Chapter 5 - The Sister She Never Knew
Joan laughed.
Not because anything was funny.
Because sometimes the truth was too enormous for the mind to accept normally.
“That’s impossible.”
Marianne wiped her eyes.
“No.”
“You’re my mother.”
“I am.”
“And Caroline’s parents were—”
“Her father raised her. But I gave birth to her.”
Roman stood absolutely still.
Marianne had been 17 when Caroline was born. Her family forced her into a private adoption. Years later, Caroline found her.
By then Marianne had married and had Joan.
The sisters met only twice.
Joan had been a baby.
Caroline later remained quietly connected to Marianne but respected her decision not to disrupt Joan’s childhood.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I was ashamed of how frightened I’d been.”
“You let me grow up not knowing I had a sister.”
“I thought there would be time.”
“There’s never time after someone dies.”
Marianne flinched.
Joan immediately regretted the cruelty, but she could not take it back.
Roman left them alone.
That surprised her.
Hours later Joan found him sitting beside the garden fountain.
Betty slept upstairs.
Joan sat beside him.
“So your wife was my sister.”
“Yes.”
“And the child I saved…”
“Is your niece.”
Joan covered her face.
Betty’s instant attachment suddenly made terrible emotional sense.
Not because of magic.
Not because Betty had somehow known.
Because Joan wore Caroline’s necklace, carried traces of Marianne’s lavender-and-rosemary soap, and perhaps had familiar expressions Betty recognized without understanding why.
Roman looked toward the garden.
“Caroline used to sit here.”
“Did you love her?”
He looked almost offended.
“More than anything.”
“Then why was she afraid to tell you?”
That question wounded him.
“I’ve been asking myself the same thing.”
Roman admitted that 4 years earlier he had been consumed by business.
Caroline had warned him that Michael was becoming too influential.
Roman dismissed her concerns.
Then she died.
“I thought I was protecting my family by building walls around them,” he said. “I never considered that the danger was already inside.”
Joan studied the intimidating man beside her.
For the first time she did not see wealth or tattoos or armed guards.
She saw a widower who had spent 4 years replaying his final conversations with his wife.
“You didn’t kill her.”
“No.”
“But I made it easier for the man who did.”
Joan understood that kind of guilt.
It was irrational.
And powerful.
The next morning, federal investigators arrived.
Roman turned over Caroline’s notebook voluntarily.
That decision surprised several people, including his lawyers.
“If my company was used for crimes,” Roman said, “tear it apart.”
Joan began to understand him.
His reputation had been built around fear.
But beneath it was a rigid code.
Michael called that afternoon.
Roman put him on speaker.
“Nephew.”
“Where’s Victor?”
“I have no idea.”
“Caroline knew.”
Silence.
Roman continued.
“She knew about the shipments.”
Michael sighed.
“Your wife had a dangerous habit of involving herself in matters she didn’t understand.”
Joan felt Roman go still.
“You killed her.”
“I protected what your father built.”
“You destroyed what I built.”
“No. I made you powerful.”
Roman’s voice became almost gentle.
“You made my daughter motherless.”
Michael disconnected.
That evening the federal agents prepared warrants.
Michael disappeared before they could arrest him.
So did Victor.
Joan should have felt safer.
Instead she felt watched.
At 9:17 p.m., her borrowed phone received a photograph.
Betty playing in the garden earlier that afternoon.
Taken through a long-range lens.
Underneath it were 6 words.
THE GIRL FOR THE BOOK. MIDNIGHT.
Joan showed Roman.
He immediately ordered the estate locked down.
Then another message arrived.
COME ALONE, JOAN.
Roman shook his head.
“No.”
“They want me.”
“They want leverage.”
“They’ll keep coming for Betty.”
“And walking into their hands solves that?”
Joan looked at the photograph.
She remembered Betty behind the marble bar.
The little fingers around her apron.
Please don’t leave me.
“I’m not letting her spend her childhood hiding.”
Roman stepped closer.
“And I’m not letting you sacrifice yourself.”
For a second neither moved.
Then Joan whispered:
“You don’t get to decide that.”
“No.”
Roman’s voice softened.
“But you also don’t have to do everything alone anymore.”
The words hit harder than she expected.
Because Joan had spent her entire adult life doing exactly that.
Alone.
Roman looked at the message again.
Then he noticed something.
The photograph contained a reflection in Betty’s garden mirror.
A warehouse sign.
Three letters.
Roman recognized them.
May you like
His face hardened.
“I know where they are.”
