Chapter 115
Elara's POV
I didn't sleep.
Every time I closed my eyes I saw Ethan standing in the living room. Heard his voice telling me about that night when he was five or six. Mom crying in the kitchen. Dad saying "our daughter" over and over.
They knew.
They knew about Lynette and they never said a word.
I rolled onto my side and stared at the wall. My phone showed 5:47 AM. The sky outside was still dark but I could hear birds starting to wake up.
Cole said he needed three to four days to get the documents ready for Canada. Passports. Fake IDs. Whatever we needed to cross the border without getting flagged.
That gave me a window. A small one.
I sat up and pressed my palms against my eyes. My head hurt. My chest felt tight.
I needed answers. Real ones. Not half-remembered childhood memories or careful silences at the dinner table.
If Mom and Dad knew about Lynette then they had to know something about what happened to her. Where she went. Why she disappeared.
And I was going to find out.
---
By the time I came downstairs the kitchen smelled like coffee and bacon. Mom stood at the stove with her back to me. She was humming something soft under her breath.
Dad's coat was gone from the hook by the door. So was Ethan's jacket.
"Morning sweetie," Mom said without turning around. "Your father already left for the lumber company. Ethan went to school early. Something about a study group."
"Morning," I said.
My voice came out normal. Steady.
I sat down at the kitchen table and watched her flip bacon in the pan. The grease popped and sizzled.
This was my chance. Just the two of us.
I poured myself a glass of orange juice and took a sip. The cold liquid did nothing to calm the knot in my stomach.
"Mom," I said slowly. "I had a weird dream last night."
She glanced over her shoulder. "Oh?"
"Yeah. I dreamed I had an older sister."
The spatula in her hand slipped.
It hit the edge of the pan with a sharp metallic clang and then clattered onto the stovetop. Grease splattered across the burner.
Mom grabbed it quickly but her hand was shaking.
"Just a dream," she said. Her voice was too high. Too fast. "Dreams don't mean anything sweetie. You know that."
I kept my eyes on her back. Watched the way her shoulders had gone rigid.
"It felt really real though," I continued. I made my voice soft. Confused. Like I was just thinking out loud. "She had a name and everything. I think it was... Lynette?"
Mom spun around.
Her face had gone completely white. The color drained out of her cheeks so fast I thought she might faint.
"Where did you hear that name?" she whispered.
Her eyes were wide. Desperate.
I forced myself to look surprised. Innocent.
"Hear it? I didn't hear it anywhere. I told you. It was just a dream."
"Elara." She took a step toward me. The spatula was still in her hand and grease dripped onto the floor. "Where did you hear that name?"
My heart was pounding so hard I could feel it in my throat.
She knew. She absolutely knew.
"Mom you're scaring me," I said. I let my voice shake a little. "It was just a dream. I don't know why I dreamed about someone named Lynette. Maybe I heard it on TV or something."
Mom stared at me for a long moment. Her mouth opened and closed like she wanted to say something but couldn't get the words out.
Then she turned back to the stove.
"You don't have a sister," she said quietly. "You only have Ethan. Just Ethan."
She scraped the bacon onto a plate with quick jerky movements.
"Now eat your breakfast. You need to get ready for school."
I looked down at the plate she set in front of me. My appetite was gone.
But I picked up a fork anyway.
"Okay Mom," I said softly.
She didn't look at me again. Just stood at the sink with her back turned and her hands gripping the edge of the counter so hard her knuckles went white.
I saw her eyes flick toward the wall. Toward the family photo hanging there in its simple wooden frame. Me. Ethan. Mom. Dad.
Four people.
Not five.
Then she looked away fast. Like the photo burned her eyes.
---
I waited until Mom left for the supermarket.
She said she'd be gone two or three hours. Had to drive all the way to the big grocery store on the other side of town because they had better produce.
I stood at the window and watched her car disappear around the corner.
Then I turned and looked at the closed door to my parents' bedroom.
My stomach twisted.
I'd never gone into their room without permission. Not once. Even when I was little and had nightmares I always knocked first.
This felt wrong. Like crossing a line I couldn't uncross.
But I thought about Lynette. About my real body trapped somewhere in Canada with the Wild Hunt hunting her down. About Cole's face when he showed me those surveillance photos.
I walked to the bedroom door and pushed it open.
The room was neat and simple. A queen bed with a faded blue quilt. A dresser with family photos on top. A bookshelf against one wall filled with Dad's old paperbacks and Mom's romance novels.
I started with the dresser.
Top drawer. Dad's socks and underwear. Nothing.
Second drawer. Mom's sweaters. I ran my hands along the bottom and sides. Nothing.
Third drawer. Old photo albums.
I pulled one out and flipped through it. Pictures of me and Ethan as kids. Birthday parties. Christmas mornings. Family picnics.
No Lynette.
I put it back and moved to the closet.
I went through coat pockets. Checked the shelf above the hanging clothes. Looked in shoeboxes.
Nothing.
Fifteen minutes passed. Then thirty.
I was starting to think there was nothing to find when sunlight shifted through the window and hit the floor at a different angle.
I froze.
There. Near the nightstand. One floorboard was slightly darker than the others. And the edges looked worn down. Like someone had lifted it up many times.
I knelt down and ran my fingers along the edge. Found a spot where I could get my nails underneath.
The board came up easily.
Underneath was a space maybe a foot square and six inches deep.
And inside that space was a stack of papers.
My hands were shaking as I pulled them out.
Bank transfer receipts. Handwritten receipts on plain white paper. A few photographs.
I spread them out on the floor.
Every single document had the same name on it.
Jack Morrison. Private Investigator.
The receipts went back fifteen years. Five hundred dollars. Every single month. Without fail.
I did the math in my head.
Six thousand dollars a year.
For fifteen years.
Ninety thousand dollars.
My chest felt tight.
That's why we were always struggling. Why Dad worked overtime at the lumber yard. Why Mom clipped coupons and bought day-old bread.
Because they were sending six thousand dollars a year to a private investigator.
I picked up one of the photos. It showed a man in his fifties with gray hair and a weathered face. He was standing in front of an office with "Morrison Investigations" painted on the window.
The most recent receipt was dated two weeks ago. It had a phone number written at the bottom in Mom's handwriting.
I pulled out my phone and took pictures of everything. Every receipt. Every photo. Every scrap of paper.
Then I carefully put everything back exactly how I found it. Replaced the floorboard. Made sure it sat flush with the others.
I stood up and looked around the room one more time. Everything looked normal. Untouched.
No one would ever know I'd been here.
I walked back to my room and closed the door. Sat down on my bed and stared at the photos on my phone.
Jack Morrison. Private Investigator.
What were my parents looking for? Who were they trying to find?
I pulled up the most recent receipt and looked at the phone number.
My finger hovered over the call button.
This was it. Once I made this call there was no going back.
I took a deep breath and pressed dial.
The phone rang three times. Then a rough male voice answered.
"Morrison."
"Mr. Morrison?" I kept my voice steady. Calm. "My name is Elara Grey. I'm Emily Grey's daughter. I need to talk to you about my sister."
Silence on the other end.
Then: "Where are you calling from?"
"My cell phone. I'm at home. My mom doesn't know I'm calling."
More silence.
"Does Emily know you found the receipts?"
"No."
"Does anyone else know you're calling me?"
"No."
A long pause. I could hear him breathing on the other end of the line.
"Old Pine Café," he said finally. "Downtown. Seven o'clock tonight. Come alone."
"I'll be there."