Chapter 6 — The Secret Behind Christmas Eve
Chapter 6 — The Secret Behind Christmas Eve
I didn't sleep that night.
Neither did James.
We stayed in separate rooms.
Not because he had asked me to leave.
Not because I had told him to go.
Because neither of us knew what to say.
Every time I closed my eyes, I heard Lauren's voice.
Ask your husband what happened the night Richard died.
And then another memory surfaced.
Christmas Eve.
The first Christmas James and I had spent together.
I had always remembered it as one of the happiest nights of my life.
Now I wasn't sure whether it had been happiness at all.
Maybe it had been the night everything began.
At six in the morning, I found James standing in the kitchen.
He hadn't changed clothes.
His coffee was untouched.
He looked exhausted.
I stopped in the doorway.
“Tell me about Christmas Eve.”
He looked up.
“What about it?”
“The Christmas Eve before we married.”
His face changed.
“You remember?”
“I remember everything.”
He slowly put the cup down.
“What do you remember?”
“You disappeared.”
He said nothing.
“You told me you had an emergency.”
“I did.”
“You were gone for six hours.”
“Yes.”
“You came back with blood on your shirt.”
His eyes lowered.
I felt my heart tighten.
“You said it wasn't yours.”
“It wasn't.”
“What happened?”
He remained silent.
I stepped closer.
“James.”
He looked at me.
“I went to meet Richard.”
“Why?”
“He contacted me.”
“About my family?”
“Yes.”
“What did he want?”
“To give me something.”
“What?”
“A file.”
I stared at him.
“What was in it?”
“Documents.”
“About my daughter?”
“Yes.”
My breath caught.
“Why didn't you tell me?”
“Because Richard told me not to.”
“Why would you listen to him?”
“Because he told me someone was watching you.”
I shook my head.
“You could have told me.”
“I wanted to.”
“But you didn't.”
“No.”
“Why?”
His eyes filled with regret.
“Because I was afraid.”
I laughed bitterly.
“Everyone is always afraid.”
“I know.”
“My parents were afraid.”
“Of losing their money.”
“Lauren was afraid.”
“Of being exposed.”
“And you?”
He looked at me.
“Of losing you.”
That answer should have comforted me.
It didn't.
“What happened to Richard?”
James looked away.
“He was alive when I left him.”
I stared at him.
“When did you leave?”
“Eleven forty-three.”
“Christmas Eve?”
“Yes.”
“Richard died at midnight.”
James nodded.
“You were the last person to see him alive.”
“Yes.”
I felt cold.
“Did the police question you?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“They cleared me.”
“Why?”
“Because I wasn't there when he died.”
“How do they know?”
“Traffic cameras.”
I paused.
“Then why won't you tell me?”
“Because the police report doesn't tell the whole story.”
“What does it leave out?”
James looked at me.
“Richard knew he was going to die.”
I froze.
“What?”
“He told me someone was coming for him.”
“Who?”
“He wouldn't say.”
“Why?”
“Because he wanted to protect you.”
“Again.”
I closed my eyes.
“Everything was always about protecting me.”
“Yes.”
“And nobody ever asked me what I wanted.”
James didn't answer.
At eight o'clock, he finally brought the file out.
It was hidden behind a false panel in our bedroom closet.
I had never noticed it.
He placed it on the bed.
“This is everything Richard gave me.”
I stared at the old brown folder.
“You kept it for fourteen years?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because I promised him.”
“You promised a dead man before you promised me.”
His face tightened.
“Yes.”
That hurt.
But I opened the file.
The first document was a hospital record.
My name.
My date of birth.
My mother's signature.
And beneath it:
INFANT FEMALE — TRANSFERRED TO PRIVATE CUSTODY.
I couldn't breathe.
Private custody.
Not death.
Not stillbirth.
Not disappearance.
Transfer.
I turned the page.
A second document.
A payment receipt.
My father had paid a private agency.
The amount was enormous.
My hands began shaking.
“Why would he pay them?”
James sat beside me.
“I don't know.”
I turned another page.
There was a name.
Bellmont Family Trust.
I frowned.
“What's this?”
James leaned closer.
“I've never seen that before.”
“It's on every payment.”
I looked at the dates.
Three payments.
One before my daughter was born.
Two after.
Then I saw the final payment.
My blood went cold.
It had been made on Christmas Eve.
The same night Richard died.
I looked at James.
“This was the night you met him.”
“Yes.”
“And this payment happened hours before.”
“Yes.”
“Where did the money go?”
He pointed to the account number.
“That's what Richard was investigating.”
I stared at the page.
The account belonged to a company.
Not a person.
Bellmont Children's Foundation.
I frowned.
“A children's foundation?”
James nodded.
“That's what it looked like.”
“What did it really do?”
“We never found out.”
I turned another page.
There was a photograph.
A building.
A large white house surrounded by trees.
Underneath it was an address.
I read it twice.
“Where is this?”
James looked at me.
“About three hours from here.”
“What is it?”
“A private residential facility.”
“For children?”
“Yes.”
I felt sick.
“Was my daughter there?”
“I don't know.”
“Then we're going.”
James didn't hesitate.
“Yes.”
Before we left, I called my mother.
She answered immediately.
“Please don't call me.”
“I found the records.”
Silence.
“Mom.”
“You shouldn't have them.”
“Why?”
“Because your father promised…”
“Dad is dead.”
“I know.”
“Then there's no one left to protect.”
She began crying.
“That's not true.”
“Tell me about Bellmont.”
She stopped breathing.
“Who told you that name?”
“Dad's records.”
“Please.”
“What happened on Christmas Eve?”
“I can't.”
“You can.”
“No.”
“Was my daughter transferred to Bellmont?”
My mother began sobbing.
“I'm sorry.”
The words hit me harder than a confession.
“Was she?”
“I don't know where she is now.”
“But she was there.”
My mother didn't answer.
I closed my eyes.
“Mom.”
“I saw her.”
My entire body went numb.
“You saw her?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“The day after she was born.”
“Where?”
“At the facility.”
“Was she alive?”
“Yes.”
I covered my mouth.
My mother continued crying.
“She was beautiful.”
I could barely speak.
“Why didn't you tell me?”
“Your father said you would destroy the family.”
“What family?”
“The Whitmore name.”
I laughed through my tears.
“My baby was worth less than a family name?”
“No.”
“That is exactly what you're saying.”
“I was wrong.”
“Where is she?”
“I don't know.”
“Who took her?”
My mother hesitated.
“Lauren.”
I froze.
“What?”
“Lauren arranged the transfer.”
My heart stopped.
“She was eighteen.”
“Yes.”
“How could she arrange anything?”
“Because someone gave her power.”
“Who?”
My mother whispered a name.
I almost didn't hear it.
“Richard.”
I stared at the phone.
“Richard helped Lauren?”
“Not at first.”
“Then why?”
“Because he realized what your father had done.”
“What did Dad do?”
“He signed the papers.”
My stomach turned.
“For the adoption?”
“Yes.”
“Did I sign anything?”
“No.”
“Then how was it legal?”
My mother said nothing.
I understood.
“It wasn't.”
“No.”
My voice became cold.
“It was kidnapping.”
My mother began crying.
“Yes.”
We left within the hour.
James drove.
I sat beside him with the folder on my lap.
Neither of us spoke for the first twenty minutes.
Then I asked:
“Did Richard know?”
“Yes.”
“Did he try to stop it?”
“Yes.”
“Why didn't he?”
“Your father threatened him.”
“With what?”
“His family.”
I looked at James.
“Richard had a family?”
“A wife and son.”
“Are they alive?”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“I don't know.”
I looked through the documents again.
Then I noticed something.
A handwritten note.
I unfolded it.
The handwriting was my father's.
If Evelyn ever finds out, tell her Lauren was not the one who started this.
I stared at the sentence.
“James.”
He glanced over.
“What?”
“Read this.”
He did.
His hands tightened on the steering wheel.
“What does it mean?”
“I don't know.”
“But my mother said Lauren arranged the transfer.”
“She may have.”
“Then why would Dad say she didn't start it?”
James didn't answer.
I read the note again.
Lauren was not the one who started this.
A horrible thought entered my mind.
“Then who did?”
James looked at the road.
“I think we're about to find out.”
The facility looked abandoned.
A rusted gate.
Broken lights.
Tall weeds.
The white building from the photograph stood at the end of a long driveway.
I stared through the windshield.
“This place is still here.”
“Yes.”
“Why did nobody shut it down?”
James parked.
“We need to be careful.”
We walked toward the entrance.
The front door was locked.
James tried the handle.
Nothing.
Then he noticed a small metal box beside the door.
Inside was an old key.
He looked at me.
“How convenient.”
“Too convenient.”
“Yes.”
We didn't use it.
Instead, James walked around the side.
A window was broken.
We climbed through.
The building smelled of dust and old disinfectant.
The hallway walls were covered with faded children's drawings.
Stars.
Flowers.
Families.
My chest tightened.
I walked slowly.
Then I saw a drawing.
A little girl had drawn three people.
A woman.
A man.
And a baby.
Underneath were four words.
I WANT MY MOMMY.
I nearly collapsed.
James caught my arm.
“Are you okay?”
“No.”
I touched the drawing.
“Who drew this?”
“I don't know.”
We continued.
At the end of the hallway was an office.
Inside were cabinets.
Most had been emptied.
One remained locked.
James opened it.
Files.
Hundreds.
He searched.
Then stopped.
His face changed.
“What?”
He pulled out a folder.
There was a name on it.
My name.
I couldn't move.
He handed it to me.
Inside was a photograph.
A baby.
Wrapped in a white blanket.
On her wrist was the same bracelet my aunt had found.
BABY GIRL — WHITMORE.
I touched the photograph.
My fingers trembled.
“She was here.”
“Yes.”
“She was really here.”
“Yes.”
Then I found another photograph.
A woman holding the baby.
I stared at her face.
I didn't recognize her.
But someone had written a name beneath it.
Lauren Whitmore.
My heart stopped.
Lauren had been here.
Holding my daughter.
On Christmas Eve.
I turned the photograph over.
There was a handwritten message.
She knows the child is yours.
Below it:
She intends to take her back.
I looked at James.
“Take her back from whom?”
Before he could answer, we heard a noise.
A door slammed somewhere upstairs.
James immediately stepped in front of me.
“Stay here.”
“No.”
“Please.”
We moved together.
The footsteps stopped.
Then came a woman's voice.
“You should never have come here.”
I knew that voice.
My blood turned cold.
“Lauren?”
She stepped into the hallway.
She wasn't smiling.
She looked frightened.
For the first time in my life, my sister looked at me without pretending.
Then she said:
“Now you know why I slapped your baby.”
My heart stopped.
“What?”
Lauren's eyes filled with tears.
“I wasn't trying to hurt Emma.”
“You hit her.”
“I needed you to listen.”
“You could have spoken.”
“You never listened.”
I stepped toward her.
“You stole my daughter.”
Lauren shook her head.
“No.”
“You were here.”
“Yes.”
“You held her.”
“Yes.”
“You knew she was alive.”
“Yes.”
“Then you stole her.”
“No.”
Her voice cracked.
“I saved her.”
I stared at her.
“From whom?”
Lauren looked toward James.
Then back at me.
“From the man who wanted to kill her.”
Silence.
“What man?”
Lauren whispered:
“Our father.”
I couldn't breathe.
She continued.
“Your daughter wasn't taken because of me.”
“Then why?”
Lauren's eyes filled with tears.
“Because Dad discovered she wasn't his granddaughter.”
I froze.
“What?”
Lauren looked at me.
“Your daughter was carrying a secret that could destroy the entire Whitmore family.”
I shook my head.
“She was a baby.”
“I know.”
“Babies don't have secrets.”
Lauren swallowed.
“Not her.”
She pointed toward the photograph.
“Her father did.”
I stared at the picture.
“Who was he?”
Lauren began crying.
Then she said the one name I never expected.
“Richard Bell.”
My entire world went silent.
James stepped forward.
“That isn't possible.”
Lauren looked at him.
“You knew.”
James's face went pale.
“What?”
Lauren smiled bitterly.
“You always knew.”
I turned toward my husband.
James didn't speak.
And suddenly, the secret behind Christmas Eve was no longer about a missing baby.
It was about a man who had been murdered.
May you like
A family that had built its fortune on a lie.
And a child whose very existence could prove that everything I had been taught about my family was false.
