Chapter 5 - THE SISTER WHO WASN’T DEADNatalie’s mother, Joan, refused to speak over the phone.
“I need to see you.”
“You can’t.”
“Daniel—”
“The police moved us.”
Silence.
Then:
“Oh, God.”
“Tell me who Rebecca is.”
Joan began crying.
Not soft tears.
Deep, exhausted sobs that sounded as if they had been waiting fifteen years to escape.
“Rebecca was Natalie’s twin.”
I sat down.
In eleven years of marriage, Natalie had told me about childhood vacations, school dances, broken arms, family dogs, her first car.
Never a twin sister.
“She died when they were twenty-one,” Joan said.
“How?”
“A car accident.”
“Then how did Lily see her last summer?”
Joan stopped crying.
“What?”
“My daughter says she saw Rebecca.”
“That’s impossible.”
“Apparently not.”
I told her about the cabin.
Joan became silent for so long I thought the call had dropped.
Finally she said:
“Raymond told us Rebecca died.”
“What do you mean Raymond told you?”
“She was living in Arizona. We’d had an argument. She stopped calling. Then Raymond said he’d gotten word she was killed outside Flagstaff.”
“You never saw a body?”
“No.”
“No funeral?”
“He said she was cremated.”
My anger grew.
“And everybody just accepted this?”
“We were grieving!”
I regretted the accusation immediately.
Joan whispered:
“Raymond handled everything.”
That sentence had become the story of the entire family.
Raymond handled everything.
When their father got sick, Raymond handled finances.
When Rebecca disappeared, Raymond handled the arrangements.
When Joan struggled after her husband’s death, Raymond handled the estate.
He had made himself indispensable.
Which meant nobody questioned him.
I called Hale.
Within an hour, investigators began searching for Rebecca Cross.
They found her.
Not in Arizona.
Not dead.
Rebecca Cross had been living under the name Rebecca Lane in Missouri.
She had a driver's license.
Tax records.
A small apartment.
And until six months earlier, a job as a hotel bookkeeper.
Then she disappeared again.
Hale stared at his laptop.
“This family has a talent for vanishing.”
“Raymond makes people vanish.”
“Maybe.”
“You still need maybe?”
“I need evidence.”
By evening, Hale had people searching property records connected to Raymond.
The “old cabin” turned out to belong to a shell company controlled by Brent Cole.
It sat on forty acres near Lake Eufaula.
Remote.
Wooded.
Perfect.
Police planned surveillance.
I insisted on participating.
Hale refused.
“The note specifically demands you.”
“Exactly.”
“And that makes you bait.”
“So use me.”
“No.”
“If I don't show up, what happens to Natalie?”
Hale had no answer.
Eventually, the plan became a compromise.
I would drive toward the cabin carrying a fake flash drive.
Police tactical teams would remain hidden several miles out.
A tracker would be sewn into my jacket.
An audio transmitter would be hidden beneath my shirt.
If anyone demanded I enter another vehicle, officers would intervene.
At least, that was the plan.
At 11:30 the next night, I left the safe apartment.
Lily hugged me.
“Bring Mom back.”
“I will.”
Promises become dangerous when you don't control the outcome.
But I made it anyway.
The drive toward Lake Eufaula felt endless.
Country roads.
Black trees.
No houses.
No traffic.
At 11:58, I reached the gravel road leading toward the cabin.
My headlights illuminated a rusted mailbox.
I turned.
Half a mile later, the cabin appeared.
One story.
Tin roof.
Dark windows.
I parked.
No lights.
No cars.
“I'm here,” I whispered.
Hale's voice came through the tiny earpiece.
“We see you.”
I stepped onto the porch.
The door was unlocked.
Inside smelled of dust and old wood.
“Natalie?”
Nothing.
A flashlight sat on the table.
Beside it was a note.
BASEMENT.
I looked around.
“There's a note directing me downstairs.”
“Do not go into the basement.”
“Natalie might be there.”
“Daniel—”
Then I heard it.
A woman coughing.
Below me.
“Natalie!”
I ran toward the basement door.
Hale cursed in my ear.
I opened it.
Dark stairs descended.
At the bottom, a woman sat tied to a chair.
“Natalie!”
I rushed down.
She lifted her head.
For one glorious second, I believed I'd found my wife.
Then she looked directly at me.
And I stopped.
Same brown hair.
Same jawline.
Same eyes.
But older.
Thinner.
A scar crossed her left cheek.
“You're Daniel,” she whispered.
My blood turned cold.
“Rebecca?”
She nodded.
“You shouldn't have come.”
“Where’s Natalie?”
Her expression crumpled.
“Raymond took her somewhere else.”
Behind me, the basement door slammed.
I spun.
Locked.
“Hale?”
Static.
The earpiece was dead.
Rebecca began struggling against the rope.
“You have to get us out.”
“What happened?”
“Raymond knows the police are here.”
“How?”
“He always knows.”
I searched the basement.
No windows large enough to escape.
Then Rebecca whispered:
“He wanted you here for the drive.”
“I brought a fake.”
“He knows.”
My stomach dropped.
“How?”
Rebecca stared toward the ceiling.
“Because the person helping Raymond isn't Sergeant Mercer.”
I froze.
“What?”
“Mercer works for him, but he isn't the one feeding him everything.”
Footsteps crossed the floor above us.
Slow.
Deliberate.
Rebecca whispered:
“There's someone much higher.”
The basement door opened.
Bright light poured down.
A man stood at the top of the staircase.
Detective Hale’s voice exploded faintly through my damaged earpiece.
“Daniel! Get down!”
The man raised a gun.
I recognized him.
Deputy Chief Warren Price.
One of only three people Hale had said knew where my children were being protected.
Price smiled.
“Where’s the drive?”
And suddenly I understood how the envelope had reached our supposedly secret apartment.
May you like
The police weren't infiltrated by one dirty cop.
The corruption went straight to the top.
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