Chapter 4
I woke up the next morning in a guest room bigger than our old living room.
The bed was soft, the blankets warm, and for a second I forgot where I was.
Then I remembered, and I sat up fast, my heart racing.
I got dressed in the same clothes I’d been wearing for a week, then wandered out into the hallway.
I heard voices coming from the kitchen—Arthur’s, and a sharp, cold woman’s voice I didn’t recognize.
I stopped just outside the door, listening.
“Are you insane, Arthur?” the woman said.
“A homeless girl shows up, plays a song, and you let her move in?
She’s clearly a scammer.
She’s after your money.”
“That’s enough, Marge,” Arthur said.
His voice was firm.
“She’s Clara’s daughter.
She’s my granddaughter.
The sheet music was real.
The photo matched.”
“Please,” Marge scoffed.
“Anyone could forge old sheet music.
She probably found it in a thrift store.
You’re being played.
If you don’t throw her out today, I’ll go to the press.
I’ll tell everyone the great Arthur Hale is being conned by a street rat.
Your reputation will be ruined.
The hotel’s stock will tank.”
I’d heard enough.
I pushed the kitchen door open.
Marge was standing by the island, a tall, thin woman with Arthur’s same eyes, but cold, hard, no warmth in them at all.
She was wearing a fur coat that probably cost more than our old car.
She turned to look at me, her lip curling in disgust.
“Speak of the devil,” she said.
“Let me guess.
You’re already asking him for a credit card?
A new car?”
I walked into the room, my chin up.
Mom had raised me to never let anyone make me feel small.
“I haven’t asked him for anything,” I said.
“Unlike you, apparently, who’s so scared of losing a piece of his fortune you’ll lie about your own niece.”
Marge’s face went red.
“How dare you,” she snapped.
“You little—”
“Enough,” Arthur yelled.
He stepped between us, facing Marge.
“Lila is family.
She stays.
If you go to the press, if you say one bad word about her, you’re out of the family.
You’re out of the hotel.
I built this company without you, and I can run it without you.”
Marge stared at him, shocked.
For thirty years, she’d been his right hand, his only family, the person he’d trusted most.
“You’d choose her over me?” she said.
Her voice was shaking with rage.
“After everything I’ve done for you?
I was the one who was there when Mom and Dad died.
I was the one who helped you build this hotel.
And you throw it all away for a liar?”
“She’s not a liar,” Arthur said.
“And you’re not the person I thought you were.
Get out, Marge.
We’re done here.”
Marge looked at me, her eyes burning with hatred.
“This isn’t over,” she said.
Her voice was low, dangerous.
“You’ll regret this.
Both of you.”
She spun on her heel and stormed out, slamming the front door so hard the windows rattled.
Arthur sighed, leaning against the counter, his face tired.
“I’m sorry about that,” he said.
“She’s… she’s always been controlling.
But I never thought she’d be this cruel.”
I walked over to the counter, picking at a loose thread on my jeans.
“She’s hiding something,” I said.
“The way she talked about Mom.
Like she was scared of the truth coming out.”
Arthur frowned.
“What do you mean?”
“Think about it,” I said.
“You said she gave you that letter saying Mom left.
She’s the one who kept you two apart.
What if she lied?
What if she sent Mom’s letters back?
What if she made the whole thing up?”
Arthur went pale.
He sank onto a chair, his hands shaking.
“Why would she do that?” he whispered.
“Because if you’d found Mom,” I said.
“If you’d been a dad to her?
You would have shared everything with her.
With me.
Marge would have lost her spot as your heir.
She would have lost control.”
Arthur was quiet for a long time.
Then he stood up, his face set.
“Then we find out the truth,” he said.
“Come on.
There’s a storage unit in the basement.
I’ve had it since I was twenty.
All my old papers, letters, everything.
If Marge forged anything, there might be proof.”
We took the elevator down to the basement.
The storage unit was dusty, full of old boxes, furniture, piles of yellowed papers.
We spent hours going through it, sorting through old tax returns, business plans, letters.
Then, at the bottom of a box marked “Personal,” I found it.
A stack of letters, all addressed to Arthur, all postmarked over the last thirty years.
All in Mom’s handwriting.
All unopened.
And tucked under them, a letter Marge had written to a friend, dated six months after Arthur left.
I read it fast, my blood turning cold.
It said: I told him Clara’s mom left town. I sent all her letters back unopened. He’ll never know. The fortune will be mine, not some ungrateful baby’s.
I looked up at Arthur.
He was staring at the letters, his face ashen.
I handed him Marge’s note.
He read it, his hands shaking so bad the paper crinkled.
Then he let out a sound like he’d been punched.
May you like
He sank to the dusty floor, the letters scattered around him.
And for the second time in twenty-four hours, Arthur Hale cried.
