CHAPTER 2 — THE SECOND PAGE

My hands shook as I reached out and took the second page from my daughter.

The heavy cardstock felt cold against my skin. The handwriting was sharp, slanted, and written in dark blue ink.

Grace was already staring at the first page, her eyes scanning the words. Her breathing grew shallow.

"Read it," Adrian Moretti commanded, his voice slicing through the quiet dining room. He wasn't looking at Vanessa anymore. His dark eyes were locked entirely on us.

Grace swallowed hard. Her voice trembled as she began to read the anonymous letter aloud.

"Elena Dawson did not slip on a wet floor two years ago. She fell down the east stairwell of Westbrook High School because she threw herself in front of a frightened teenager to protect him from a man who had come to collect a debt."

A collective gasp rippled around the long dining table.

My chest tightened so painfully I could barely breathe. I hadn't spoken of that night in two years. I had told the school board, the hospital, and my own daughter that I had tripped over a mop bucket.

I lied because the man who had chased that terrified boy down the stairs had pulled a knife.

"Mom?" Grace whispered, lowering the paper. Tears spilled over her lashes. "You told me you were just clumsy. You needed surgery. You limped for six months. You were protecting someone?"

"It doesn't matter," I said quickly, trying to take the paper from her. "It's in the past."

"It does matter," Adrian said. He stood up from the head of the table and walked slowly toward us. "Who was the boy, Mrs. Dawson?"

I shook my head. "I don't know his name. He was just a kid hanging around the gym after hours. The other man cornered him near the bleachers. When the man pulled a weapon, the boy ran for the stairs. I just got in the way so the kid could get down the fire escape."

Vanessa scoffed, though her voice sounded thinner now. "A very heroic story. But what does a high school altercation have to do with a foundation dinner?"

"Because of the second page," Emily said quietly from her laptop. "Grace, read the rest."

Grace looked down at the second sheet of thick paper.

"I nominated Grace Dawson for this scholarship because her mother saved my life that night. But I asked that the award be presented at the foundation's private dinner for another reason."

Grace paused, her eyes widening as she read the final lines.

"I needed Elena Dawson to be in the same room as the man who pushed her down those stairs. The man who tried to kill me."

The silence in the room was absolute.

Richard Caldwell, the wealthy donor, stood up, his chair scraping loudly against the hardwood floor. "Are you saying a violent criminal is sitting at this table?"

Adrian's face was completely unreadable. He looked at me. "Mrs. Dawson. You saw the man's face?"

"Only for a second," I whispered, panic rising in my throat. "It was dark. The hallway lights were off."

"But you remember something," Adrian pressed. "You're holding back."

I looked down at my worn hands. I did remember something. I remembered the heavy, distinct sound of a silver lighter clicking open and shut as the man had waited in the shadows. And I remembered what was left behind on the landing after I fell.

"He dropped something when he shoved me," I said softly.

Vanessa stepped forward, her eyes darting nervously around the room. "This is ridiculous. It's a prank. Someone is playing a sick joke on this family."

"What did he drop, Mrs. Dawson?" Adrian ignored her, standing right in front of me now.

I reached into my handbag. For two years, I had kept it wrapped in a tissue at the bottom of my purse, a terrifying reminder of the night my life almost ended.

I pulled away the tissue and placed the object on the polished dining table.

It was a heavy, silver money clip, engraved with a unique, intertwined family crest.

Adrian stared at the money clip. The color slowly drained from his face.

He didn't ask who it belonged to. He knew.