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My mother looked at me.
“She had a daughter.”
The room tilted.
Madison sat down slowly. “We have a cousin?”
“Maybe,” Hale said. “We’re still verifying. But Rose’s files include a name: Sophie Vale.”
Sophie Vale.
The name meant nothing to me.
And yet something inside my chest shifted, like a key turning in an old lock.
Hale continued, “It appears Lydia fled after discovering Richard had transferred family money illegally before their father’s death. She may have tried to expose him. Shortly after, Richard accused her of theft, and she disappeared from the family record.”
“Erased,” I whispered.
My father had not only controlled the living.
He had edited the past.
“Where is Sophie?” Madison asked.
Hale’s expression softened. “That’s the surprising part.”
He turned the laptop toward us.
On the screen was a photograph from a professional website.
A young woman with dark curls, serious eyes, and a familiar tilt to her chin stared back at me. Beneath the photo was her name.
Sophie Vale — Investigative Reporter.
Claire, standing behind me, whispered, “No way.”
Hale nodded. “She contacted my department six months ago asking about Richard Brooks.”
My skin prickled. “She knew?”
“She suspected. She didn’t have enough evidence. Neither did we.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” I asked.
“Because until your report, we didn’t have a direct path into his current financial activity. Sophie’s investigation and yours met in the middle.”
Met in the middle.
My grandmother had left keys everywhere.
In letters.
In safes.
In sisters.
In strangers who were not strangers at all.
“Can we meet her?” Madison asked.
Hale glanced at my mother, then at me. “She’s already here.”
The study door opened.
The woman from the photograph stepped inside.
She was older than me by maybe ten years, wearing dark trousers, a cream blouse, and a press badge clipped to her bag. In person, she looked less severe. Tired, yes, but alive with a fierce, steady focus.
Her eyes went first to my mother.
Then Madison.
Then me.
“Natalie,” she said. “Madison.”
Her voice trembled on our names.
I stood frozen.
Sophie smiled sadly. “I know this is a lot.”
That was such a ridiculous understatement that Madison laughed through tears.
Sophie’s smile widened.
And suddenly I saw it.
Not just resemblance.
Family.
The kind no one had arranged for a photograph. The kind that survived being cut out of frames.
“My mother died when I was twelve,” Sophie said quietly. “She told me stories about this house. About Rose. About a brother who hated being second at anything.” Her gaze moved around the study. “She told me never to come here unless I came with proof.”
My mother covered her mouth. “Lydia is gone?”
Sophie nodded once.
Elaine began to cry.
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