THE WOMAN WHO WAS NEVER BURIED

THE WOMAN WHO WAS NEVER BURIED Chapter One The Funeral The first thing Isabella Carter noticed about her mother’s funeral was that nobody was crying the way they were supposed to. There were tears, of course. There had to be tears. Victoria Carter had been a beloved woman in their community. Hundreds of people had gathered beneath the enormous white canopy outside the Carter family estate. Women dressed in black sat in neat rows, whispering behind their hands. Men stood in small groups near the iron gates, their voices low and serious. The smell of flowers filled the air. White lilies. Roses. And the faint scent of rain hanging over the afternoon. Everything looked perfect. Too perfect. Isabella stood beside the closed coffin and stared at it. Her mother was supposed to be inside. That was what everyone had told her. Three weeks earlier, Victoria Carter had supposedly died in a terrible car accident. The police had found her vehicle wrecked on a deserted stretch of highway. The damage had been severe, and according to the official report, identifying the body had been almost impossible. There had been no funeral viewing. No final goodbye. No chance for Isabella to touch her mother's hand. Her uncle, Richard, had told her it was better that way. "Remember her as she was." Isabella had tried. God knew she had tried. But something about the whole situation had never felt right. Her mother had been careful. Extremely careful. Victoria never drove long distances at night. She never left home without telling Isabella where she was going. And she certainly never traveled alone without taking her phone charger, medication and handbag. Yet on the night of the accident, all three had supposedly been missing. Isabella had asked questions. Too many questions, according to her uncle. Now she was expected to stand beside a sealed coffin and accept that everything was over. She couldn't. Her eyes remained fixed on the polished black coffin. "Isabella." She turned. Richard Carter stood behind her. He wore an immaculate black suit, a white shirt and a silver watch that had belonged to Isabella's grandfather. At fifty-eight, Richard still looked like a man who had never been forced to apologize for anything. His expression was solemn. But there was something strange in his eyes. Not grief. Fear. Isabella narrowed her eyes. "Uncle Richard." "You need to sit down." "I'm fine." "You haven't eaten." "I'm not hungry." He sighed. "Today isn't the day to make things difficult." Isabella stared at him. "Who said I'm trying to make things difficult?" His expression hardened. "You've been asking questions since your mother died." "Because nobody is giving me answers." "Your mother is dead." The words cut deeper than Isabella expected. She looked away. "I know." "Then let her rest." Isabella looked back at him. "Did you see her body?" Richard went completely still. For a second, something flashed across his face. Then it disappeared. "No." "Why not?" "The hospital wouldn't allow it." "That's not what the hospital told me." His jaw tightened. "Isabella." "What?" "Please." She stared at him. He looked away first. That frightened her more than anything he could have said. Before she could question him again, someone touched her arm. Isabella turned. Margaret Wilson, her mother's closest friend, stood beside her. Margaret's eyes were red, but Isabella noticed she wasn't looking at the coffin. She was looking at Richard. Then she leaned close to Isabella. "Come with me." "Where?" "Just come." Isabella followed her toward the side of the house. The moment they were out of earshot, Margaret grabbed her hand. "Your mother left something for you." Isabella's heart jumped. "What?" "I don't have it." "Then who does?" "I don't know." "Margaret, please." Margaret looked terrified. "Your mother told me that if anything happened to her, I was to warn you." "Warn me about what?" Margaret glanced over her shoulder. At Richard. Then back at Isabella. "Don't trust your uncle." Isabella froze. "What?" "Not here." "What did my mother tell you?" "I can't explain everything." "Then explain something." Margaret's eyes filled with tears. "Your mother wasn't afraid of dying." She squeezed Isabella's hand. "She was afraid of what would happen to you if she disappeared." Isabella felt the blood drain from her face. "Disappeared?" Margaret immediately shook her head. "I said too much." "Margaret!" But the older woman was already walking away. "Tonight," she whispered. "I'll tell you everything tonight." Then she disappeared into the crowd. Isabella remained where she was. Her mother's funeral had suddenly become something else. A warning. A beginning. Not an ending. --- By sunset, the coffin was lowered into the ground. The sky had turned gray. Rain began falling softly. Isabella stood beneath an umbrella, watching the earth cover the coffin. She felt numb. Her mother was gone. At least, that was what she was supposed to believe. One shovel of dirt struck the coffin. Thud. Isabella closed her eyes. "Mum..." Another. Thud. "You promised you'd come home." Her voice broke. She remembered the last conversation she'd had with Victoria. Her mother had stood in the kitchen that morning, drinking coffee. She had looked unusually serious. "Whatever happens, Isabella, don't let anyone convince you that you don't deserve the truth." At the time, Isabella had laughed. She hadn't understood. Now she wished she had asked what her mother meant. The priest finished the final prayer. People began leaving. But Isabella stayed. She stared at the fresh grave. Something felt wrong. Deeply wrong. Then she noticed something. A man standing beyond the cemetery gates. Tall. Young. Dressed in a dark coat. He was watching her. Their eyes met. The stranger didn't look away. Instead, he reached into his pocket. Isabella's heartbeat quickened. He pulled out a phone. Then he turned and walked away. "Isabella!" She looked around. Nobody was there. When she looked back toward the gate, the man was gone. --- That night, the Carter house was silent. The guests had finally left. The flowers remained everywhere. The smell of expensive perfume lingered in the hallways. Isabella entered her old bedroom and closed the door. She sat on the edge of her bed. For the first time since her mother's death, she allowed herself to cry. She cried until her chest hurt. Until there were no more tears. Then she remembered Margaret. Tonight. Isabella checked her phone. No message. 11:07 p.m. 11:30. Midnight. Nothing. She called Margaret. The phone rang. No answer. She tried again. Still nothing. A strange feeling crawled over her skin. Isabella stood and began searching her room. She didn't know what she was looking for. A clue. A letter. Anything. She opened her mother's old desk. Nothing. The drawers. Nothing. Then she noticed something underneath the bed. A small black box. She pulled it out. It was locked. There was no key. Isabella turned it over. A small envelope had been taped underneath. Her name was written on it. ISABELLA. Her hands trembled. She opened it. A photograph fell into her palm. Isabella stared. Her mother was in the photograph. But she wasn't alone. Victoria was standing outside an unfamiliar building. Beside her was a handsome man Isabella had never seen before. And in Victoria's arms was a newborn baby. Isabella's breath caught. She turned the photograph over. Five words were written in her mother's handwriting. ASK RICHARD ABOUT YOUR SISTER. The photograph slipped from her fingers. Her sister? Impossible. Isabella had been an only child. Her entire life. She had grown up believing there had been only one pregnancy. Only one baby. Her. Her phone suddenly vibrated. Unknown number. Isabella stared at the screen. A message appeared. STOP LOOKING FOR THE TRUTH. Her heart began racing. Another message appeared. YOUR MOTHER IS NOT DEAD. Isabella stopped breathing. She stared at the words. Then the phone rang. The same unknown number. She answered. "Hello?" Silence. Then she heard breathing. Slow. Weak. Familiar. Her eyes widened. "Mum?" The breathing stopped. "Is that you?" A woman's voice whispered through the phone. "Isabella." Her knees almost gave way. "Mum?" "Listen to me." "Where are you?" "You cannot trust Richard." "Where are you?" "You have to leave the house." "Why?" "Because they know you've found the photograph." Isabella's eyes moved toward her bedroom door. "Who?" Silence. Then her mother whispered: "Your sister." The call suddenly ended. Isabella stared at the screen. She immediately called back. NUMBER UNAVAILABLE. "No." She tried again. Nothing. Then— Creak. Isabella slowly turned toward the door. Someone was standing outside. She could see a shadow beneath it. Her heart pounded. "Who's there?" No answer. The door handle began to turn. Slowly. Isabella stepped backward. The door opened. Richard stood there. His eyes immediately fell on the photograph in Isabella's hand. All the color disappeared from his face. For several seconds, neither of them spoke. Then Richard whispered: "Where did you get that?" Isabella held the photograph tighter. "Who is the baby?" He said nothing. "Who is my sister?" Still nothing. "Is my mother alive?" Richard closed the door behind him. His voice was barely audible. "Your mother didn't die three weeks ago." Isabella's heart stopped. "Then what happened?" Richard looked at her. "She disappeared." "When?" His expression changed. "The night you were born." Isabella stared at him. "That's impossible." Richard shook his head. "No." He looked at the photograph. "You were never supposed to find out." A loud crash suddenly came from downstairs. Both of them turned. Someone screamed. The lights went out. And from somewhere inside the darkness, a woman's voice cried— "Isabella!" It was her mother's voice.