The house was quiet. Too quiet.
Emma hadn't told Grace she was coming. She had a spare key. Still kept it tucked behind the potted plant beside the porch. Grace never did believe in smart locks.
The same curtains hung in the windows, the same scent of lavender and old books lingered in the air. But everything felt off now—like she was stepping into a place that had performed the role of "home" her whole life, rather than being one.
She moved quickly.
She wasn't here to talk.
She was here to dig.
⸻
Her first stop was her mother's study.
It hadn't changed since her teenage years: tidy shelves, labeled files, drawers arranged with the precision of a courtroom archivist. But now, Emma knew exactly what to look for.
She pulled open the bottom drawer.
Tax files.
Old insurance papers.
A folder marked "Private."
She opened it—and found several small envelopes inside, all unmarked except one.
"E. Clarke – 2007"
Her heart thudded. She was twelve that year.
She opened it. Inside was a photo—slightly bent, faded around the edges.
It showed a man sitting on a park bench in Ravenshade. Wearing a denim jacket. Holding a takeaway coffee.
Michael.
The timestamp on the back was clear.
10:42 p.m., August 15th.
The same night Grace had claimed Michael had "banged on the windows and screamed threats" outside the Clarke home.
But he wasn't there.
He was in the public park, miles away.
Her mother had lied—under oath.
Emma sank into the chair.
This wasn't just dishonesty.
It was perjury.
She stared at the envelope again, noticing something else: a second photo tucked behind the first.
This one was more personal.
A candid photo of Grace and Olivia, standing outside the Ravenshade courthouse, both smiling, dressed in black.
On the back, written in her mother's handwriting:
"It's done. He won't get her. Ever."
Emma's vision blurred.
They weren't just accomplices.
They were proud of what they'd done.
⸻
She didn't know how long she sat there.
By the time she stood, the envelope clutched tightly in her hands, her entire view of her past had shifted. If they'd hidden this, what else was buried?
She moved next to the attic.
The door creaked open, and the musty smell of insulation and dust hit her.
She stepped over boxes of Christmas decorations and opened the trunk where she'd first found the letter to "Evelyn."
Nothing new at first.
But beneath the blankets, beneath a layer of yellowed school drawings, she found a small locked box.
It had no label. No key nearby.
But Emma didn't hesitate. She pried it open with a letter opener.
Inside were more letters. Unsent. All from Michael.
Some dated after the custody trial. Some before.
But one stood out: dated before Emma was even born.
⸻
May 1999
"Grace—
You can't do this. I know your parents are pressuring you, but this is our child. Don't shut me out. Please. If you walk away from me now, you're not just breaking my heart. You're breaking hers too. She deserves to know me. Don't make her grow up in a lie."
Emma pressed her hand to her mouth.
Tears spilled from her eyes.
Her mother had never intended to let Michael be part of her life. The trial, the accusations—those were just the final moves in a long game.
A game designed to erase him.
⸻
She packed the photos, the letters, the proof—sealed it in a folder and locked it in the glove box of her car.
As she pulled out of the driveway, she saw the living room curtains shift.
Her mother had been watching the whole time.
Emma didn't stop.
She wasn't looking for permission anymore.
She was looking for justice.