Centered in her dorm room, Joan stood phone shaking as she listened once through the voicemail once more times. The voice came from her aunt, who seldom spoke to her since she was little. "You have to know the truth about Alex... your father—he… he wasn't honest with either of you." Joan's beliefs about her normal life were crushed by her words.
With the golden afternoon sun doing nothing to warm the cold dread curling in her chest, she slammed the phone on her desk and stared out the window.
Naomi, her roommate, walked in just then, stopped realizing Joan's expression. "You look like you've seen a ghost. Joan did not respond right away. Her thoughts were a jumble of memories, questions, and doubts that now appeared suspicious. Finally she said her voice hardly above a whisper, I got something from my aunt. She says my father kept something about Alex and I private.
Naomi's eyes expanded. "Like what? That you are."
Joan flinched back. The word hit too near the fear that had begun gnawing at her since the voicemail she first heard. 'I don't know yet,' she stated. 'But I'm headed home this weekend. I seek responses."
Naomi stated resolutely, "You are not going by yourself; I'm going with you if there is something significant or risky."
Joan's eyes welled with thankfulness; Opportunity."
Her heart, however, sank still lower. Then it turns out what she was afraid of was true; therefore everything—her love for Alex, their plans, their link—was constructed on a falsehood.
Hunched over his laptop, Alex was in his flat reading an old email thread between his mother and Joan's father—Mr. Harris. The thread was hidden in a previous folder marked "Archived—Do Not Open," but hearing a screaming call his mother had with someone she said was "part of the old mess.'—humour had taken over him.
The emails validated it. Paid his mother to keep quiet, Mr. Harris. Though a kid was not explicitly referred to, enough parts were there to piece the painful puzzle.
With his neck dry and his stomach coiling sickly, he leaned back.
He had become charmed with Joan.
Maybe she is his sibling.
He knocked on his door. He got up and swung it with a mechanical motion.
Chelsea stood there, her eyes red from tears, a photo frame clutched in her palm. Shakily she stated, "Alex, we need to converse."
He quietly admitted her. Setting the frame on the table, she placed an older photo of their youthful mother next to a guy Alex didn't know yet somehow understood had to be Mr. Harris.
Chelsea said, biting her lip, "I came across this in Mom's drawer." "Did no one inform us about this?"
Alex responded vacuously, "I was only checking at emails." "I believe Joan and I..."
Chelsea interrupted, voice cracking, "I understand." That is why we must inform her."
Alex shook his head. "Until I'm absolutely sure." Not will I talk to my mother in my own voice."
"Chelsea's voice rose: 'But what if she finds out beforehand then?" What if someone else tells her, and she thinks you knew and hid it from her?".
Alex said, smacking his fist against the desk, "I'm attempting to save her from some destructive force!" "I'm not concealing it!"
Under the stress, the photo frame's glass broke so silencing them both.
For a long, stifling second, they gaped at the shattered glass.
Alex finally stated, "I am going to challenge Mom tonight."
Chelsea grabbed his arm as he headed out. "Be cautious." Mom could not be the lady we thought she was... if this is what I believe it is.
Outside, thunder rumbled in the background notwithstanding the bright sky. One storm was approaching and neither of them could run.
Approaching her family's estate, Joan was in the back seat of a taxi. She had the locket her father provided her before he passed away clenched in her hands. There had always been something about it... important. Now it seemed like a vital first step toward discovering a sinister reality.
The driveway was approached by the cab. Her pulse racing, Joan stepped outside toward the front entrance. Just as she raised her hand to knock, the door creaked open inside.
And there stood Alex.
he was grey in the face. His vision sunken. And in his possession is her father's old diary.
He started speaking open his lips.
A voice from behind him sliced through the air like a cutter.
You were never meant to discover that.
Joan turned very roughly.
At the top of the stairs was Mrs. Irons.
Dressed in weapons.