why they wanted me dead.”
“Partly.”
“What else?”
Clara looked at me.
“Adrian doesn't want the money.”
“Then what does he want?”
“Justice.”
I remembered the trust.
Three deaths.
A surviving trustee.
A hidden heir.
The insurance policies.
It wasn't about money alone.
The entire system was designed to eliminate every legitimate claimant until only one person remained.
And Michael had been manipulating all of us.
But if Adrian was alive...
Then my death would change everything.
The trust would move.
The estate would become vulnerable.
And someone could finally claim it.
“Where is Ethan?”
Clara's expression changed.
“He's with Adrian.”
My heart stopped.
“What?”
“Your son wasn't kidnapped.”
I stared.
“What are you talking about?”
“Ethan left with him.”
“No.”
“He did.”
“My son is eight.”
“He's also smarter than the adults around him.”
I remembered the swapped bowls.
The tracking capsule.
The emergency button.
Ethan had been watching.
Learning.
Planning.
Clara reached into her coat and pulled out another device.
A smartwatch.
Ethan's.
“He asked me to give this to you.”
I took it.
There was a recording.
I pressed play.
My son's voice filled the abandoned church.
“Mom, don't be scared.”
I covered my mouth.
“I figured out Dad wasn't really Dad.”
My eyes filled with tears.
“Uncle Adrian says you have to know the truth before you trust anyone.”
Then Ethan whispered:
“There's someone else helping us.”
The recording ended.
I stared at Clara.
“Who?”
She looked toward the door.
Then smiled sadly.
“The woman who called you.”
“You?”
“No.”
“Then who?”
Clara didn't answer.
A second voice came from the darkness.
“You finally found her.”
I turned.
My mother stepped into the light.
Eleanor Whitmore.
Alive.
Older.
Tired.
But unmistakably my mother.
I couldn't breathe.
“Mom?”
She looked at me.
“I'm sorry.”
I ran toward her.
Then stopped.
Because behind her stood a man.
A young man.
Tall.
Dark-haired.
The same eyes as my father.
The same eyes as mine.
He looked at me.
I knew immediately.
Adrian.
My half-brother.
But there was something wrong.
His hands were tied.
And a gun was pointed at his head.
Michael stepped from behind him.
He smiled.
“Now,” he said quietly,
“we can finally discuss who inherits the Whitmore empire.”
I looked at my mother.
She wasn't surprised.
She was terrified.
And then I understood.
The woman on the phone had never been the mastermind.
She had been trying to warn me.
She wasn't Michael's accomplice.
She was his prisoner.
And the person standing behind Michael wasn't Adrian's captor.
It was someone I had trusted for fourteen years.
Someone I had believed was dead.
Someone who had just whispered:
“Sarah, don't trust me.”
May you like
My mother.
To be continued...
