Chapter 8
Kyle was home by nine the next morning.
The police dropped him off at the end of the drive. He walked up the gravel path alone, wearing the same clothes he’d had on when they arrested him, his face pale, his eyes red-rimmed from lack of sleep.
I met him on the porch. He didn’t say anything. Just pulled me into a hug so tight I could barely breathe. We stood like that for a long time, neither of us speaking, just holding on.
When we finally pulled apart, he looked at me.
“Penelope told me everything,” he said. His voice was rough. “Tabitha. The hitman. The will clause. She was our cousin. I can’t believe it.”
“Believe it,” I said. “She spent her whole life hating us for something that wasn’t even real. Dad took care of her mom. She just never knew.”
Kyle nodded. He looked past me, at the garden. At the roses.
“Is it really over?” he asked. “No more Calvin. No more Tabitha. No more people trying to take what’s ours?”
I thought about it. Penelope had called an hour earlier. Tabitha had been arraigned. Denied bail. The hitman had been picked up in Mexico, trying to cross into Guatemala. He was already talking, cutting a deal for a lighter sentence. The case against her was ironclad.
“It’s over,” I said.
Kyle let out a long, shuddering breath. For the first time since the will reading, he actually smiled. A real one. The kind that reached his eyes.
“Good,” he said. “Because I have a lot of work to do. And I was thinking... maybe you could come down to the office sometime. Help me pick out new furniture for Dad’s old office. It still feels like Calvin was there.”
“I’d like that.”
We went inside. Made coffee. Sat at the kitchen table, the same table where we had eaten breakfast every morning as kids. The same table where Dad had taught us to do math homework, where we had celebrated birthdays, where we had cried together after Mom died.
It felt good. Normal. Peaceful.
The peace lasted exactly four hours.
At one o’clock, the doorbell rang.
I answered it, expecting Penelope, or maybe a delivery.
Instead, a woman stood on my porch. She was in her late sixties, with silver hair pulled into a loose bun and eyes the exact same color as Tabitha’s. The same color as my mother’s.
She held a worn leather purse in both hands. She looked nervous. Afraid.
“Paige?” she asked. Her voice was soft. Trembling.
“Yes.”
“I’m Margaret. Margaret Wells. I’m... I was your mother’s sister.”
My breath caught.
Aunt Margaret. Tabitha’s mother. The woman at the center of all of this.
I stood frozen in the doorway. I didn’t invite her in. I didn’t move.
“I know you have no reason to want to see me,” she said quickly. “I know what Tabitha did. I saw it on the news. I came as soon as I could. I just... I needed to see you. To apologize. For everything.”
Her eyes filled with tears.
“I raised a monster,” she whispered. “My own daughter. And I didn’t see it. I didn’t want to see it. She was always so angry. Always felt like the world owed her something. I tried to tell her your father was good to us. That he sent money every month. That we never went without. But she wouldn’t listen. She made up these stories in her head. About how he stole from us. About how you had everything and she had nothing. And then she met Calvin... and everything got worse.”
She paused, swiping at a tear with the back of her hand.
“When she told me she was marrying him? I knew. I knew she was up to something. I tried to stop her. I begged her to leave it alone. But she wouldn’t. She said she was going to get what was hers. No matter what it cost.”
She looked past me, into the house. Her eyes landed on the portrait of Mom in the hallway. Her chin trembled.
“I haven’t been here since your mother’s funeral,” she said. “I couldn’t. It hurt too much. She was my big sister. My best friend. And when she died... I let my grief turn into something ugly. I let Tabitha feed on it. That’s on me. Not you. Not Everett. Me.”
Kyle appeared behind me. He had heard everything.
“Come in,” he said quietly.
I stepped aside.
Margaret walked into the house. She stood in the foyer for a long time, staring at the portrait. Tears ran freely down her face now.
“She looks just like I remember,” she whispered. “So beautiful. So full of life.”
She turned to us. She reached into her purse and pulled out a thick envelope. Held it out to me.
“What’s this?” I asked.
“Tabitha’s things,” she said. “I went through her apartment after she was arrested. Found this in a locked box. It’s everything. All her plans. Notes about the will. Notes about Calvin. The phone she used to text him. Bank records showing she withdrew fifty thousand dollars in cash the week before he died. Everything the police need to make sure she never gets out.”
I took the envelope. It was heavy.
“Why are you giving this to us?” Kyle asked.
“Because it’s the only thing I can do,” Margaret said. “I can’t undo what she did. I can’t bring Calvin back. I can’t give you back the months of fear and pain she caused. But I can make sure she pays for it. Fully. Completely. I owe you that. I owe your father that. He was a better man than I deserved. He took care of me for twenty years. And this is how my daughter repaid him.”
She looked at me. Her eyes were sincere. Broken.
“I know you’ll probably never want to see me again,” she said. “And I understand. I wouldn’t want to see me either. But I had to come. I had to say I’m sorry. To you. To Kyle. To Everett’s memory.”
She turned toward the door.
“Wait,” I said.
She paused.
“Did you know?” I asked. “About the alternate beneficiary clause in Dad’s will? That if Kyle and I died, everything went to you?”
Margaret paled. She shook her head violently.
“No. God, no. I never would have let her do what she did if I’d known. Everett told me he was taking care of me. That I’d always have enough. I never asked for more. I never wanted this house. Or the business. Or any of it. All I ever wanted was my sister back.”
She took a shaky breath.
“Tabitha told me the clause existed. After she was arrested. She screamed it at me through the bars. Said I should be grateful. That she did it all for me. For us. But I never wanted any of it. I swear to you.”
I believed her. I saw it in her eyes. The same kindness I remembered from when I was small. The same eyes as my mother.
“Would you like some coffee?” I asked.
Margaret stared at me. Surprise flickered across her face. Then a slow, tentative smile.
“I’d like that very much.”
---
We sat at the kitchen table for three hours.
Margaret told us about Mom. About when they were kids. About how they had grown up poor in a tiny house on the wrong side of town, and Mom had worked two jobs to put Margaret through community college. About how she had introduced Mom to Dad at a dance in 1985, and how it had been love at first sight.
She told us about Tabitha. About how she had been a difficult child, always jealous, always comparing herself to the cousins she barely knew. About how Margaret had tried to get her help, but Tabitha had refused. About how, in the end, there was nothing anyone could have done.
Somewhere in the middle of it all, I realized I didn’t hate her. I couldn’t. She was just a woman who had lost her sister, who had lost her daughter, who was trying to make amends for things she couldn’t control.
When she finally stood to leave, the sun was going down.
“Thank you,” she said, standing in the doorway. “For the coffee. For listening. For not slamming the door in my face.”
“Family is complicated,” I said. “Dad always said that.”
Margaret nodded. She reached into her purse again and pulled out a small, framed photograph. Handed it to me.
It was Mom and Margaret, taken when they were in their twenties. They were sitting on a beach, laughing, their heads thrown back, the sun in their hair. They looked so happy. So young. So full of promise.
“I have the original negative,” Margaret said. “You keep this. She was your mother. You should have it.”
I took the frame. Held it to my chest.
“Thank you.”
Margaret turned to go. Paused. Looked back.
“If you ever need anything,” she said. “Anything at all. I’m here. Even if it’s just someone to talk to who remembers what your mother’s laugh sounded like.”
She walked down the steps to her car. Drove away.
Kyle and I stood in the doorway, watching her go.
“Think she’ll be okay?” Kyle asked.
“I don’t know,” I said. “But she’s going to try. That’s more than Tabitha ever did.”
We closed the door.
That night, I couldn’t sleep.
I lay in bed, thinking about everything that had happened. The will. Calvin’s betrayal. Kyle’s blackmail. The murder. Tabitha’s master plan. Aunt Margaret’s visit.
It felt like a lifetime had passed since that morning in the garden when Tabitha had first shown up in her designer heels, telling me to pack.
I got out of bed. Pulled on my robe. Walked downstairs.
I went to the study. Opened the safe behind Mom’s portrait. Inside, all of Dad’s letters were there, neatly stacked. I pulled out the first one. The one I had found under the rose bush.
I read it again. Every word.
*“If you’re reading this, the vultures have already started circling...”*
He had known. Somehow, some way, he had known all of it. Not just Calvin and Kyle and the will. But Tabitha too. The murder. The frame-up. Everything.
How?
I reached into the safe for the USB drive. The one labeled Insurance. I had never watched the whole thing. Just the part about River Road.
I plugged it into Dad’s laptop.
There were dozens of files. Audio recordings. Videos. Documents. I scrolled through them. Most were things I had already seen.
And then I saw it.
A video file. Dated the day before Dad died. Labeled simply: Final Message.
I double-clicked it.
The screen went black. Then Dad appeared.
He looked terrible. Gaunt. His skin was yellow from the cancer. His hands shook. But his eyes were still sharp. Still Everett.
He was sitting in this very chair. In this very study. The camera was propped up on the desk, facing him.
“Hi, baby girl,” he said, and his voice was rough, weak, but still warm. “Hi, Kyle. If you’re watching this, it means the worst happened. Not just that I’m gone... but that someone came after you after I was gone. And you won. Because you’re Carters. And Carters always win. Even when it looks impossible.”
He paused, coughing into a handkerchief. When he pulled it away, there was blood on it. He folded it carefully, tucked it into his pocket, like he didn’t want us to see.
“I need you to know something,” he said, leaning forward. His eyes locked onto the camera. Onto me. “I didn’t just anticipate Calvin. Or Tabitha. I knew about her, you know. Knew she was Margaret’s daughter. Knew she had married Calvin. Knew she was the one pulling his strings. I watched her. For a year. I saw the hate in her. The greed. I knew she would go further than Calvin ever would. That she wouldn’t stop at blackmail or lies. That she would kill if she had to.”
My breath caught. He had known.
“That’s why I set everything up the way I did,” he continued. “The will. The letters. The safe. The gun in the garden. I wanted to give you every possible weapon to fight back with. Because I knew I wouldn’t be here to do it for you. And I needed to know you’d be okay.”
He paused. A small, sad smile touched his lips.
“I also need you to know something else. About Tabitha. About Margaret. I did change the will after your mother died. But not to cut Margaret out. She was right about that part. The original will your mother and I signed left everything half to me, half to her. But when your mother was dying... she asked me to change it. She asked me to leave it all to you and Kyle. She said Margaret had made her own choices. That she didn’t want the money to come between our families. She said she’d rather I take care of Margaret quietly, with monthly checks, no strings attached, than leave her a lump sum that would only cause fighting. I did what she asked. I always did what she asked.”
Tears ran down my face.
Mom. It had been Mom’s choice all along. Not Dad’s. Not some act of cruelty. An act of love. To protect everyone.
“So if Margaret came to you,” Dad said, “if she apologized... forgive her. She’s suffered enough. Losing your mother broke her. And losing Tabitha will break her all over again. She’s family. Even when it’s hard. Especially when it’s hard.”
He leaned back in his chair. The effort of speaking was clearly costing him. His breath came in short, ragged gasps.
“I don’t have much time left,” he whispered. “The doctor says maybe a day. Maybe less. So I’ll leave you with this. The house? The business? The money? None of it matters. Not really. It’s just wood and nails and dirt and paper. What matters is us. Family. You and your brother. Sticking together. No matter what. If you have that... you have everything. If you don’t... you have nothing.”
He looked directly into the camera one last time.
“I love you, Paige. I love you, Kyle. More than words can say. Tell your mother I’m coming. And tell her I kept my promises. Every last one.”
The video ended.
I sat in the dark study, crying, for a long time.
When I finally stood, I felt different. Lighter. Like the last piece of the puzzle had clicked into place.
Everything Dad had done. Every lie. Every secret. Every game.
It had all been for us.
I walked to the window. Looked out at the garden. The moon was full, turning the white roses into silver.
Somewhere, an owl hooted.
May you like
And for the first time since Dad died, I knew with absolute certainty:
Everything was going to be okay.
