Unmasking Deceit: The Search for Truth

Carter knew Noah didn’t like Marissa. Hearing her say this, he rubbed his temples and took her hand. "You’ve worked hard. The kid is young and doesn’t understand. I’m not home much, so you need to care for him more. He’s still little." He spoke as if Noah was a stray puppy, not his own son.

Marissa looked sincere, holding Carter’s hand with one hand, and reaching under Noah’s blanket with the other, pinching his tender skin hard. "He’s my own son. If I don’t take care of him, who will? Don’t worry, I’ll manage the house well." Her smile was all teeth. Noah’s eyes filled with silent tears.

I felt like I was going crazy. I couldn’t let my child stay here and be tormented by this woman any longer. The urge to scream, to break through the veil between life and death, was overwhelming.

With a stepmother comes a stepfather. Now, only my parents could protect Noah. I clung to that hope, desperate for a way out.

But my parents, after handing the company over to me, had retired to a small town on the Maine coast for my mother’s health. I’d been so busy running the company that I only called them each year. Later, I stayed home for the child and his schooling, and only brought them back for a while every Thanksgiving. Every Thanksgiving, we’d gather around a big oak table—turkey, pumpkin pie, laughter. It felt like home. Now, it felt a world away.

Carter had kept my death from my parents, so even after I was cremated, they didn’t know their beloved daughter was gone. He told everyone I was on a trip, that I needed time to myself.

I appeared in my mother’s dreams night after night. Mother and daughter are connected, and she finally grew suspicious. She called me, but my phone was always off. My parents couldn’t stand it anymore and flew back without telling Carter. They arrived with anxious hearts, clutching each other’s hands at O’Hare, looking older than I remembered.

I saw my parents arrive, weary from travel, and cried my heart out, but I couldn’t reunite with them. I hovered at their side, whispering apologies into the void.

The doorman downstairs recognized my parents and let them in. He gave them a sympathetic look, as if he knew more than he said.

They came to their daughter’s home, but an arrogant older woman answered the door and asked who my mom was looking for. She wore too much perfume and a fake pearl necklace.

"I’m looking for the lady of this house."

The woman looked my parents up and down. "My daughter doesn’t know you. You’ve got the wrong place!" Her voice was shrill, dismissive.

She tried to close the door, but my mom held her back. "Who are you, and who gave you the right to talk like that in my daughter’s home?" My mom’s voice was trembling, but she stood her ground.

They started pulling at each other. The woman shoved my mom away. "Your daughter’s already dead. Go find her at the cemetery—don’t cause trouble here. This is my daughter and son-in-law’s home now. Get lost!" The words hit like ice water.

My parents were shocked and furious. They called Carter and finally learned what had happened. My mom fainted at the door, but even then, they wouldn’t let her in. The hallway was filled with angry voices and the distant wail of sirens.

Noah, inside, heard his grandparents’ voices, cried, and begged them to take him away, but was beaten unconscious at the door. His tiny hands reached out, but no one could save him. The sound of fists and his cries echoed in my head. I wanted to tear down the walls.

My dad heard his grandson’s cries and the sound of blows, and was so angry he nearly had a heart attack. He pounded on the door, shouting Noah’s name, but the driver hired by Marissa pushed him into the elevator and threatened to beat him if he kept shouting. The elevator doors closed on my dad’s desperate face.

My dad tried to call the police, but the driver snatched his phone, smashed it, and stomped it to pieces. The crunch of glass echoed in the hallway.

"Want to make trouble? I’m telling you, old or young, I treat everyone the same. I’ll beat you all!" The man shoved my dad again, showing off. My dad’s fists clenched, but he was outmatched.

A man in his sixties being pushed around by a guy in his twenties—he was furious but powerless. The humiliation burned in his eyes. I wanted to do something, anything, but I couldn’t.

Those two women stood at the door, gloating as if watching a show, even laughing out loud. Their laughter was sharp, cruel, a soundtrack to my family’s suffering.

I wanted to help my dad, but my hand passed right through him. I was completely powerless. The ache was bone-deep. I swear, it hurt more than dying.

The man’s face looked familiar, but I couldn’t remember where I’d seen him before. His smirk nagged at the edges of my memory.