Chapter 19: Watched for a Year

The oldest photograph was eleven months old.

I was standing outside Westbridge with a backpack over one shoulder, reading something on my phone.

I remembered that day.

It had been my first week at the school.

I had called my mother afterward and told her I thought everyone there looked richer than people in television shows.

Someone had already been watching me.

Greer pushed another photograph across the table.

“This one was in October.”

It showed my mother and me leaving a grocery store.

Another was from December.

Another from February.

Ms. Alvarez examined each page without touching the photographs unnecessarily.

“Where exactly did you find these?”

“Locked drawer in my mother's home office.”

Greer's attorney added, “My client discovered them while looking for documentation relevant to the allegations involving her mother.”

I stared at Greer.

“You searched her office?”

“She searched my room first.”

Her answer was bitter.

Officer Ramirez arrived twenty minutes later.

He photographed the folder and asked Greer to describe everything she remembered.

“Did you know these existed before last night?”

“No.”

“Did your mother ever tell you she was monitoring Imogen?”

Greer hesitated.

“Not exactly.”

“What did she say?”

Greer looked at me.

“She said Imogen and her mother were dangerous.”

My mother's jaw tightened.

“Dangerous how?” Ramirez asked.

“She said they wanted money. That Imogen might try to get close to Dad. That eventually she'd try to take my place.”

I almost laughed.

Take her place.

I had spent most of my life worrying whether we could afford rent increases.

I hadn't known Richard Pierce was my biological father.

Yet Elaine had apparently spent a year preparing for an invasion that existed only in her imagination.

“Did those statements influence your treatment of Imogen?” Ramirez asked.

Greer looked down.

“Yes.”

It was the first time I heard her admit it.

No excuse.

No misunderstanding.

Yes.

“Did your mother tell you to post the hospital photograph?”

Greer's fingers tightened.

“No.”

I watched her carefully.

She continued.

“That was me.”

My chest became strangely still.

“Why?”

Her attorney glanced toward me but didn't interrupt.

Greer swallowed.

“Because I saw you at the hospital and thought...”

“Thought what?”

“That if people hated you, you'd leave Westbridge.”

The words were quiet.

They still hurt.

“So you let everyone think I'd had an abortion.”

“Yes.”

“You watched them call me names.”

Her eyes filled.

“Yes.”

“You threatened me when I fought back.”

“Yes.”

I leaned back.

I had imagined this confession so many times.

In my first life, I would have given anything for Greer to admit what she'd done.

Now that she had, there was no explosion of satisfaction.

Only exhaustion.

“Why are you admitting it now?”

Greer wiped her cheek.

“Because Mason blamed me for the picture outside the pharmacy, and my mother won't tell the truth.”

I almost snapped at her.

So this was still self-preservation.

Then she added:

“And because I was wrong.”

I said nothing.

She looked at me.

“I don't expect you to forgive me.”

“Good.”

Her face tightened.

“I don't.”

Silence.

“Not now. Maybe not ever.”

She nodded.

That was the first honest conversation we'd ever had.

Officer Ramirez returned to the photographs.

One image interested him more than the others.

It showed my mother entering the county courthouse eight months earlier.

“Why were you there?” he asked.

My mother frowned.

“I renewed documents after a name discrepancy caused trouble with Imogen's school records.”

“What documents?”

“Birth certificate copies. Guardianship records. Daniel's death certificate.”

Ramirez looked at the photograph again.

“Did anyone approach you afterward?”

“No.”

Then she paused.

“My apartment was broken into that week.”

I turned toward her.

“What?”

“Nothing was stolen. I thought I'd forgotten to lock the door.”

“You never told me.”

“Because nothing was missing.”

Ramirez wrote quickly.

“Was it reported?”

“No.”

Another secret.

Another event I'd never understood.

Greer looked horrified.

“My mother wouldn't—”

She stopped.

Nobody finished the sentence.

That afternoon, police obtained permission to examine the original photographs and associated materials.

Greer returned home with her attorney rather than Elaine.

My mother and I left separately.

At the apartment building, Officer Ramirez had arranged an extra patrol.

Inside, my mother opened the old metal box again.

“If someone entered looking for documents, what would they have wanted?” I asked.

She removed the attorney letter from Richard.

Then my original birth certificate.

Daniel's adoption paperwork.

And one more envelope.

“Maybe this.”

I opened it.

Inside was a handwritten letter from Richard dated seventeen years earlier.

One line stood out.

“Whatever happens with my family, Imogen is entitled to be acknowledged as my daughter.”

I looked at my mother.

“Elaine thought this could affect inheritance.”

“Maybe.”

My phone rang.

Officer Ramirez.

I answered.

“Imogen, don't leave the apartment tonight.”

My stomach dropped.

“Why?”

“We verified one of the vehicles appearing in the surveillance photographs.”

“Whose?”

A pause.

“It was assigned to Elaine Pierce.”