I Predicted Every Betrayal

My name was Nora Hartwell, the long-lost biological daughter of the family that owned Hartwell Hotels. When my parents arrived in a Bentley with a DNA test to take me home, I sighed. "The daughter you raised still lives with you, right? If I go home with you, I'm probably walking straight into a nightmare." My mother's eyes reddened at the mention of Vivian Hartwell, the daughter she had raised. "Nora, Vivian is a victim too. Her birth mother switched the two of you at birth. Vivian knew nothing about it." "And if we fight, will you tell me to be the bigger person and let her have her way?" My father frowned, then softened his voice. "No. We've been looking for you for years." They promised again and again that they would never treat one of us better than the other. I looked at the leaking porch roof, then at the Bentley. That pretty much made up my mind. "I can stay for a while, then. If it doesn't work out, I'll come back." My mother reached out to straighten my collar. I could have done it myself, but I stood still and let her. My adoptive grandmother, Ruth Miller, stood in the doorway with her cane and tucked my knit cap into my canvas bag. "Of course you can come back," she said. "Keep your key with you." On the way to Bayside Manor, my mother reached for my hand, but I was busy writing. She leaned closer and read the title on the cover of my graph-paper notebook. Contingency Plans for Going Home The first page read: Someone deliberately gets hurt and claims I did it. The second read: Something valuable appears in my bag. I was halfway through the third when my mother placed her hand over mine. "Sweetheart, what on earth do you usually read?" "Stories online about people reuniting with their biological families. And family disputes." I flipped through the later pages. "Some reunions turn out well. Of course that's what I want. But if things go wrong, I need to know what I'll do." My father looked at me through the rearview mirror. "None of that will happen. Vivian can't wait to meet you." "I hope I'm worrying over nothing." I had only one condition: they had to install security cameras in the manor's common hallways and at the conservatory entrance, and give me access to the footage. My mother sighed and agreed. Vivian was waiting at the front door with a bouquet of white roses when I arrived. She wore a cream knit dress, and her blond hair was beautifully braided. "I've always wanted a little sister." She hugged me, her fragrant hair brushing my cheek. I hugged her back. If we really could live in peace, I would be happy to have wasted my money on that notebook. It had only cost me $1.99 anyway. Two days later, Vivian called out to me by the glass conservatory. "Nora, help me with this flowerpot." The moment I reached for it, she let go and tumbled backward down two stone steps. The pot shattered on the stone. "Why did you pull me?" My parents came running from the lawn. My father glanced at her scraped knee and raised his hand. "What did you do?" I opened my notebook to the first page and drew a check mark beside the sentence. "The footage from the conservatory entrance should already be uploaded." My father's hand froze in midair. My mother gave Vivian an awkward look. "We'll look at the footage first. If Nora really pushed you, we'll make her apologize." Vivian stopped crying mid-sob. "When was a camera installed here?" I pointed at the eaves. "The day I came home." "Dad, my foot hurts so much. I can't stand up." My mother whipped off her coat and slipped it beneath Vivian's leg. My father picked Vivian up and strode toward the garage. I followed them to the car and held the video out to my mother. "It'll take 30 seconds to watch." My father looked back and snapped, "Is proving your innocence more important than her injury?" My mother frowned at me too. "Even if she overreacted, couldn't you show a little concern for her first?" She pushed my phone away so she could support Vivian's foot. The video was paused on the frame just before Vivian fell. The car pulled away, leaving me standing there with my phone still in my hand. Half an hour later, I sat at the kitchen island and backed up the footage to my email. My brother, Ethan Hartwell, came in carrying a paper bag, and the scent of seafood and butter filled the room. "Where's my sister? The lobster rolls are getting cold." Ethan glanced at Martha Collins, one of the housekeepers, who pointed at me. He didn't even glance my way. "I meant Vivian. Get it straight. She's my only sister." He didn't turn around until Martha told him Vivian had gone to the hospital. He looked at me. "You haven't even been here two days, and you're already causing problems?" I turned my phone toward him. Onscreen, a shattered flowerpot lay between Vivian and me. I had never touched her. He watched for less than five seconds before knocking the phone out of my hand. It hit the tile, cracking one corner of the screen. "She used to come straight to me whenever anyone hurt her. Now she has to worry about you throwing her out of her own home." "So she framed me because I came home?" "Do you have to make it sound so ugly?" Ethan walked off with the paper bag. Martha poured me a glass of water and said quietly, "He's just really worried about her." I picked up my phone and shook my head. "I know. You don't have to comfort me." I'd thought imagining the worst ahead of time would make it hurt less when it happened. I looked down and added a line beneath the first entry: Even video evidence may not matter. That evening, Vivian came home leaning against my father's shoulder. Her ankle was bandaged, and Ethan carried flowers and desserts for her. Through the window, she flashed me a smug smile. Vivian wrapped her arms around my mother's neck and deliberately raised her voice. "I'm still your favorite daughter, right?" "Of course." My mother stroked her hair. "No one can ever take you away from us." My father nodded. "Even with Nora home, you're still our daughter. Don't ever scare us like that again."