Part 22
I didn't sleep that night. I paced the wooden floors of the cottage, watching the storm rage outside.
Every time I closed my eyes, I saw my mother's face—cold, calculating, always three steps ahead of everyone else.
Was this a trap? A final, desperate psychological game played by a dying narcissist?
Or did she truly hold a secret that could affect Charlotte's safety?
The next morning, I drove down to the city to meet Rebecca in her high-rise office.
I slid the prison letter across her desk without saying a word.
Rebecca read the letter quickly, her eyebrows knitting together in deep concentration.
She leaned back in her leather chair, tapping her pen against the desk.
"It has all the hallmarks of her classic manipulation tactics," Rebecca said, her voice analytical.
"Using a medical crisis to force contact, creating a false sense of urgency, and leveraging a mystery to keep you hooked."
"I know," I said, rubbing my temples. "But what if she's telling the truth? What if there's something else out there that could threaten us?"
Rebecca picked up her phone and made a quick call to a contact inside the correctional facility. After a few minutes of hushed conversation, she hung up and looked at me gravely.
"The medical part is real," Rebecca confirmed. "She has advanced stage four cancer. She’s been transferred to the infirmary wing. She really does only have a few months left."
A strange wave of emotion washed over me—not grief, but a profound sense of finality. The monster of my childhood was truly fading away.
"I'll go with you," Rebecca offered gently, reaching across the desk to squeeze my hand.
"If you decide to see her, you won't face her alone. We will set strict boundaries. No Charlotte. Just you and me."
I looked out the office window, thinking about the foundation we had built, the lives we had saved.
I was no longer the frightened girl she had locked away in rooms and controlled with money.
I was a protector now. I was strong.
Two days later, we stood before the heavy steel doors of the prison infirmary.
The smell of antiseptic and despair hung heavily in the air.
The guard buzzed us through, and I walked down the sterile corridor, my heels clicking sharply against the linoleum.
We reached a private room guarded by an officer. I took a deep breath, looked at Rebecca, who gave me a reassuring nod, and pushed the door open.
Sitting in the hospital bed was a ghost. My mother had lost half her weight, her skin pale and translucent, her hair completely white.
But when she turned her head and looked at me, her eyes were still the same—sharp, calculating, and piercingly cold.
"You came," she rasped, a weak, humorless smile touching her thin lips.
"And you brought your little lawyer dog. How predictable."
May you like
I walked to the foot of the bed, refusing to sit in the chair beside her. I wanted to maintain my distance, both physically and emotionally.
"I'm here," I said, my voice remarkably steady. "Charlotte is safe, far away from here, and she will never see your face. State your business, Mother. What is the secret?"
