Chapter 7 - The Woman Who Thought I Was Dead
Natalie Brooks arrived at my house the following afternoon.
She came alone.
I watched her walk up the driveway, her shoulders hunched against the cold.
She wore jeans, a dark wool coat, and no makeup.
She looked nothing like the woman I'd imagined during my sleepless nights.
I had pictured someone calculating.
Someone who knew exactly what she was doing.
Instead, Natalie looked terrified.
I opened the door.
“Mrs. Whitmore?”
“Yes.”
She swallowed.
“Thank you for seeing me.”
I stepped aside.
We sat at the kitchen table.
The same table where I'd wrapped Daniel's Christmas presents.
For a long moment, Natalie stared at her hands.
Then she said, “I thought you were dead.”
I didn't know what to say.
“Daniel told me his mother died after a long illness. He said he couldn't bear to talk about it.”
I felt a sharp pain behind my ribs.
“He told you that?”
She nodded.
“He said his father died first, then you. He said he didn't have anyone left.”
I stared at her.
Thomas had died six years earlier.
Apparently, Daniel had decided that was a convenient time to bury me too.
Natalie wiped her eyes.
“I met him almost six years ago at a charity fundraiser. He told me he was separated.”
“From Claire?”
“Yes.”
“Did you know he had children?”
“He told me about Lily and Noah. He said he and Claire were working out custody.”
I looked at her carefully.
“And you believed him?”
“For a while.”
Her voice cracked.
“Then I found out he was still married.”
I waited.
“He told me the divorce was complicated. That Claire was threatening to keep the children from him.”
“And you stayed.”
She lowered her head.
“Yes.”
There was no point pretending that choice didn't matter.
“You knew he was married,” I said quietly.
“Eventually, yes.”
“And you continued seeing him.”
She nodded.
“I did. I won't defend that.”
I studied her face.
At least she was willing to admit what she'd done.
“What's your son's name?”
“Evan.”
I pictured the little boy in the photograph.
“Does he know about Daniel's other children?”
“No.”
The answer hurt.
Another child living inside another lie.
Natalie opened her purse and removed a folded letter.
“Daniel gave me this when Evan was born.”
She slid it across the table.
The letter was written on plain stationery.
To Natalie and Evan,
Whatever happens, you'll always have a home. I promise I'll take care of you both.
Love, Daniel.
I stared at the signature.
My son's handwriting.
Unmistakable.
“He told me the house was his,” Natalie said. “He said he'd bought it through his business.”
“He didn't.”
Her face tightened.
“I know that now.”
“How?”
“Someone contacted me about the property. They said there were questions about ownership.”
“Who contacted you?”
“A woman.”
“Did she give her name?”
“No. She said I should ask Daniel about his mother.”
I thought of the anonymous email.
“Did she send you a photograph?”
Natalie nodded.
“Of you. Standing with Daniel at his college graduation.”
My breath caught.
That photograph had been in my hallway for twenty years.
Someone had access to family pictures.
Someone knew enough about Daniel's lies to expose them.
“Did you keep the message?” I asked.
“Yes.”
She showed me her phone.
The email address was different from the one that had contacted me.
But the wording was similar.
The truth is closer than you think.
I asked her to preserve the message and send a copy to Eleanor.
Natalie agreed.
Then she looked at me.
“Mrs. Whitmore, I didn't come here to ask for money.”
“I didn't think you did.”
“I came because Evan keeps asking why his father hasn't visited.”
I looked down.
“He loves Daniel,” she whispered. “And I don't know how to explain any of this to him.”
For the first time, I felt something other than anger toward her.
Not forgiveness.
Not approval.
But sorrow.
A child was caught in the middle of a disaster created by adults.
I knew that kind of sorrow.
I'd lived with it since Rebecca died.
“Evan shouldn't have to carry his father's mistakes,” I said.
Natalie began crying.
I passed her a tissue.
We sat in silence.
Then she said, “There's something else.”
My stomach tightened.
“What?”
“Daniel asked me to sign papers last month.”
“What kind?”
“He said they were for refinancing the house.”
“Did you sign them?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because I read them.”
She opened her purse again.
This time, she removed several photocopied pages.
At the top was a document titled:
Acknowledgment of Beneficial Ownership.
I didn't understand the legal language.
But I recognized my name.
Margaret E. Whitmore.
Natalie pointed to a paragraph.
“Daniel told me you were his late mother and that your estate had transferred the property to him.”
I stared at the page.
“He said the paperwork was just catching up.”
“Why did you refuse?”
“Because the document referred to you as a living person.”
I looked at her.
“He told me it was a clerical error,” she continued. “But I started wondering what else he'd lied about.”
I took the papers carefully.
“May I give these to my attorney?”
“Please.”
She stood to leave.
At the door, she hesitated.
“Mrs. Whitmore?”
“Yes?”
“I'm sorry.”
I studied her.
“For what?”
“For being part of something that hurt your family.”
I nodded.
“Thank you for saying that.”
After she left, I called Eleanor.
She listened as I described the documents.
Then she asked me to send scans immediately.
An hour later, she called back.
“Margaret, these papers are significant.”
“Why?”
“Because they suggest someone was preparing a new transaction involving the Montclair property. We need to determine whether the documents were authentic drafts, who prepared them, and whether any were submitted.”
“Daniel?”
“Possibly. But there's a name on the last page I want you to look at.”
She emailed me an enlarged copy.
Near the bottom, beneath a section labeled Prepared at the direction of, was a name.
Claire Whitmore.
I stared at it.
Then I called Eleanor.
“Claire?”
“Yes.”
“But she just found out about Natalie.”
“That's what she told you.”
I looked toward the front window.
A car slowed outside my house.
Then continued down the street.
May you like
Eleanor's voice was steady.
“Margaret, we need to consider the possibility that Claire knows more than she's admitted.”
