Chapter 2: The Woman Who Was Supposed to Be Dead
For the rest of the bus ride, I couldn’t hear anything except the sound of my own heartbeat.
My fingers were still wrapped around the old woman’s hand, but my mind was somewhere else.
My father’s family.
Those three words felt strange.
Almost dangerous.
Because my father’s family had never been a big part of my life.
My dad, Daniel Miller, died when I was four years old.
That was what my mother told me.
A car accident.
A rainy night.
A phone call that changed everything.
I didn’t remember much about him. Only small pieces. The smell of his jacket.
The way he used to lift me onto his shoulders. The sound of his laugh when I spilled juice across the kitchen table.
After he died, it had always been just me and my mom.
She never talked badly about him.
But she never talked much about his family either.
And now a woman I had met less than twenty minutes ago was telling me that someone connected to my father had stolen my mother’s chance to know her own mother.
It didn’t make sense.
None of it made sense.
The bus finally pulled up to my stop.
The elderly woman stood slowly.
I noticed how carefully she moved, like every step carried a memory of pain.
“Wait,” I said.
She turned.
“Where are you going?””
She gave a small, tired smile.
“Somewhere I won’t cause trouble.””
My chest tightened.
“You’re not causing trouble.””
She looked at me for a long moment.
Then she glanced toward the back of the bus.
The teenagers were watching again.
The boy in the baseball cap leaned against the window, pretending not to care.
But he was listening.
The woman noticed too.
Her face became serious.
“Jordan, you need to go home.””
“But I need to know what’s happening.””
She looked away.
“Not here.””
“Why?””
Her lips parted, but no answer came.
The bus doors opened.
Cold air rushed inside.
Then she placed her hand gently on my shoulder.
“Because some secrets are dangerous when the wrong people hear them.””
I stepped onto the sidewalk.
The bus doors started closing.
“Wait!”” I shouted.
The woman looked at me through the glass.
“What’s your name?””
For the first time, she smiled.
Not a sad smile.
A real one.
“My name is Margaret.””
The bus pulled away.
And I stood there in the rain, watching the woman who was supposed to be dead disappear down the street.
When I got home, my mother was in the kitchen making dinner.
The smell of garlic and roasted chicken filled the apartment.
Normally, that smell meant safety.
It meant home.
But that night, everything felt different.
Like the walls had been keeping secrets.
“Hey, sweetheart,” Mom said.
“How was school?””
I dropped my backpack near the door.
“Fine.””
She looked over her shoulder.
“You’re quiet.””
I forced a shrug.
“Just tired.””
She smiled.
“You have a math test tomorrow. Don’t tell me you’re already stressing.””
Normally, I would have complained.
Normally, I would have grabbed a snack and sat at the counter while she cooked.
Instead, I stared at her.
Trying to find a sign.
Anything.
A hint that she knew.
That she was hiding something.
My mom noticed.
“What?””
I looked down.
“Nothing.””
But it wasn’t nothing.
It was a question burning inside me.
Who was Margaret?
And why did she say you were told a lie?
At dinner, I watched my mother carefully.
She laughed at something on television.
She asked about my homework.
She reminded me to wash my dishes.
Everything looked normal.
Too normal.
After dinner, I went to my room.
I closed the door and sat on my bed.
Then I opened my drawer.
Inside was the photograph.
The one Margaret had touched.
My mother as a little girl.
Standing beside the woman she claimed was dead.
I stared at the picture for almost an hour.
Then I noticed something I had never paid attention to before.
On the back of the photo, there was writing.
A message.
The ink was faded.
I turned it toward the lamp.
It said:
“Emily, no matter what happens, remember that I love you. —Mom.””
My stomach dropped.
Mom.
Not grandma.
Not someone else.
Mom.
I heard footsteps outside my bedroom.
I quickly hid the photo under my pillow.
The door opened.
My mother stood there.
“You okay?””
I looked up.
“Yeah.””
She studied me.
“You’ve been acting strange since you got home.””
I swallowed.
Then I decided to ask.
Not everything.
Just one thing.
“Mom?””
“Yeah?””
“Do you know someone named Margaret?””
The reaction was instant.
Her face changed.
Not slowly.
Not slightly.
Instantly.
The color disappeared from her cheeks.
The room became silent.
“What did you say?””
I sat up.
“Margaret.””
My mother stepped closer.
“Where did you hear that name?””
Her voice wasn’t angry.
It was afraid.
“I met someone on the bus.””
She stopped.
“A woman.””
My mother’s hands tightened.
“What woman?””
I hesitated.
“The woman from the picture.””
For a second, my mother didn’t move.
Then she whispered:
“No.””
I pulled the photograph out.
“Mom, who is she?””
My mother looked at the picture.
And I watched something break inside her.
She sat down on the edge of my bed.
Her eyes filled with tears.
“Jordan…”
I had never seen her look like that.
Not even after Dad died.
“Tell me the truth,” I said.
She looked at me.
“You’re too young to understand.””
“I’m old enough to know why you lied to me.””
The words came out before I could stop them.
My mother froze.
“What did you say?””
I held up the photo.
“You told me your mom died before I was born.””
Her eyes moved to the picture.
Then back to me.
“Who gave you that?””
“No one.””
I shook my head.
“I found it.””
A long silence followed.
Then my mother stood up.
“Where did you see her?””
I didn’t answer.
“Jordan.””
Her voice became sharper.
“Where did you see Margaret?””
I stepped back.
“On the bus.””
My mother closed her eyes.
Like she had just heard the worst possible news.
“She found you.””
I frowned.
“What?””
My mother looked toward the window.
The rain had gotten heavier.
“She wasn’t supposed to come back.””
The words made my skin crawl.
“Why?””
My mother didn’t answer.
“Mom.””
She turned toward me.
And for the first time in my life, I saw fear in my mother’s eyes.
Real fear.
“Because your grandmother knows the truth.””
“About what?””
She looked at the photograph again.
Then she whispered:
“About why your father died.””
The room felt colder.
“What does Dad have to do with this?””
My mother opened her mouth.
But before she could answer, something hit the front door.
A loud knock.
Three times.
My mother went completely still.
Not surprised.
Not confused.
Terrified.
Another knock came.
Harder.
I walked toward the hallway.
My mother grabbed my arm.
“Don’t.””
Her voice was barely a whisper.
“Stay here.””
The knocking came again.
Then a man’s voice called from outside.
“Emily.””
My mother’s face went pale.
I had never heard that voice before.
But she had.
She knew exactly who it was.
“Open the door,” the man said.
“We need to talk about your mother.””
My mother squeezed my hand.
Then she whispered something that made my entire body go cold.
“Jordan…”
May you like
She stared at the door.
“That man is the reason Margaret disappeared.””
