Caroline Wren's office smelled faintly of ink and old leather. Papers were scattered across the table, and the missing photo—the one that proved Michael was nowhere near Grace's house on the night of the alleged abuse—was now carefully stored in a protective sleeve.
Emma sat opposite her, barely blinking.
"I want it all unsealed," she said. "Every file. Every suppressed statement. Everything my mother kept from me and the court."
Caroline nodded grimly. "We've already filed the first motion. With that photograph, we have a real case for review. Possibly even a criminal inquiry into false testimony."
Emma didn't react. Her voice was cold. "And the letters?"
Caroline glanced at James before replying. "They help. They're powerful. But they're emotional. The court won't act on those alone. The photo is your leverage. The letter from May 1999? That's motive."
"Motive to erase a man," Emma whispered. "To rewrite me."
⸻
Later that afternoon, Emma and James stopped by the old Wickmere café near the bus depot. The one Michael used to frequent.
James was stirring sugar into his tea when the waitress approached their table.
"Sorry to interrupt," she said softly. "You're Emma Clarke, right?"
Emma stiffened. "Yes…"
The woman handed her a small, worn envelope.
"A man dropped this off years ago. Said if a girl named Emma ever came asking about Michael Morgan, I was to give her this."
Emma stared at the name scrawled across the front: "For my daughter, in case I'm gone."
Her hands trembled as she opened it.
Inside was a key—old, brass, and engraved with a tiny number: 67B.
And a note:
"She wouldn't let me fight. But I still found a way to leave you what they never wanted you to know. If you're reading this, you've found the truth—or you're about to. Go to Box 67B. Ravenshade Storage Depot. Ask for Martin."
Emma looked up, her heart pounding. "He left something for me."
James already had his phone out. "There's only one storage depot in Ravenshade."
⸻
The storage lot sat on the edge of town, behind a chain-link fence. Emma's shoes crunched on gravel as they approached the office.
A balding man with a sunburned face looked up from behind a counter.
"Help you?"
Emma held out the key. "Box 67B. Michael Morgan. I think you know him."
The man stared for a beat too long. Then nodded slowly. "He paid in advance. Ten years upfront. Said one day his girl would come knocking."
He led them to a unit halfway down the row and opened the metal door.
The space inside was dim and dusty—but carefully organized.
Boxes. A small filing cabinet. A VHS tape marked "FOR EMMA". And at the back, covered with a cloth:
A wooden easel. A canvas. A half-finished painting.
Emma stepped forward, breath caught in her throat.
It was her.
Not the child version—her now. As if Michael had imagined who she'd grow up to be. Her face soft. Strong. Determined.
James whispered behind her, "He never stopped watching over you."
⸻
As they began carefully unpacking the files, Emma spotted something unusual in one of the folders:
A list of names.
Dates.
Amounts of money.
It wasn't just personal.
It was legal. Financial.
A trail.
James leaned over her shoulder. "What is that?"
Caroline would later call it a private record of hush money—from Grace's law firm, funneled to a "family services contact" during the time of the custody trial.
Emma stared at the page, her voice flat. "She paid someone. Bribed someone. Or Richard did."
The scale of the lie was growing.
This wasn't just about a mother hiding the truth.
It was about a network of people who helped her do it.
⸻
As they left the storage unit, Emma carried the file against her chest.
The truth wasn't just inside her now—it was a weapon.
And for the first time, she knew how to use it.