It was just past 10 a.m. when Emma and James reached Wickmere—a quiet, windswept town surrounded by hills and half-forgotten roads. It felt smaller than Ravenshade, less touched by time. The kind of place where people knew each other by name and gossip lasted generations.
Emma watched it blur past through the car window, her stomach in knots.
This was where her father had lived.
Had worked.
Had watched her grow up—from a distance.
It wasn't just surreal. It was cruel.
James parked outside a small garage tucked behind a corner shop. The faded sign above the door read:
"Carter's Auto Repairs – Since 1982."
"This is it," he said quietly.
Emma stared at the building. "He worked here?"
"For almost ten years," James replied. "I called ahead. Someone's agreed to talk to us. Said he knew your father well."
Emma got out of the car. Her legs felt like lead.
Inside, the garage smelled like oil and rust. A radio hummed softly from the back. A tall man with silver-streaked hair emerged from under a car hood, wiping his hands with a dirty rag.
He paused when he saw James, then looked at Emma.
"Are you her?" he asked. His voice was gravelly, thick with age and memory.
Emma nodded, unsure whether to speak.
The man tossed the rag on a tool bench and extended his hand.
"I'm Don Carter. Michael worked for me. Been waiting for this day a long time."
Emma shook his hand, her voice low. "Did he talk about me?"
Don's face softened. "Every day."
⸻
They sat in the back office—bare walls, one fan, a coffee machine that looked older than Emma. Don poured her a cup and leaned back in his chair.
"Michael was a good man," he said. "Bit too stubborn for his own good. Quiet. Always carried this weight on his shoulders. But he wasn't dangerous—never once raised his voice in here."
Emma looked down at her coffee. "He filed for custody."
"I remember. He came in the day he lost. Didn't say a word for an hour. Then he looked at me and said, 'They think I'm a monster. But I'd die just to hold her hand again.'"
Her throat tightened.
James glanced at her, but said nothing.
Don continued. "He didn't have the money for a good lawyer. And your mum… well, she had friends in high places. One of the judges was her godfather, I think. Case didn't stand a chance."
Emma's hands trembled. "But he stayed?"
"Every Sunday, he'd drive up to Ravenshade. Sit in his car outside the park or your school. Watch from a distance. Said he didn't want to scare you. Just needed to see you were safe."
Emma felt something inside her crack.
"You knew all this time," she whispered. "And you didn't reach out?"
Don met her eyes. "It wasn't my place. He made us promise. Said if anything happened to him, we could tell you—but only then."
"Something did happen," James added quietly. "He died two years ago."
Don sighed and leaned back. "He wasn't himself at the end. Guilt ate him alive. He always believed one day you'd come find him. Or forgive him."
Emma stood abruptly. "I need to see where he lived."
Don didn't argue. He scribbled an address on a sticky note.
⸻
Michael Morgan's flat was in a run-down building on the edge of Wickmere, above a boarded-up laundromat. The stairs creaked under her feet as she and James climbed to the second floor.
The door was locked, but the landlord—an older woman named Mrs. Groves—had agreed to let them in "for a short while."
"I left it just like he did," she muttered as she handed Emma the key. "Didn't have the heart to clear it out."
Emma opened the door slowly.
Inside, the air was stale. Dust floated in the sunlight streaming through thin curtains. The space was small—one room, a kitchenette, a single bed pushed to the corner.
Everything was quiet.
Still.
Her breath caught as she walked through the space, running her hand along the edge of a shelf filled with books: poetry, legal texts, and a worn copy of The Little Prince.
On the nightstand sat a photograph—her, aged eight, holding a stuffed bunny.
She gasped.
"He took this from across the street," she whispered. "Outside Olivia's house."
James stood beside her. "He watched your whole childhood from the shadows."
She opened the drawer beneath the photo. Letters. Dozens of them. All addressed:
"To my daughter—Evelyn / Emma / My little girl."
Tears streamed down her cheeks.
Each one was dated. Each one marked a birthday, a holiday, or a milestone.
And every single one ended the same way:
"I'll never stop loving you."
Emma couldn't speak.
⸻
They left the flat an hour later, Emma carrying a box of letters in her arms like fragile bones.
Outside, she paused on the street and looked back at the building.
"My mother stole this man from me," she said quietly. "And Olivia helped her."
James nodded. "What will you do now?"
Emma's eyes were hard. Cold.
"I'm going to confront them both."