It was hard for Vivian DeWitt to hold the cream-colored envelope because her hands were shaking.
She had a fancy gold name written on the front. It had been ten years since she had seen that writing.
She whispered, "Not today," and threw the envelope on her small kitchen table. It made her gray eyes dart away from it as if it were going to bite her.
The only sound in her Boston flat was the clock on the wall ticking over and over again. It rained outside and hit the windows.
She tried to breathe properly as she pushed her dark auburn hair behind her ears.
The envelope wasn't going anywhere. It did nothing but wait. Vivian stood with her back to the table while she made coffee.
The space she lived in was small but clean. It wasn't at all like the huge house she had grown up in. It was hers, though. After everyone had thrown her away, she built this life all by herself.
Because of what happened to Isabella. When Vivian thought about her sister, her stomach turned. Isabella is beautiful and perfect. She has blonde hair and bright green eyes. Isabella, who was liked by everyone. Isabella, who died in the lake ten years ago while Vivian was meant to be watching her. Isabella who was dead because of her.
The coffee machine beeped. Vivian poured a cup and finally turned back to the table. The envelope seemed to glow against the dark wood. "Fine," she said, taking it and ripping it open. Might as well get it over with. Inside was a card with gold edges.
Vivian's heart pounded as she read:
THE DEWITT FOUNDATION CHARITY GALA Honoring Ten Years of Hope Saturday, October 15th The Plaza Hotel, New York City
At the bottom, written in the same handwriting as the letter, were the words:
We hope you'll join us, Vivian. It's time to come home.
"Home?"
Vivian said out loud. Her voice sounded strange in the empty flat.
"I don't have a home anymore." Home was where her father, Alexander DeWitt, had looked at her with cold blue eyes the day after Isabella's funeral.
"Get out," he had said. "You're no daughter of mine." Home was where she'd lost everything in one terrible night at the lake. Vivian set the note down and walked to the window. Rain slid down the glass like tears.
Why would they invite her now, after all this time? The DeWitt Foundation was her father's organization. He had made it very clear that Vivian was dead to him, just like Isabella. Her phone rang, making her jump. It was her boss at the offices where she worked.
"Hi, Mrs. Collins," Vivian replied, trying to sound normal. "Vivian, dear, I need you to come in early tomorrow. We have a new collection that needs sorting." "Of course," Vivian said. This was her life now.
Quiet. Safe. Nobody knew she was once a DeWitt. Here, she was just Vivian Gray, a normal girl with a normal job. After hanging up, Vivian's eyes went back to the offer. Maybe they'd sent it by mistake.
Or maybe it was some terrible joke. She picked it up again and noticed something she'd missed a small note card had fallen out of the package. The handwriting on this one was different. Sharp and pointed, like little blades on the paper. It wasn't your fault. There are things you don't know.
Come back. Find the truth. Vivian's heart jumped into her throat. The note wasn't signed. She sank into a chair, suddenly dizzy. For ten years, she'd lived with the weight of guilt. The murmurs.
The stories in the newspapers:
DEWITT DAUGHTER TO BLAME FOR SISTER'S DROWNING.
The way her father had looked at her, like she was trash to be thrown away. Vivian had never told anyone what really happened that night at the lake.
She barely remembered it herself. Just flashesan argument with Isabella, her sister's angry face in the moonlight, then nothing until she woke up on the shore, wet and cold, with people shouting and flashlights sweeping across the dark water. No one found Isabella's body.
They said the lake was deep, with strong currents. They said sometimes bodies stayed lost forever. Vivian touched the note again. It wasn't your fault. Those four words lit a tiny spark inside her.
A spark of something she hadn't felt in years. Hope. Vivian walked to her bedroom and pulled out her laptop. Her fingers flew across the keyboard as she looked for news about the DeWitt family.
There wasn't much. After Isabella's death, they'd gone quiet. Her father rarely showed in public anymore. The last item she found showed a picture of the DeWitt mansion with its gates locked.
The story said Alexander DeWitt had become a recluse, focusing only on his business and charity work. There was nothing about why they'd want Vivian back now. She closed the laptop and went to her closet. In the back, hidden under old sweaters, was a small wooden box.
Vivian pulled it out and sat on her bed. Inside were the only things she had kept from her old life a photo of her and Isabella as little girls, a bracelet her mother had given her before she died, and a news story about Isabella's drowning. The picture showed two smiling girls with their arms around each other. Isabella was smiling at the camera like she always did. Vivian looked awkward, already living in her sister's shadow even then.
"Why now?" Vivian whispered to the picture. "What's changed?" She put everything back in the box except the picture, which she placed on her nightstand.
Then she pulled out her phone and looked up flights to New York. If she went back, she'd have to face them all again her father, the memories, the words. The lake. But if there was even a small chance that she wasn't to blame for Isabella's death... "I need to know," she said to the empty room. Vivian booked a flight for Friday, three days before the gala. She'd need time to prepare herself.
Time to be brave. That night, she dreamed of the lake. In her dream, she was underwater, sinking into the cold darkness.
Above her, a hand reached down, trying to grab her. Vivian kicked and swam, trying to reach it. But as she got closer, she saw it wasn't a hand trying to save her. It was a hand pushing her down. Vivian woke up panting for air, her sheets twisted around her legs.
Outside, thunder boomed. The storm had gotten worse. She stumbled to the bathroom and splashed cold water on her face. In the mirror, her pale skin looked almost ghostly, her gray eyes wide with fear.
"It's just a dream," she told her image. But a voice in the back of her mind whispered: Or is it a memory? The next day, Vivian called in sick to work for the first time ever. She spent the day packing and unloading, changing her mind a dozen times about going to New York.
By evening, her bag was ready again. She couldn't ignore the offer. That spark of hope wouldn't let her. On Thursday night, Vivian couldn't sleep.
She made tea and sat by the window, watching the city lights. Tomorrow she would be in New York. Tomorrow she would start looking for answers.
Her phone buzzed with a text message. Unknown number. Vivian frowned. Nobody had this number except work and a few friends. She opened the text and felt her blood freeze in her veins.
Don't come back, Vivian. Some secrets should stay drowned. Vivian dropped the phone like it was on fire. Who would send such a message? Who even knew she was going to go back?
The spark of hope turned into something elsedetermination. Now she knew there was something to find out. Someone didn't want her digging up the past. Too bad for them.
Vivian picked up her phone and deleted the message. Then she went to her closet and pulled out the one fancy dress she owned. It was simple but elegantdark blue, like the lake at night.
"I'm coming back," she said to herself. "And this time, I'm not running away until I know the truth." As thunder cracked outside her window, Vivian made a promise to herself and to the sister she had lost. She would go to the dinner. She would face her father. She would find out what really happened ten years ago. Even if some secrets were better left drowned.