Chapter 8 - The Forgotten Cole
Rebecca was forty-one.
Three years older than Adrian.
She had spent her entire life believing Richard Cole wanted nothing to do with her.
Evelyn had given birth at nineteen, before marrying Richard.
Richard wasn't Rebecca's biological father.
After marrying Evelyn, he forced Rebecca to live with Evelyn's aunt.
Eventually, he told Adrian and James their mother's first child had died.
Evelyn had been forbidden from contacting her.
Another family lie.
Rebecca hadn't come for money.
She had come because James had contacted her before his death.
“He found me.”
Adrian stared.
“When?”
“Six months before he died.”
James had been rebuilding the family without anyone knowing.
He planned to reunite Evelyn with Rebecca.
He planned to expose Whitmore.
He planned to tell Adrian everything.
Then he died.
Rebecca handed Adrian a package.
James had mailed it to her with instructions to keep it safe.
Inside was a journal.
Not evidence.
Something more personal.
James had written about me.
About our future.
About wanting children.
About Adrian.
One entry made us both cry.
Adrian thinks he has to carry everyone. One day I hope someone teaches him he can put things down.
Adrian closed the journal.
“He never said that.”
“He didn't need to,” I whispered.
The proposal didn't happen that day.
That was right.
Some moments shouldn't compete with ghosts.
Instead, we brought Rebecca home.
Evelyn saw her daughter for the first time in thirty-eight years.
No dramatic speech followed.
Evelyn simply whispered, “I'm sorry.”
Rebecca answered, “I know.”
Then they embraced.
Nora watched.
“Another aunt?”
I laughed through tears.
“Yes.”
She sighed.
“This family is getting huge.”
It was.
And for the first time, the Cole estate didn't feel empty.
Months later, Adrian proposed in the kitchen.
I was wearing pajamas.
Nora had spilled pancake batter on the floor.
Adrian was holding a spatula.
He looked at me.
“Marry me.”
I stared.
“Are you proposing with pancake batter in your hair?”
“Yes.”
“Where's the ring?”
“Nora hid it.”
“I put it safe!” Nora shouted.
“Where?”
She couldn't remember.
We spent forty minutes searching.
The ring was inside her dollhouse refrigerator.
Adrian finally knelt.
This time I let him.
“Yes.”
He exhaled.
“You could have answered before the search.”
“I wanted to see you suffer.”
“James had terrible taste in women.”
I hit him with a dish towel.
He laughed.
Then kissed me.
We planned a small wedding.
Nora disagreed.
She wanted horses.
A castle.
Three cakes.
And “at least one dragon.”
We negotiated.
She got two cakes.
No dragon.
The wedding was scheduled for October.
Then, six weeks before the ceremony, I received a letter.
No return address.
Inside was a photograph.
James's wrecked car.
On the back were six words.
You still don't know everything.
I showed Adrian.
He called Marcus.
The handwriting didn't match Whitmore or Mercer.
The photograph had never been released publicly.
Someone connected to the original investigation had sent it.
We traced the envelope to Boston.
The sender turned out to be a retired state trooper.
Thomas Keane.
He had investigated James's crash.
He agreed to meet us.
Keane looked ashamed.
“I knew the brakes had been altered.”
Adrian's fists tightened.
“Then why did you rule it accidental?”
“Your father.”
Richard again.
“He threatened my pension. My family.”
Adrian looked disgusted.
Keane continued.
“But that's not why I contacted you.”
He placed an evidence bag on the table.
Inside was a silver necklace.
James's.
“I found this thirty yards from the car.”
I recognized it.
James never removed it.
“How did it get there?”
Keane swallowed.
“Because James got out of the car after the crash.”
Silence.
“What?”
“He survived the initial impact.”
My blood turned cold.
“Then how did he die?”
May you like
Keane looked at Adrian.
“Someone reached him before the ambulance.”
