REVENGE, DIAPER and SNACKS - Chapter 89: Chapter 89
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The lid creaked open like the sound designer in my life was trying too hard.
Empty. Not a bone. Not a hair. Not a dusty cravat. Just a single yellowed envelope placed where his chest should have been, held down by a weighty old ring—our family crest engraved with a serpent and stars.
Joe lifted the envelope. I couldn't speak. Not yet. My chest was tight, like someone had duct-taped my ribs shut and whispered, “Surprise, your trauma’s back.”
He handed it to me.
Inside? A letter.
“To my son—
If you’ve found this, then I’ve failed in more ways than I can explain. But the truth can’t stay buried forever. You had a sister once. Her name was Elle. She was younger. Brave. Beautiful. You even painted her once. She died in the mountains during a storm when you were very young.
I never forgave myself. But I…
I lied to your mother. I buried Elle in the forest and told her Elle had gone missing.
I was too afraid.
Of her grief. Of her power. Of everything.”
My hands shook. My knees buckled. I sat on a nearby crate marked “CLASSIFIED: DO NOT OPEN UNLESS YOU HATE YOURSELF.”
Elle. The girl in a neon dress. I have a sister?
My sister.
The same mountain.
The same site where Mylene and Jhing Jhing had found that old bone during our chaotic picnic with egg salad and sippy cups and literal mafia espionage.
That bone—Elle’s. My sister’s.
I was holding pancakes in one hand that day. And the past in the other.
I thought I’d seen it all. But nothing prepares you for the moment you realize the “treasure” you were hunting was never gold or jewels—it was a dead girl’s story. A buried secret dressed in lies and sealed under decades of guilt and panic.
Joe sat beside me, silent.
Then he pulled out a file from the drawer below the coffin. And that’s when it got worse.
Inside the file were two photos: one of Dorothy’s father, and one of Catherine’s father—standing beside my father. All smiles. Tuxedos. Clinking glasses over what looked like a grave site in the mountain. A date scrawled in pen:
“March 18, 1992 – The Pact.”
A letter…that Joe now reads.
“Dorothy’s dad knew,” Joe said quietly. “Charles V. Dandridge blackmailed your father for years with money and connections.”
“Keep reading.”
“Charles knew about Elle and that he hated your father because Charles thought your father betrayed him by cheating with his wife. Such drama. That's why the blackmail.”
I could hardly breathe.
“And Catherine’s dad?” I whispered.
Joe nodded slowly. “He kept the secret until he died of cancer. But look—” He pointed to a page stapled to the back of the file.
It was a will.
Catherine’s father had left behind a note.
“Let the mountain hold its ghosts. The dead should rest. Leonard paid his price. I kept the promise.”
Ghosts. Deals. Burials that were never meant to be found.
The three were friends. My father, Charles and Catherine’s father.
Fate sucks!
Secret? Sucks!
And I? I was standing in the epicenter of all of it. Drenched in generational trauma, mafia glue residue, and at least six types of unsolved mystery.
Because there was no treasure.
Only Elle.
Only loss and secrets.
Only the kind of family mess that no therapy session, no chocolate cake, and no amount of yoga-sass could fix overnight.
Vault 09 wasn’t a vault of riches.
It was a vault of reckoning.
And now, as the lights above flickered again and drawer thirteen loomed like a punchline waiting to be delivered—I wiped my tears, adjusted my mom bun, and stood tall.
Because Leon Darrow doesn’t run from the past.
She opens the next damn drawer.
With snacks. And sass. And grief sharp enough to cut through lies.
By the time we got home, Vault 09 still clung to my coat like mildew and family secrets. Joe parked the car like a man carrying emotional damage and half a granola bar. Mylene and Jhing Jhing had hitched a ride, their faces still tight with the kind of tension that only cursed drawers and tragic mixtapes can bring.
I opened the front door to my apartment and was immediately greeted by chaos deluxe.
Toys exploded across the living room like confetti at a toddler rave. Diapers—clean, used, folded, and mysteriously torn—created a crunchy minefield underfoot. A bottle of milk teetered dangerously on the armrest of the couch. Jaya was standing on a coffee table with a spatula like it was a sword. Aliya was gently feeding her stuffed rabbit an entire sleeve of saltines.
In the corner, our nanny—the endlessly patient, possibly ex-witch or ex warrioe Mrs. Genna—was reading to them about a wolf and a little girl who lost her way in the forest. Her voice was calm, melodic, and haunting in a way that made me question whether the story was really for the kids or some coded warning for the adults in the room.
Maya sat on the floor nearby, textbook open, pretending to study while very clearly side-eyeing everything.
Joe stepped over a talking doll that began singing a lullaby in reverse, looked at me, and whispered, “Do we need holy water or caffeine first?”
“Both,” I muttered, kicking aside a plastic unicorn.
We sat—me, Mylene, Jhing Jhing, and Joe—on my battered couch and mismatched armchairs like some off-brand Avengers. The room smelled like warm milk, vanilla crackers, and the faint paranoia of legacy betrayal.
I didn’t waste time.
“I found Leon’s sister.”
That made even Aliya pause mid–stuffed rabbit CPR.
“Leonard Darrow had a daughter no one knew about. A little girl. Elle. She died in the mountains years ago. Leonard buried her and lied about it. The mother thought she went missing. They searched for months, but she was there. The whole time. Buried under trees and guilt. And the bone—” I looked at Mylene and Jhing Jhing. “The one you two found during our picnic...”
Their eyes widened in slow horror. “No,” Mylene gasped. “We… we gave that to Joe for forensics.”
Jhing Jhing pulled out a compact mirror, stared at her reflection, and said, “My foundation survived a haunted picnic and now you’re telling me I had dead girl dust on my cardigan?”
“It was Elle,” I said. “She was Leon’s sister.”
Silence.
I let it sit.
My sister.
Then I added the next layer.
“And that’s not all. My father—my dad, because I’m Catherine Darrow, yes, go ahead and blink dramatically now—was in on it. He was close with Dorothy’s dad and Leon's. They all knew about Elle. They hid it. And up until now, ‘Charles V’ thought Vault 09 held treasure. But it wasn’t gold. It was a coffin. A note. A secret.”
Jhing Jhing dropped her mirror into her Chanel bag with a thud. “So you’re telling me I accidentally exfoliated in a grave of generational sins with hidden secrets, keys, paintings and a coffin?!”
Mylene blinked. “Wait, wait. You’re Father?”
“Yes.”
Joe cleared his throat. “More importantly—Charles Dandridge doesn’t know we know yet. And if he thinks Vault 09 has treasure, we can use that to lure them, lure the mafia out.”
He spread a crumpled blueprint across the baby play mat.
“Here’s the plan,” he said, using a sippy cup to hold the paper down. “We stage a fake ‘second vault’—a decoy. We leak the location. We watch who bites. If Charles V. Dandridge shows up, we corner him. We ask questions. We make him sweat. And if he runs—”
Mylene raised her brow. “We chase him in minivans with sippy cups and revenge?”
Jhing Jhing leaned forward. “Can I wear sequins?”
Joe didn’t blink. “Yes. Tactical sequins.”
Aliya interrupted with a question about glitter glue. Maya pretended not to care but rolled her eyes just enough to show she cared deeply.
I looked at them all—my friends, my family, my chaotic little crew of justice and juice boxes.
“Okay,” I said. “We hunt a man who thinks he’s chasing gold. But what he really uncovered… was an ugly past. And maybe a truth we’re all not ready for.”
I stood up. “Let’s finish this.”
Because motherhood doesn’t wait for justice.
And neither does Catherine Leon Darrow.
Especially not when my sister’s story still echoes in the forest.
Empty. Not a bone. Not a hair. Not a dusty cravat. Just a single yellowed envelope placed where his chest should have been, held down by a weighty old ring—our family crest engraved with a serpent and stars.
Joe lifted the envelope. I couldn't speak. Not yet. My chest was tight, like someone had duct-taped my ribs shut and whispered, “Surprise, your trauma’s back.”
He handed it to me.
Inside? A letter.
“To my son—
If you’ve found this, then I’ve failed in more ways than I can explain. But the truth can’t stay buried forever. You had a sister once. Her name was Elle. She was younger. Brave. Beautiful. You even painted her once. She died in the mountains during a storm when you were very young.
I never forgave myself. But I…
I lied to your mother. I buried Elle in the forest and told her Elle had gone missing.
I was too afraid.
Of her grief. Of her power. Of everything.”
My hands shook. My knees buckled. I sat on a nearby crate marked “CLASSIFIED: DO NOT OPEN UNLESS YOU HATE YOURSELF.”
Elle. The girl in a neon dress. I have a sister?
My sister.
The same mountain.
The same site where Mylene and Jhing Jhing had found that old bone during our chaotic picnic with egg salad and sippy cups and literal mafia espionage.
That bone—Elle’s. My sister’s.
I was holding pancakes in one hand that day. And the past in the other.
I thought I’d seen it all. But nothing prepares you for the moment you realize the “treasure” you were hunting was never gold or jewels—it was a dead girl’s story. A buried secret dressed in lies and sealed under decades of guilt and panic.
Joe sat beside me, silent.
Then he pulled out a file from the drawer below the coffin. And that’s when it got worse.
Inside the file were two photos: one of Dorothy’s father, and one of Catherine’s father—standing beside my father. All smiles. Tuxedos. Clinking glasses over what looked like a grave site in the mountain. A date scrawled in pen:
“March 18, 1992 – The Pact.”
A letter…that Joe now reads.
“Dorothy’s dad knew,” Joe said quietly. “Charles V. Dandridge blackmailed your father for years with money and connections.”
“Keep reading.”
“Charles knew about Elle and that he hated your father because Charles thought your father betrayed him by cheating with his wife. Such drama. That's why the blackmail.”
I could hardly breathe.
“And Catherine’s dad?” I whispered.
Joe nodded slowly. “He kept the secret until he died of cancer. But look—” He pointed to a page stapled to the back of the file.
It was a will.
Catherine’s father had left behind a note.
“Let the mountain hold its ghosts. The dead should rest. Leonard paid his price. I kept the promise.”
Ghosts. Deals. Burials that were never meant to be found.
The three were friends. My father, Charles and Catherine’s father.
Fate sucks!
Secret? Sucks!
And I? I was standing in the epicenter of all of it. Drenched in generational trauma, mafia glue residue, and at least six types of unsolved mystery.
Because there was no treasure.
Only Elle.
Only loss and secrets.
Only the kind of family mess that no therapy session, no chocolate cake, and no amount of yoga-sass could fix overnight.
Vault 09 wasn’t a vault of riches.
It was a vault of reckoning.
And now, as the lights above flickered again and drawer thirteen loomed like a punchline waiting to be delivered—I wiped my tears, adjusted my mom bun, and stood tall.
Because Leon Darrow doesn’t run from the past.
She opens the next damn drawer.
With snacks. And sass. And grief sharp enough to cut through lies.
By the time we got home, Vault 09 still clung to my coat like mildew and family secrets. Joe parked the car like a man carrying emotional damage and half a granola bar. Mylene and Jhing Jhing had hitched a ride, their faces still tight with the kind of tension that only cursed drawers and tragic mixtapes can bring.
I opened the front door to my apartment and was immediately greeted by chaos deluxe.
Toys exploded across the living room like confetti at a toddler rave. Diapers—clean, used, folded, and mysteriously torn—created a crunchy minefield underfoot. A bottle of milk teetered dangerously on the armrest of the couch. Jaya was standing on a coffee table with a spatula like it was a sword. Aliya was gently feeding her stuffed rabbit an entire sleeve of saltines.
In the corner, our nanny—the endlessly patient, possibly ex-witch or ex warrioe Mrs. Genna—was reading to them about a wolf and a little girl who lost her way in the forest. Her voice was calm, melodic, and haunting in a way that made me question whether the story was really for the kids or some coded warning for the adults in the room.
Maya sat on the floor nearby, textbook open, pretending to study while very clearly side-eyeing everything.
Joe stepped over a talking doll that began singing a lullaby in reverse, looked at me, and whispered, “Do we need holy water or caffeine first?”
“Both,” I muttered, kicking aside a plastic unicorn.
We sat—me, Mylene, Jhing Jhing, and Joe—on my battered couch and mismatched armchairs like some off-brand Avengers. The room smelled like warm milk, vanilla crackers, and the faint paranoia of legacy betrayal.
I didn’t waste time.
“I found Leon’s sister.”
That made even Aliya pause mid–stuffed rabbit CPR.
“Leonard Darrow had a daughter no one knew about. A little girl. Elle. She died in the mountains years ago. Leonard buried her and lied about it. The mother thought she went missing. They searched for months, but she was there. The whole time. Buried under trees and guilt. And the bone—” I looked at Mylene and Jhing Jhing. “The one you two found during our picnic...”
Their eyes widened in slow horror. “No,” Mylene gasped. “We… we gave that to Joe for forensics.”
Jhing Jhing pulled out a compact mirror, stared at her reflection, and said, “My foundation survived a haunted picnic and now you’re telling me I had dead girl dust on my cardigan?”
“It was Elle,” I said. “She was Leon’s sister.”
Silence.
I let it sit.
My sister.
Then I added the next layer.
“And that’s not all. My father—my dad, because I’m Catherine Darrow, yes, go ahead and blink dramatically now—was in on it. He was close with Dorothy’s dad and Leon's. They all knew about Elle. They hid it. And up until now, ‘Charles V’ thought Vault 09 held treasure. But it wasn’t gold. It was a coffin. A note. A secret.”
Jhing Jhing dropped her mirror into her Chanel bag with a thud. “So you’re telling me I accidentally exfoliated in a grave of generational sins with hidden secrets, keys, paintings and a coffin?!”
Mylene blinked. “Wait, wait. You’re Father?”
“Yes.”
Joe cleared his throat. “More importantly—Charles Dandridge doesn’t know we know yet. And if he thinks Vault 09 has treasure, we can use that to lure them, lure the mafia out.”
He spread a crumpled blueprint across the baby play mat.
“Here’s the plan,” he said, using a sippy cup to hold the paper down. “We stage a fake ‘second vault’—a decoy. We leak the location. We watch who bites. If Charles V. Dandridge shows up, we corner him. We ask questions. We make him sweat. And if he runs—”
Mylene raised her brow. “We chase him in minivans with sippy cups and revenge?”
Jhing Jhing leaned forward. “Can I wear sequins?”
Joe didn’t blink. “Yes. Tactical sequins.”
Aliya interrupted with a question about glitter glue. Maya pretended not to care but rolled her eyes just enough to show she cared deeply.
I looked at them all—my friends, my family, my chaotic little crew of justice and juice boxes.
“Okay,” I said. “We hunt a man who thinks he’s chasing gold. But what he really uncovered… was an ugly past. And maybe a truth we’re all not ready for.”
I stood up. “Let’s finish this.”
Because motherhood doesn’t wait for justice.
And neither does Catherine Leon Darrow.
Especially not when my sister’s story still echoes in the forest.
End of REVENGE, DIAPER and SNACKS Chapter 89. Continue reading Chapter 90 or return to REVENGE, DIAPER and SNACKS book page.