A House Built On Lies

The letter arrived thirteen years after my father's funeral. At first, I thought it was a joke. No one sends letters anymore, especially not handwritten ones. I stared at the cream-colored envelope lying on my bed. My name was written across the front in neat, familiar handwriting. Mirabelle. My chest tightened. I knew that handwriting. I had spent years tracing it with my fingers on old birthday cards and faded photographs. It belonged to my father. The same father who had died in a car accident the night my little sister, Lisa, was born. Slowly, I picked up the envelope. My hands trembled. This couldn't be real. Dad had been dead for thirteen years. So how was I holding a letter written by him? "Mirabelle!" My mother's voice echoed from downstairs. I quickly shoved the envelope beneath my pillow. "Coming!" I took one last look at it before leaving my room. Something about that letter terrified me. And I hadn't even opened it yet. Dinner was unusually cheerful. My mother, Camella, had been smiling all evening. Too much. The kind of smile people wear when they're hiding something. Beside me, Lisa was busy scrolling through videos on her phone. The only empty seat belonged to my older sister Elsa, who had moved out two years ago. Mom suddenly put down her fork. "I have an announcement." I exchanged a glance with Lisa. That never ended well. Mom cleared her throat. "I've met someone." Silence. Then Lisa nearly dropped her phone. "What?" Mom laughed nervously. "His name is David." My stomach twisted. The smile disappeared from my face. For thirteen years, Mom had refused to date anyone. She always said no man could replace our father. And now this? "I want you girls to meet him." I forced a smile. "If he makes you happy." But something about the way she avoided my eyes bothered me. As if she expected me to be upset. As if she knew something I didn't. Later that night, I locked my bedroom door. The envelope sat on my desk. Waiting. My heart pounded as I carefully tore it open. Inside was a folded sheet of paper. And a photograph. I unfolded the letter first. The words made my blood run cold. If you're reading this, Mirabelle, then the truth has finally found you. My breath caught. I continued reading. There are things your mother never told you. There are people you must never trust. If anything happens to me, remember this... my death was not an accident. I froze. The room spun around me. Not an accident? My father had died in a crash. That's what everyone said. That's what I'd believed my entire life. With shaking hands, I reached for the photograph. There were three men standing together. One of them was my father. The other two were strangers. At least... I thought they were strangers. Then I turned the photograph over. A handwritten note covered the back. The moment I read it, my knees nearly gave out beneath me. Because written in my father's handwriting were three words. Ask David why.