Chapter 8 - Unpacking the PastThree days later, our house was quiet—the kind of quiet that felt peaceful rather than heavy.
The wedding decorations had been cleared away by a bewildered crew of event planners who looked like they had survived a war zone. Marcus had dropped by twice to apologize profusely, bringing a massive box of building blocks for Maisie and a solemn promise to never trust a woman with a spotless resume again.
I stood in the master walk-in closet, going through Sloane’s remaining belongings. Most of her designer clothes were already packed into heavy black trash bags designated for charity donation.
As I reached up to check the high shelf above her shoe rack, my hand brushed against a hidden wooden panel at the back of the closet wall.
Odd. I had lived in this house for six years before Sloane moved in. There was no hidden panel in the master closet.
I pressed my fingers against the edge. With a soft click, a spring-loaded door popped open, revealing a small, dark cavity built directly into the structural brickwork of the house.
Inside sat a heavy metal lockbox and a stack of old leather-bound journals.
My heart skipped a beat. I pulled the lockbox out first. It wasn't mine. I tried the digital keypad on top, but it required a six-digit combination. Remembering Sloane’s penchant for sentimental dates, I punched in Maisie’s birthday.
Beep. Error.
I tried Elena’s birthday.
Click. The lid sprang open.
Inside the box were things that made my blood run cold. There were birth certificates—not Sloane’s current identity, but three different aliases with three different social security numbers. There were bank statements from offshore accounts holding hundreds of thousands of dollars.
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And right at the bottom, sitting under a velvet pouch, was a handwritten letter addressed in a neat, unfamiliar cursive.
I unfolded the paper and began to read.
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