Chapter 3 - THE BROTHER WHO WASN'T MY BROTHER
By midnight, Michael had secured every door and window.
He called a friend in law enforcement.
I called Daniel Reeves again.
Nothing.
Then my laptop chimed.
An encrypted message had arrived.
There was no sender.
Only one sentence:
You were never supposed to inherit the Bennett estate.
I stared at the screen.
Then another message appeared.
Grant was.
My stomach tightened.
I opened the attachment.
It contained the original version of my father's will.
I read it twice.
Then a third time.
The document stated that upon my father's death, the majority of the family trust would be divided equally between Grant and me.
That wasn't unusual.
What was unusual was the amendment dated eight years later.
The amendment removed me.
Entirely.
The reason stated:
Lauren Bennett has voluntarily surrendered all claims to the family trust.
I had never signed it.
Michael read over my shoulder.
"You didn't sign this."
"No."
"Then someone forged your signature."
I zoomed in.
The signature looked convincing.
But there was one problem.
I had never used that version of my signature.
Not once.
I knew who had.
Grant.
He had copied my signature when we were teenagers to forge permission slips.
I suddenly remembered something.
"Michael."
"What?"
"When did Grant first start handling the family foundation?"
"About ten years ago."
"That's when Dad changed the will."
Michael's expression hardened.
"This wasn't about inheritance."
"No."
I looked at the documents.
"It was about control."
A new email arrived.
This time, it contained a video.
I clicked play.
The footage showed Grant entering an office.
Behind him was Vanessa.
They were talking.
I could barely hear them.
But the audio was clear enough.
Vanessa said:
"Once Lauren's reputation is destroyed, nobody will believe her."
Grant answered:
"She doesn't know what Dad did."
"Does she know about the girls?"
"No."
Vanessa laughed.
"Good."
My blood went cold.
The video continued.
Grant lowered his voice.
"The adoption records are the key."
Vanessa asked:
"What if she finds out?"
Grant replied:
"She won't."
Then the video ended.
I sat motionless.
Michael looked at me.
"What does that mean?"
I whispered:
"They knew about the adoption records."
My phone rang.
This time it was my father.
I answered.
"Lauren."
His voice sounded tired.
"Where are you?"
"At home."
"Good."
There was a pause.
"Your mother and I need to talk to you."
"About what?"
"About today."
"No."
"Lauren—"
"You don't get to talk about today until you tell me why you paid an adoption agency thirty-one years ago."
Silence.
My father's breathing changed.
Michael looked at me.
My father finally said:
"Who told you?"
That was enough.
I closed my eyes.
"You knew."
"I knew enough."
"Who am I?"
"You are my daughter."
"That's not an answer."
"It is the only answer that matters."
"Not anymore."
My father sighed.
Then he said something that changed everything.
"Grant isn't your brother."
I couldn't speak.
Michael froze.
My father continued.
"Not biologically."
I laughed once.
It was a broken sound.
"What are you saying?"
"Your mother and I adopted you."
"I know."
"No."
His voice cracked.
"You misunderstood."
I stared at the phone.
"We adopted you after Grant was born."
My heart stopped.
"Then why did you say Grant isn't my biological brother?"
My father hesitated.
"Because Grant was adopted too."
I felt the room tilt.
"Both of us?"
"Yes."
"Then who are our biological parents?"
My father said nothing.
I demanded:
"Dad."
He finally answered.
"Your biological mother was named Eleanor Cross."
I looked at the photograph.
The woman holding the baby.
My mother.
"And Grant?"
Another silence.
"Grant's biological mother was Eleanor's sister."
I stared at Michael.
There was something else.
Something they weren't saying.
"Why were we adopted into the same family?"
My father whispered:
"Because we promised your mother."
"Promised her what?"
He didn't answer.
Then someone knocked on our front door.
Three slow knocks.
Michael reached for the weapon he kept secured nearby.
I stood.
We walked toward the door.
On the porch was a man in his sixties.
Gray hair.
Dark coat.
A scar across his left eyebrow.
He looked directly at me.
"Lauren Bennett?"
"Yes."
His eyes filled with tears.
"My name is Daniel Cross."
I stopped breathing.
May you like
He whispered:
"I'm your father."