THE LIE THAT WORE A RING - Chapter 17: Chapter 17
You are reading THE LIE THAT WORE A RING, Chapter 17: Chapter 17. Read more chapters of THE LIE THAT WORE A RING.
The next morning came with a strained silence. Alina was in the kitchen humming as she arranged a perfect breakfast spread: croissants warmed just right, strawberries sliced like petals, and fresh-squeezed juice poured with a graceful hand.
Ava and Ethan watched from the staircase. Neither touched the bannister. It felt like crossing enemy lines.
“She acts like nothing’s wrong,” Ava muttered under her breath.
“She’s always acting,” Ethan replied.
They descended the stairs together, nodding when Alina greeted them cheerily. “Morning, darlings! I hope you’re both hungry today.”
“We are,” Ava replied, her smile tight and brittle.
Alina beamed, then turned to adjust the flowers on the table. “I have a surprise for you two this weekend. We’re going upstate. Just us—quality bonding time. Doesn’t that sound fun?”
Ethan exchanged a glance with his sister. A trip away from the mansion meant isolation. No cameras. No Mr. Harris. No way to signal help.
They played along.
“Sounds great,” Ethan said.
Alina smiled. “Good. I knew you’d see it my way.”
Later that afternoon, after Alina had left for her spa appointment, the siblings went back into her room. They didn’t touch the phone again—now they needed more than messages. They needed evidence.
Ava found it first.
In a small compartment under the bed drawer—cleverly disguised with a fake velvet lining—was a set of old documents. A passport. Photos. A newspaper clipping from a small town.
Ethan unfolded the clipping.
> “Local Teacher Found Dead in Apartment Fire. Authorities suspect foul play.”
It was dated eight years ago. The woman’s name was Genevieve Morales. The name meant nothing to him—until Ava gasped and held up the passport.
It was Alina. Younger, with darker hair and a different name: Genevieve A. Morales.
“She changed her identity,” Ava whispered. “But why?”
They kept reading. In the margins of the article was a scribbled note:
> “No trace. Clean burn. Moved east before questions. Don’t call back.”
Ethan opened the back of the passport sleeve. Inside was a black-and-white photo, crumpled at the edges. It showed a man—late 30s, laughing in a sunlit kitchen. Beside him was the same woman now known as Alina. Her hair tied back. A child’s toy in the background.
“She had a family?” Ethan asked. “Before Dad?”
Ava’s hands trembled. “I don’t think she lost them. I think she left them.”
They scanned the rest of the documents. A birth certificate—partially burned—showed the name of a daughter: “Lucia Morales.”
That name struck something in Ethan.
He pulled out his phone and typed it into a search engine.
A single result popped up from a missing persons board.
Lucia Morales, Age 10
Last seen in Santa Clara, CA
Mother: Genevieve Morales (also missing)
Ethan read aloud in disbelief: “The case was closed. Presumed abducted by non-custodial parent.”
Ava stared at the screen. “She ran. She took her daughter. Then she disappeared.”
“But where’s the kid now?” Ethan asked.
Ava looked down at the passport again. There were water stains—tear marks maybe—but the date of the last travel visa was marked five years ago.
“She left her,” Ava said. “Somewhere along the way… she got rid of her.”
Ethan felt sick. “She walked into our house pretending to be someone else. Pretending to love us.”
“No,” Ava said, her voice suddenly hard. “She never loved us. She never even loved her own.”
Later that evening, the siblings huddled in Ethan’s room. The folder of documents now sat hidden behind a loose panel in the wall. Ava typed up everything into a locked USB drive. Ethan printed the missing persons report and slipped it into one of his school binders.
Just in case.
“She’s going to notice,” Ethan said. “She’ll find out we know.”
“Then we stay ahead of her,” Ava replied, her voice no longer trembling.
They were no longer two hurt children. They were investigators, survivors.
And they weren’t afraid anymore.
Ava and Ethan watched from the staircase. Neither touched the bannister. It felt like crossing enemy lines.
“She acts like nothing’s wrong,” Ava muttered under her breath.
“She’s always acting,” Ethan replied.
They descended the stairs together, nodding when Alina greeted them cheerily. “Morning, darlings! I hope you’re both hungry today.”
“We are,” Ava replied, her smile tight and brittle.
Alina beamed, then turned to adjust the flowers on the table. “I have a surprise for you two this weekend. We’re going upstate. Just us—quality bonding time. Doesn’t that sound fun?”
Ethan exchanged a glance with his sister. A trip away from the mansion meant isolation. No cameras. No Mr. Harris. No way to signal help.
They played along.
“Sounds great,” Ethan said.
Alina smiled. “Good. I knew you’d see it my way.”
Later that afternoon, after Alina had left for her spa appointment, the siblings went back into her room. They didn’t touch the phone again—now they needed more than messages. They needed evidence.
Ava found it first.
In a small compartment under the bed drawer—cleverly disguised with a fake velvet lining—was a set of old documents. A passport. Photos. A newspaper clipping from a small town.
Ethan unfolded the clipping.
> “Local Teacher Found Dead in Apartment Fire. Authorities suspect foul play.”
It was dated eight years ago. The woman’s name was Genevieve Morales. The name meant nothing to him—until Ava gasped and held up the passport.
It was Alina. Younger, with darker hair and a different name: Genevieve A. Morales.
“She changed her identity,” Ava whispered. “But why?”
They kept reading. In the margins of the article was a scribbled note:
> “No trace. Clean burn. Moved east before questions. Don’t call back.”
Ethan opened the back of the passport sleeve. Inside was a black-and-white photo, crumpled at the edges. It showed a man—late 30s, laughing in a sunlit kitchen. Beside him was the same woman now known as Alina. Her hair tied back. A child’s toy in the background.
“She had a family?” Ethan asked. “Before Dad?”
Ava’s hands trembled. “I don’t think she lost them. I think she left them.”
They scanned the rest of the documents. A birth certificate—partially burned—showed the name of a daughter: “Lucia Morales.”
That name struck something in Ethan.
He pulled out his phone and typed it into a search engine.
A single result popped up from a missing persons board.
Lucia Morales, Age 10
Last seen in Santa Clara, CA
Mother: Genevieve Morales (also missing)
Ethan read aloud in disbelief: “The case was closed. Presumed abducted by non-custodial parent.”
Ava stared at the screen. “She ran. She took her daughter. Then she disappeared.”
“But where’s the kid now?” Ethan asked.
Ava looked down at the passport again. There were water stains—tear marks maybe—but the date of the last travel visa was marked five years ago.
“She left her,” Ava said. “Somewhere along the way… she got rid of her.”
Ethan felt sick. “She walked into our house pretending to be someone else. Pretending to love us.”
“No,” Ava said, her voice suddenly hard. “She never loved us. She never even loved her own.”
Later that evening, the siblings huddled in Ethan’s room. The folder of documents now sat hidden behind a loose panel in the wall. Ava typed up everything into a locked USB drive. Ethan printed the missing persons report and slipped it into one of his school binders.
Just in case.
“She’s going to notice,” Ethan said. “She’ll find out we know.”
“Then we stay ahead of her,” Ava replied, her voice no longer trembling.
They were no longer two hurt children. They were investigators, survivors.
And they weren’t afraid anymore.
End of THE LIE THAT WORE A RING Chapter 17. Continue reading Chapter 18 or return to THE LIE THAT WORE A RING book page.