Chapter 201 The Star Without a Name

Chapter 201 The Star Without a Name
The new star hung on the gate for three days. No one touched it. No one claimed it. The family walked past it every time they entered or left the cottage, their eyes drawn to its silver surface. It was smaller than the others, its edges sharp, its thread new.

Damian stood at the gate on the third morning, studying it. The morning light caught its surface, making it gleam.

"It's different," he said.

"Different how?" Ava asked, joining him.

"The paper. It's thicker. And the thread is synthetic, not cotton. Whoever made this used different materials."

"Someone new."

"Someone who wants us to know they're not like the others."

The family gathered in the living room. The fire was lit. The star was placed on the coffee table, next to the photograph of Clara, next to the cedar chest.

"We need to find out who sent this," Damian said.

"How?" Rose asked.

"The same way we've found everyone else. We investigate."

"And if it's another lost relative?" Grace asked.

"Then we welcome them. Like we always have."

Leo spent the day researching. He examined the star, the paper, the thread. He traced the materials to a specialty shop in Portland, the same one where Eleanor had bought her supplies.

"The shop owner remembers selling this paper to a woman," Leo said. "She was young, in her twenties, with dark hair. She bought a large quantity of paper and thread."

"Did she leave a name?"

"No. But she paid in cash. The owner remembers her because she was nervous. She kept looking over her shoulder."

"Like she was being watched."

"Or like she was watching someone else."

The next morning, a letter arrived. No stamp. No return address. The handwriting was new, unfamiliar, the letters small and neat.

Dear Family,

You've found the star. You've found the shop. You've found my trail.

I'm not a lost relative. I'm not a watcher. I'm someone who needs your help.

My name is Rachel. I'm a journalist. I've been investigating a case that connects to your family. A case that goes back to the trust, to the swap, to the secrets.

I have information that could change everything.

I'll be at the old bridge on Saturday. Noon. Come alone.

—Rachel

Damian read it aloud. The room was silent.

"A journalist," Ava said.

"Another one," Margaret agreed.

"Then we'll be ready," Elena said.

Saturday arrived. The sky was overcast, the air heavy with rain. Damian drove to the old bridge, the same one where he had met Beatrice, where so many secrets had been revealed.

A woman stood at the railing, her back to him. She was young, in her twenties, with dark hair and nervous hands.

"You came," she said, turning to face him.

"I came. Who are you?"

"My name is Rachel. I'm a journalist. I've been investigating the trust for years."

"Why?"

"Because my grandmother was Margaret Cross. The real Margaret. The one who was erased."

Damian stared at her. "Margaret Cross was your grandmother?"

"She was. She told me everything before she died. The swap, the trust, the secrets. She told me about Clara, about Eleanor, about all of you."

"Then why are you here now?"

"Because she left me something. A box. A box with documents that could change everything."

Rachel reached into her bag and pulled out a small metal box. Rusted, locked, its surface covered in dirt.

"This was hidden in her attic," she said. "She told me to give it to you when the time was right."

Damian took the box. It was heavy, solid. "What's inside?"

"I don't know. She never told me. But she said you would know what to do with it."

Damian returned to the cottage. The family gathered in the living room. The fire was lit. The box sat on the coffee table.

"We need to open it," Ava said.

"We need to be careful," Margaret replied.

Damian pried open the lock with a crowbar. Inside, a stack of documents. Letters. Photographs. Bank records. A diary.

The diary was Margaret's. The real Margaret's. The one who had been erased.

Damian opened it and began to read.

Dear Diary,

I don't know if anyone will ever read this. I don't know if anyone will ever know the truth.

But I need to write it down. I need to say it out loud.

The trust wasn't the only secret. There was another one. A bigger one.

Clara wasn't the only one who swapped identities. Eleanor swapped too. Eleanor and I swapped places when we were young. She lived my life. I lived hers.

It was the only way to survive.

I'm sorry I never told anyone. I'm sorry I kept it hidden.

But now you know.

—Margaret

Damian read it aloud. The room was silent. The fire crackled. The clock ticked.

"Eleanor swapped identities?" Ava said. "With Margaret?"

"It seems so," Damian replied.

"Then who was Clara's real mother?"

"I don't know. But we're going to find out."