Chapter 2 - [THE SIGNATURE THAT WASN'T HERS]
I stared at the back of the photograph.
Before your mother asks you to give Sophie your paintings, there is something you deserve to know about the first painting she ever claimed as her own.
My hands were shaking. I turned the picture over again.
It was my mother, twenty-five years ago. She looked so young, smiling proudly beside the watercolor of Grandma’s garden.
But I knew every stroke of that garden painting. I had studied it my entire life. The way the light hit the hydrangeas. The sharp, confident angles of the trellis.
My mother didn’t paint like that. My mother didn’t paint at all.
A knock hit my bedroom door. Sharp. Angry.
"Emily, open this door right now."
It was Dad.
I quickly shoved the photograph and Grandma’s letter back into the envelope and slid it under my mattress. I opened the door.
He stood there, holding a black trash bag.
"Since you want to act like a spoiled child, we're treating you like one," he said. "Put your paints in the bag."
I looked at the plastic bag, then up at him.
"You can't do this."
"I am your father. I provide the roof over your head. You don't get to disrespect your mother and terrorize your sister, then sit up here painting."
"Terrorize her?" I whispered. "By keeping my own work?"
"In the bag, Emily."
I thought about the cottage. About Aunt Margaret.
"No," I said.
Dad reached past me, grabbing the antique wooden box Grandma had given me.
"Don't touch that!" I yelled.
Mom appeared in the hallway behind him. Her eyes were red, but her posture was rigid. "Let him take it, Emily. You brought this on yourself."
As Dad lifted the box, the false bottom I hadn't fully secured slipped.
A small, silver key fell out, hitting the hardwood floor with a sharp clink.
Dad froze. Mom looked down at the key.
"What is that?" Mom asked.
I stepped forward and snatched it off the floor. "It’s mine."
Mom’s face drained of color. She stared at the key in my hand, recognizing the intricate pattern on the bow.
"Where did you get that?" Mom whispered. Her voice wasn't angry anymore. It was terrified.
"It was in Grandma's box," I said.
"Give it to me." Mom stepped into the room, her hand outstretched. "Emily, give me that key right now."
"No. It belongs to me."
"David, take it from her," Mom ordered, her voice rising to a frantic pitch.
Dad looked confused. "Helen, it's just a key. Let her keep it. I'm taking the paints."
"You don't understand!" Mom yelled, stepping toward me. "That's the key to Ellen's storage unit in the basement. She promised me she lost it!"
I gripped the key tightly. Grandma had a locked storage room in our basement. We were never allowed to go near it.
Before Mom could grab my wrist, Sophie walked into the hallway.
She was holding a small, weathered leather sketchbook.
"Aunt Helen?" Sophie said quietly. "I was looking for my phone charger in your study, and I found this in your desk."
Mom whipped around.
When she saw the sketchbook in Sophie's hands, she made a sound like she was choking.
"Put that down!" Mom shrieked.
But Sophie was already opening it. She looked at the first page. Then she looked at me, her eyes wide with shock.
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"Emily," Sophie whispered. "This sketchbook belongs to my mother. But... the sketches in here... they're your exhibition paintings."
TITLE: THE BRUSHSTROKES OF A DEAD WOMAN
