“What kind of ledger?”
“I don’t know.”
Kayla looked at him.
“You do.”
Andrew looked at her.
“No.”
“Yes.”
She wiped her face.
“Mr.
Cole said your husband knew.”
I turned toward Andrew.
“You knew about this?”
“Not like this.”
“Then explain.”
He took a long breath.
“I was approached six months ago.”
“By whom?”
“An investigator.”
“Mr.
Cole?”
“Yes.”
“What did he want?”
“To ask questions about your father.”
“Why?”
“Because someone believed your father had kept records.”
“Of what?”
“Financial transactions.”
I stared.
“Illegal?”
“Possibly.”
My heart began pounding.
“Andrew…”
“I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want to drag you into something that might be false.”
“And now?”
“Now I think someone has been trying to use your sister to get to you.”
Kayla whispered:
“I didn’t know.”
I believed her.
But only partly.
Because there was still one thing that bothered me.
The towel.
The absurd, humiliating behavior.
The constant testing.
I turned to her.
“Why my husband?”
She looked at me.
“I needed you angry.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“I needed you distracted.”
“From what?”
She looked down.
“The house.”
My stomach dropped.
“What about the house?”
She whispered:
“I was looking for something.”
That afternoon, we searched everything.
Closets.
Drawers.
Bookshelves.
The attic.
The basement.
Nothing.
Then Andrew noticed a loose floorboard beneath the guest-room bed.
He knelt.
Pulled it up.
There was a small metal box.
Kayla gasped.
“I’ve never seen that.”
I stared.
Neither had I.
Andrew opened it.
Inside was a key.
A USB drive.
And an old photograph of our father.
On the back were three words:
“Ask the sisters.”
I looked at Kayla.
“What does that mean?”
She shook her head.
“I don’t know.”
Andrew inserted the USB into his laptop.
A single video file appeared.
No title.
He opened it.
Our father appeared on the screen.
Older.
Tired.
Sitting at a desk.
My heart stopped.
He looked directly into the camera.
“If you’re watching this, I’m dead.”
I began crying.
He continued.
“There are two things my daughters need to know.”
Kayla took my hand.
Our father looked serious.
“The first is that I lied to both of you.”
I stared.
“The second is that one of you has something I hid for thirty years.”
The video ended.
Silence.
I looked at Kayla.
She looked at me.
Andrew whispered:
“What did he mean?”
Neither of us knew.
Then the USB beeped.
Another file appeared.
A document.
Our birth certificates.
I frowned.
“Why would he keep these?”
Andrew opened them.
Mine looked normal.
Kayla’s did too.
Then he noticed something.
He zoomed in.
Kayla’s birth certificate had been amended.
The original name of the hospital had been blacked out.
My father had signed the amendment.
I looked at my sister.
“Were you adopted?”
She stared at the document.
“I don’t know.”
I felt the world tilt.
“You don’t know?”
“No.”
“But Mom…”
“Mom never talked about it.”
Andrew opened another file.
A scanned hospital record.
Then another.
Then a DNA report.
Kayla’s eyes widened.
“What is that?”
Andrew stared at the screen.
“Your father wasn’t your biological father.”
Kayla covered her mouth.
“No.”
I grabbed her hand.
“It’s okay.”
“No!”
She stood.
“That’s impossible.”
Andrew looked at the document.
“It says there’s a different biological parent.”
“Who?”
He hesitated.
“An unknown male.”
Kayla started crying.
I held her.
For the first time since she arrived at my house, she looked like the little sister I remembered.
Scared.
Confused.
Lost.
I whispered:
“We’ll figure it out.”
She shook her head.
“Why would Dad lie?”
“Maybe he was protecting you.”
“From what?”
I didn’t know.
Then Andrew looked at the key.
“What if this opens something?”
“What?”
“The key.”
He examined it.
A number was engraved on it.
417.
I suddenly remembered something.
Our father had a storage unit.
Unit 417.
He had mentioned it once.
After his death, we’d assumed everything had been emptied.
Maybe not.
We drove there that evening.
The storage facility was nearly empty.
The manager searched his computer.
“Unit 417?”
“Yes.”
He frowned.
“It’s under an old account.”
“My father’s name.”
He looked again.
“It’s been paid for.”
“By whom?”
