PART 4 — THE WOMAN WHO CALLED HERSELF MY MOTHER
I read my mother's message three times.
You were never my daughter.
My hands went numb.
For twenty-eight years, I had believed Elena Morgan was my mother.
She was the woman who held me when I cried.
The woman who taught me how to tie my shoes.
The woman who stayed beside my hospital bed when I had appendicitis at thirteen.
The woman who told me, every year on my birthday, that I was the greatest gift of her life.
And now she was telling me that none of it was true.
I called her.
She didn't answer.
I called again.
Straight to voicemail.
Then a third time.
Nothing.
I looked at Evelyn.
“Find her.”
“I already am.”
She typed rapidly.
A few seconds later, her expression changed.
“What?”
“She left her house.”
“When?”
“Forty-two minutes ago.”
“Where did she go?”
Evelyn turned the laptop toward me.
A security-camera image appeared.
My mother was walking through an underground parking garage.
She was carrying a black suitcase.
And she wasn't alone.
A man was walking beside her.
I leaned closer.
My heart stopped.
It was my father.
Jonathan Morgan.
The man I had watched being buried eight years ago.
The man whose funeral photograph had been printed on every memorial card.
The man who was supposedly dead.
I whispered:
“They're together.”
Evelyn nodded.
“Apparently.”
I stared at the screen.
My entire childhood suddenly felt like a carefully constructed lie.
The funeral.
The photographs.
The death certificate.
The hospital records.
Everything.
“Where are they going?”
“I don't know yet.”
“Then find out.”
She typed again.
“There's something else.”
“What?”
“The car they're using belongs to Adrian.”
I frowned.
“Why would my parents use Adrian's car?”
Evelyn looked at me.
“Maybe they didn't.”
“What do you mean?”
“The vehicle was registered to Adrian six years ago.”
“Was?”
“He sold it four months before your father supposedly died.”
“To whom?”
She clicked.
The name appeared.
Elena Morgan.
My mother's name.
I stared at it.
“So my mother had Adrian's car.”
“Yes.”
“For years.”
“Yes.”
“And Adrian knew?”
“Most likely.”
I felt sick.
“How long has Adrian known about my parents?”
Evelyn closed the laptop.
“Longer than you think.”
The warehouse finally appeared through the windshield.
It was enormous.
Rusting steel doors.
Broken windows.
No lights.
Exactly as I remembered.
But this time, a security gate opened before we reached it.
Someone was expecting us.
We drove inside.
The doors closed behind us.
A man in a dark coat stepped from the shadows.
I recognized him immediately.
Detective Harris.
I reached for the door handle.
Evelyn stopped me.
“Wait.”
Harris approached the vehicle.
He looked exhausted.
“You're alive.”
I stared at him.
“You tried to arrest me.”
“No.”
“You sent police to my hotel.”
“I sent them to protect you.”
“They told me I was under arrest.”
“I needed everyone watching to believe that.”
“Why?”
“Because someone inside the department has been ordered to kill you.”
My blood ran cold.
“By whom?”
Harris looked toward the warehouse entrance.
“Your father.”
I stepped out of the car.
“My father is alive.”
“Yes.”
“He faked his death.”
“Yes.”
“My mother is alive.”
“Yes.”
“And they stole my identity.”
“Yes.”
I stared at him.
“Then tell me the truth.”
Harris looked at Evelyn.
“You haven't told her?”
“Told me what?”
Evelyn sighed.
“I was waiting for the right moment.”
“There is no right moment anymore.”
Harris stepped closer.
“Claire, your parents didn't steal your identity.”
I frowned.
“They created it.”
“What?”
“Twenty-eight years ago, your father was investigating financial crimes involving the Blackwood family.”
I listened silently.
“He discovered that Blackwood International had been moving billions through shell companies.”
“Why?”
“Political influence. Bribery. Money laundering.”
I shook my head.
“And what does that have to do with me?”
Harris looked directly into my eyes.
“You were the insurance policy.”
I didn't understand.
“Your father realized that the Blackwoods would eventually discover what he knew.”
“So he disappeared?”
“He created a new identity for himself.”
“And me?”
“You were given a different identity too.”
I felt dizzy.
“But why?”
“Because your real identity was dangerous.”
“What was my real name?”
Harris hesitated.
“Amelia Rose Blackwood.”
I froze.
Evelyn closed her eyes.
“No.”
Harris continued.
“You were born into the Blackwood family.”
I stared at him.
“My father was Jonathan Morgan.”
“No.”
He shook his head.
“Jonathan Morgan was an alias.”
“Then who was my father?”
Harris answered:
“Jonathan Blackwood.”
I felt as though the ground disappeared beneath me.
Adrian.
His father.
My father.
The Blackwood family.
Everything suddenly connected.
But one question remained.
“Then who is Adrian?”
Harris didn't answer.
He didn't need to.
I already knew.
“My brother.”
He nodded.
“Your biological brother.”
I stepped backward.
“No.”
Evelyn reached for me.
I pulled away.
“Then the woman in the courthouse…”
“Your biological mother.”
I stared at him.
“Elena?”
“No.”
“Then who?”
Harris lowered his voice.
“Victoria Blackwood.”
The name hit me like a physical blow.
Adrian's mother.
The woman who had spent six years humiliating me.
The woman who had told Adrian I wasn't good enough.
The woman who had refused to acknowledge me as part of their family.
She was my mother.
I laughed.
A broken, disbelieving sound.
“This is a joke.”
“No.”
“She knew who I was.”
“Yes.”
“She knew I was her daughter.”
“Yes.”
“She watched me fall in love with my own brother.”
Harris looked away.
“She knew.”
My stomach turned.
I remembered every family dinner.
Every time Victoria had looked at me.
Every time she had said:
“You don't belong here.”
She hadn't meant socially.
She meant literally.
I wasn't supposed to know who I was.
I looked at Evelyn.
“Then why did Adrian propose to me?”
Silence.
Harris finally answered.
“Because Adrian didn't know you were his sister.”
My heart stopped.
“He thought you were Claire Morgan.”
“Then why did he marry the other woman?”
“Because he discovered the truth.”
“When?”
“Two weeks ago.”
I stared at him.
“Two weeks?”
“He found your original birth records.”
“Then why didn't he tell me?”
“Because he was trying to protect you.”
I remembered his message.
Tomorrow changes nothing.
I had thought it meant he wanted to marry another woman and keep me anyway.
But maybe it meant something else.
Harris continued.
“Adrian discovered that someone had been using your identity to transfer your assets.”
“Who?”
Harris looked at me.
“Your mother.”
I felt my chest tighten.
“Victoria?”
“Yes.”
“She stole the $27 million.”
“Yes.”
“She created the company.”
“Yes.”
“And Amelia?”
“Not Amelia.”
Harris corrected himself.
“Victoria created a false identity using Amelia's old records.”
I suddenly understood.
The woman in the courthouse wasn't my mother.
She was someone using the identity of Amelia.
But Adrian had married her as Claire.
The entire thing was designed to make it look as if I had willingly transferred my assets to another woman.
I whispered:
“Why?”
Harris looked toward the warehouse.
“Because your inheritance isn't nine million dollars.”
“What?”
“Your family trust is worth over two hundred million.”
I stared at him.
“And the Blackwood family wants it.”
Evelyn suddenly stood.
“Wait.”
She looked at her laptop.
“What?”
“The trust.”
She began typing rapidly.
“The beneficiary changed this morning.”
“To whom?”
She turned the screen toward me.
My name had disappeared.
In its place was another beneficiary.
Adrian Blackwood.
I couldn't breathe.
“How?”
Harris's face hardened.
“Because the courthouse marriage was part of the plan.”
I stared at the screen.
“If I'm legally married to Adrian…”
“You don't control the trust anymore.”
“But I never signed anything.”
“You did.”
“No.”
Evelyn opened a scanned document.
There was my electronic signature.
The same signature I had refused to use six months earlier.
I stared at it.
Someone had copied it perfectly.
Then I noticed the timestamp.
10:07 p.m.
Tonight.
I looked at the clock.
10:41 p.m.
The transfer had happened thirty-four minutes ago.
My phone rang.
Unknown number.
I answered.
A woman's voice whispered:
“Claire.”
“Who is this?”
“I need you to listen carefully.”
“Who are you?”
“My name is Amelia.”
I froze.
“But Amelia is dead.”
The woman laughed softly.
“No.”
She whispered:
“That's what they wanted you to believe.”
I looked at Harris.
He reached for his weapon.
Amelia continued:
“Your father didn't fake my death.”
“Then who did?”
Silence.
Then she said:
“Your mother.”
I swallowed.
“Why?”
“Because I saw what she did.”
“What did she do?”
“I saw her kill someone.”
My heart stopped.
“Who?”
Amelia's voice trembled.
“Your real father.”
I couldn't speak.
Then she said something even worse.
“The man you buried eight years ago wasn't your father.”
“Then who was in that coffin?”
Amelia answered:
“Adrian's father.”
I felt the blood drain from my face.
Before I could ask another question, the warehouse lights suddenly went out.
Gunshots exploded somewhere in the darkness.
Evelyn screamed.
Harris shouted:
“GET DOWN!”
I dropped to the floor.
Another shot.
Then another.
Someone was moving through the warehouse.
A flashlight flashed across the darkness.
And for one second, I saw a familiar face.
Victoria Blackwood.
She was holding a gun.
She looked directly at me.
And smiled.
Then she said:
“Hello, Amelia.”
I froze.
Because behind her stood Adrian.
Bleeding.
Handcuffed.
And beside him was my mother, Elena.
Both women were pointing guns at each other.
Then Elena shouted:
“Claire, don't listen to Victoria!”
Victoria laughed.
“She still doesn't know.”
I looked between them.
“Know what?”
Victoria slowly lowered her weapon.
Then she said:
“Which one of us is actually your mother.”
The warehouse fell silent.
And for the first time in my life, I realized something terrifying.
I didn't know what my own face was supposed to look like.
