TRIALS

Chapter 2

The next day, I met Portia in her office.

She laid out documents and photographs—a mechanic’s report from the crash site, witness statements, anonymous tips. One mechanic had been paid to “inspect” the car just a week before the trip to Baguio.

“There’s no record of who hired him,” Portia explained. “But he was paid in cash.”

I felt numb. I stared at the papers, unable to process what I was seeing. The thought that someone had deliberately killed my parents was too much to bear.

“Do you have the will?” she asked again.

I nodded slowly. “It’s in Papa’s old office. I never opened it. I couldn’t.”

That evening, I walked down the hallway of our home, heading toward Papa’s old study. My hand hovered over the doorknob for a moment before I gathered the courage to enter. The moment I opened the door, a wave of memories and the smell of old books and dust washed over me. I stepped inside, flicked on the lights, and was immediately greeted by a large framed photo sitting on the bookshelf across the room.

It was our family portrait.

The photo had been taken on my parents’ wedding day. Mama sat gracefully in a sofa chair, dressed in her elegant wedding gown, while I—a toddler then—sat on her lap, kissing her cheek. Papa stood proudly behind us, his left hand resting gently on Mama’s shoulder and his other hand on my back. I walked over and gently touched the frame, tracing their smiling faces. I didn’t realize tears were falling until I tasted the salt on my lips.

I turned slightly and leaned against the wall beside me, needing support—but to my surprise, the wall clicked open.

Startled, I stepped back, nearly losing my balance. I grabbed a chair to steady myself and wiped my tears quickly. A secret door? My heart pounded as I pushed the panel open further and peeked inside.

It was a hidden room, dim and musty, like an old study that had become a storage area. I stepped inside, my footsteps echoing slightly. On the far side of the room stood a wooden desk, its surface cluttered with stacks of folders and old documents. Beside it were several storage boxes piled neatly, labeled with dates and codes.

On the right wall, a small glass cabinet displayed a collection of trophies—debate, science fair, and academic awards. But what truly caught my attention were the photographs on top of the cabinet.

I picked one up.

It was a younger version of Mama and Papa. They were smiling at the camera, arms around each other. My chest tightened. Beside it was another photo of Mama, younger, visibly pregnant. The last one was Papa with a boy who looked strikingly like him, maybe around seven or eight years old.

I blinked in disbelief.

Mama had me when she was already thirty.

Is he... my brother?

I searched the trophies for a name. My heart skipped a beat when I read it:

Stephen Mirador Altoverano

Stephen. My brother? A name I had never heard before. A person Papa never mentioned. Questions flooded my mind all at once.

Where was he? Why had no one ever told me? What happened to him?

A dozen emotions surged through me—shock, confusion, sadness, and something deeper. A hollow ache that came from knowing someone had been missing from my life all this time.

I reached for the stack of folders, driven by a hunger to know the truth.

I flipped through them, scanning the labels: "S. Altoverano - Academic Records," "Investigative Reports," "CCTV Footages."

My breath caught.

Stephen was reported missing.

The documents showed the dates and places he was last seen. He had vanished one rainy afternoon. No note. No trace.

I swallowed the lump in my throat. I didn't know I had a brother missing this whole time. And yet, no progress had been made in the investigation. It was as if he had vanished into thin air, and the world had simply moved on.

My fingers trembled as I held a report marked with red ink: "Case Closed - Presumed Dead."

No. That couldn't be it. That couldn’t be all.

I sat down slowly, the weight of it all pressing down on me. The secret room, the hidden history, my brother’s existence. A deep, soul-cutting grief settled over me—not just for my parents, but for the brother I never had the chance to know. The brother who might still be out there.

Was his disappearance somehow connected to the accident? The thought refused to leave me.

I looked at the last photo again—my brother and my parents, smiling.

"Where are you, Stephen?" I whispered into the silence. "And what really happened to our family?"

The answers were here. Hidden. Waiting.

And I would find them.

No matter what it took.

I stood, wiping my tears again, and turned back to the main study. There was still one thing I had to find—the will.

I walked toward Papa’s desk, hesitating as I pulled open the first drawer. Old fountain pens, stationary, faded receipts. I moved to the second drawer. Letters and business cards.

Then the third.

There it was.

A thick envelope marked: "Last Will and Testament of Stephano Reyes Altoverano."

I sat down at the desk, heart pounding as I broke the seal. The paper inside had yellowed with age, but the handwriting was unmistakably Papa’s. The will had been notarized years ago before the accident happened.

He had left me everything—but not just the wealth. He had left me the responsibility to uncover the truth. To bring light to the darkness that had swallowed our family.

The crash. My missing brother. The secrets tucked away in hidden rooms and silent photographs.

I clutched the will to my chest and looked around the office. I wasn’t just grieving anymore.

The truth was coming

And I was ready for it.