Chapter 4 - The Housekeeper's Confession
The garden house smelled of damp earth and old paper, a scent that clung to Evelyn like a second skin. Rain lashed against the glass of the single window, blurring the manicured hedges of the Van estate into indistinct shadows. Inside, the air was stagnant, heavy with the tension of secrets kept too long.
Evelyn sat on a stiff velvet armchair, her hands clasping a cup of tea that had gone cold hours ago. The silence was broken by the soft creak of the back door. Emma entered, not with a tray this time, but with a heavy leather folder tucked under her arm. The housekeeper moved with the practiced, stiff gait of a woman carrying a burden she could no longer bear.
"You shouldn't be here, Mrs. Van," Emma whispered, her voice raspy, the sound dry as parchment. She looked over her shoulder into the dark hallway before stepping fully into the room and locking the deadbolt. "If he finds you, he’ll have you committed. Or worse."
Evelyn didn't flinch. She stood up, her eyes narrowing. "If he found me, Emma, I wouldn't be hiding in a garden shed. I’d be in his face. Why are you helping me?"
Emma set the folder on the small table between them and pulled out a chair, sitting down but not relaxing. She smoothed her apron, a nervous tic that Evelyn hadn't seen in twenty years. "Because I'm the only one left who remembers what the house used to be like. When you were here, it was a home. Now... it’s a museum of a life that never happened."
Evelyn felt a cold knot tighten in her stomach. "Don't play games with me, Emma. I saw them. I saw the party. I saw him with them."
"I know," Emma said, her gaze dropping to her hands. "I saw it too. I watched from the kitchen window. I watched Richard pick up that little boy, Lucas. He looked at him like he was the sun. And Sophia... she looked at him like she was afraid he’d disappear." Emma looked up, her eyes wet with unshed tears. "She doesn't know, Mrs. Van. She doesn't know you're alive."
Evelyn scoffed, a bitter, jagged sound. "Unbelievable. He faked my death, and he’s living the dream with his mistress and his new son. And you're standing there telling me his new wife is a victim?"
"She’s a victim of him, yes," Emma corrected softly. "But she is a pawn in his game. He changed everything, Evelyn. Every single thing."
Emma opened the folder and slid a glossy photograph across the table. Evelyn picked it up, her breath catching in her throat. It was a picture of the grand foyer of the mansion. The walls were lined with portraits.
But the portraits were wrong.
In the center, where her portrait should have hung—taken on their twenty-fifth anniversary—was a blank space. A gaping, jagged hole in the plaster. Around it, the walls were filled with new photos: Richard in a tuxedo at a gala, Sophia laughing in a bikini by the pool, and Lucas in a high chair, his face smeared with chocolate cake. They were bright, vibrant, and invasive.
"They scrubbed the walls," Emma said, her voice trembling. "Every photo of you. Every wedding picture, every family vacation. Gone. Just like your clothes, your jewelry, even your books. He didn't just erase you from his life; he erased you from history."
Evelyn stared at the empty space where her face used to be. It felt like a physical wound, a hole in her chest. "Is that legal?"
"Nothing is legal when you have enough money," Emma said grimly. She opened the folder further and pulled out a stack of documents. "I kept these. I couldn't destroy them. I couldn't let him think he won."
She slid a single sheet to Evelyn. It was a certified copy of a Last Will and Testament, dated six months ago—after Evelyn had gone "missing."
Evelyn picked it up, her eyes scanning the legalese. She stopped at the signature line.
Her breath hitched.
The signature was hers. The "E.V." in flowing script was identical to the one on her driver's license, her divorce papers, her checkbook. It was perfect. A mirror image of her own hand.
"They forged your signature," Emma whispered, leaning forward. "They forged your death certificate, they forged this will, and they held a funeral with an empty casket just to make it stick. You aren't just erased, Evelyn. You are legally nonexistent."
Evelyn dropped the paper as if it burned her. The air in the room grew thin. She looked at Emma, desperate for a way out, a way to wake up from this nightmare. "What do I do? How do I fight this?"
Emma reached out and covered Evelyn’s cold hand with her own, her grip surprisingly strong. "You can't fight him with tears, Mrs. Van. He doesn't have a heart left to break. You have to fight him with the truth. But you have to be smart about it."
Suddenly, the deadbolt clicked. The sound was deafening in the quiet room.
Evelyn froze, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. Emma’s face went pale, her hand jerking back from Evelyn’s.
From the other side of the door, a muffled, cheerful voice drifted through the wood. "Emma? Are you in there? I forgot the salt for the roast. The boys are getting hungry."
It was Sophia.
Emma scrambled to her feet, her eyes darting to the locked door, then back to Evelyn with a look of sheer panic. She pulled the folder shut and shoved it into Evelyn’s hands, her fingers trembling as she pressed it into her palm.
"Take this," Emma hissed. "It’s the only proof. But listen to me... Sophia knows. Not about the death certificate, but she knows you’re alive. She saw you once. She knows something isn't right."
The handle of the garden house door began to turn.
May you like
Evelyn stood frozen, clutching the forged will and the folder of evidence. The sound of Sophia’s voice grew closer, accompanied by the heavy thud of footsteps on the hardwood.
Emma looked at Evelyn one last time, her eyes pleading. "Don't let them win."
