Chapter 12 - The Sister Diane Erased
Evelyn Bellmont was Diane’s younger sister.
Not dead.
Institutionalized.
That was the story Charles recorded.
Harold Bellmont discovered Evelyn had secretly helped Caroline’s mother maintain records proving the hidden Bellmont bloodline.
He declared her unstable.
Used William Bennett to obtain guardianship.
Moved her into a private facility.
Then told everyone she died.
I looked at Diane.
“You knew?”
She cried.
“I was twenty-three.”
“You knew.”
“Yes.”
“And you left her there?”
“I tried to get her out.”
“When?”
“After Harold died.”
“Did you?”
Silence.
“No.”
Why?
William threatened to expose Diane’s role in Charles’s death cover-up and take Daniel.
Again.
Fear.
Again.
A choice.
Again.
Someone else paid the price.
Michael looked destroyed.
“You let me grow up believing you were the victim.”
“I was.”
He answered:
“And the villain.”
Diane had no response.
Then we traced Evelyn.
Alive.
Seventy years old.
Living under assisted guardianship in Vermont.
Her legal guardian had changed over time.
Current controlling institution:
Blackwell Behavioral Trust.
Board chair:
Dr. Mara Black.
There she was.
Mara had inherited not only William’s company.
She inherited his prisoner.
Evelyn was the independent Bellmont protector.
If she were legally competent and alive, she could invalidate Diane and Mara’s control instantly.
That was why she had to remain “dead.”
The entire empire depended on one elderly woman being invisible.
Michael said:
“We find her.”
Diane grabbed his arm.
“Mara will know.”
“Good.”
“She’s dangerous.”
“So were you.”
That silenced her.
Then I noticed a notation in Evelyn’s guardianship file.
Annual family review contact:
Emma Caroline Whitmore.
My name.
I had supposedly visited Evelyn every year since I turned eighteen.
I had never met her.
My signature appeared twelve times.
Forged.
Every year, someone submitted reports claiming I supported Evelyn’s continued guardianship.
Someone had used me to keep her confined.
I stared at Diane.
She shook her head.
“Not me.”
Michael believed her.
I didn’t know whether I did.
Then we compared signatures.
Not Diane’s style.
Not William’s.
Not Mara’s known handwriting.
Someone else.
A fourth conspirator.
The contact address on several reports was an apartment in Boston.
I recognized it.
My father had lived there before marrying my mother.
The files were being submitted under my name from an address connected to Edward.
My dead father.
Then the newest annual review, filed only three months earlier, contained a live notarization.
Edward Whitmore.
My father’s name.
My father had been legally dead for twenty-three years.
Yet someone was still using his identity.
And unlike Michael’s dead identity, there was no explanation.
May you like
Until Diane whispered:
“What if Edward never died?”
