Chapter 4 GRAVEYARD CONFESSION

# CHAPTER 4: "GRAVEYARD CONFESSION"

Rain pattered against the windshield as I drove through the wrought-iron gates of Evergreen Cemetery, wipers struggling to clear the view ahead. The forecast had called for light showers, but nature had decided on a deluge instead—fitting for what I was about to do.

"Are you sure about this?" Alexander asked from the passenger seat, his small fingers clutching the old brass key Victor had delivered to us that morning.

"It's the only way to know for certain," I replied, navigating the narrow cemetery path. "Victor said this key opens a lockbox buried with my mother—or what's supposed to be my mother."

After our confrontation with Louie, Haven had doubled security around him and called an emergency board meeting to discuss the "delusional woman claiming to be Scarlett Lipsey." She'd presented medical reports confirming my death, drowning records, and even grief counseling bills—all meticulously forged, of course.

What she hadn't counted on was Alexander. My brilliant son had remotely accessed the boardroom presentation system and broadcasted the DNA test results showing his paternity. The chaos that followed had been spectacular, with Haven screaming that the tests were fabricated while board members whispered about succession rights and Louie's hidden heir.

The car rolled to a stop beside a modest mausoleum bearing the Lipsey name. My family wasn't wealthy, but my grandfather had insisted on this small monument—"So we'll always have a place to come home to," he'd said.

"Stay in the car," I instructed Alexander, handing him my phone. "If anyone approaches—"

"Call you immediately and lock the doors," he finished. "I know, Mom."

I stepped into the rain, the cold drops instantly soaking through my black coat. The mausoleum key was exactly where it had always been—hidden in a small crevice beneath the stone angel guarding the entrance. Some things, at least, remained unchanged.

Inside, the air was stale and heavy with the scent of old stone. I switched on my flashlight, illuminating the small space where generations of my family rested. My mother's plaque was the newest—"Eleanor Lipsey, Beloved Mother, Forever Missed." Below it sat a simple white marble urn.

According to official records, my mother's body had never been found. This urn supposedly contained personal items I'd chosen to memorialize her—a locket, her favorite earrings, a handwritten recipe for apple pie she'd perfected over decades.

I knelt before it, my hands trembling slightly as I lifted the heavy lid. Inside was exactly what I expected—the mementos I'd selected years ago, plus a small metal lockbox I'd never seen before.

The key Victor had provided fit perfectly. The lock turned with a soft click, and the box opened to reveal not my mother's possessions, but a leather-bound journal with the initials "C.M." embossed in gold.

Catherine Matthews. Haven's mother.

My heart raced as I opened the journal, finding a letter addressed to me on the first page:

Advertisement

*Scarlett,*

*If you're reading this, then my suspicions were correct, and you survived. I prayed you would.*

*What Haven and my husband did to your mother was unforgivable. The truth is in these pages—all of it. Haven isn't who she claims to be. Neither are you.*

*Look for the DNA report hidden beneath the false bottom of this box. It will explain everything.*

*I'm sorry I couldn't protect you or your mother. Perhaps this truth will be my atonement.*

*—Catherine Matthews*

With shaking hands, I pried open the false bottom of the lockbox. Inside was a sealed envelope containing what appeared to be a decades-old DNA paternity test—conducted when Haven and I were infants.

The results made my blood run cold: the babies had been switched at birth.

I wasn't Scarlett Lipsey by birth. I was born Catherine Matthews.

Haven wasn't Haven Matthews by birth. She was born Eleanor Lipsey.

We had been living each other's lives since infancy.

I flipped frantically through the journal, finding the full account. Catherine Matthews had given birth the same night as my mother at the same hospital. Richard Matthews, disappointed that his wife had delivered a girl instead of the son he wanted, had paid a nurse to switch the babies—taking the healthier, stronger infant for themselves.

My mother—the woman I'd known as my mother—had suspected something wasn't right but could never prove it. When she finally found evidence and confronted Richard Matthews twenty years later, he had her kidnapped and her organs harvested, including the kidney that went to Haven.

The irony was sickening. Haven had received a kidney from the woman who had given birth to her, never knowing the truth.

A noise outside the mausoleum jolted me from my shocked state. Footsteps on gravel, multiple sets. I quickly photographed the key pages of the journal with my phone, then replaced everything in the lockbox except the DNA report, which I tucked into my coat.

I had just closed the urn when the mausoleum door swung open. Haven stood there, silhouetted against the rain, flanked by two security guards.

"I knew you'd come here eventually," she said, her voice cold. "Sentimentality was always your weakness, sister."

Sister. The word hung in the air between us, heavy with new meaning. Did she know? Had she always known?

"How did you find me?" I asked, buying time as I assessed my options. The mausoleum had no other exits.

"Your son isn't the only one who can track a cell phone," she replied with a smirk. "Though I must say, he's impressively clever for a bastard."

Rage flared within me. "Don't you dare speak about my son."

"Our son," she corrected, stepping further into the small space. "Or have you forgotten that you stole Louie from me too? Though I suppose turnabout is fair play, considering."

So she did know. She'd always known we were switched at birth.

"How long have you known the truth?" I demanded.

"Since I was sixteen," she said with a shrug. "Daddy told me when I asked why I looked nothing like him or mother. He thought it was funny—that he'd stolen a better baby and left Eleanor Lipsey with the runt."

One of the guards shifted uncomfortably at her callousness.

"And my mother?" I asked, though I already knew the answer. "Did you know what your father planned to do to her?"

Haven's smile was chilling. "I suggested it, actually. She was asking too many questions, threatening to go public. And I needed a kidney." She touched her side absently. "Perfect solution, wouldn't you say?"

I lunged at her then, blind with fury, but the guards caught me before I could reach her. Haven didn't even flinch.

"You're insane," I spat, struggling against the men's grip.

"I'm practical," she corrected. "Which is more than I can say for you, coming here alone."

"Who says I'm alone?"

As if on cue, the cemetery lights went out, plunging us into darkness except for the beam of my flashlight. The guards' radios crackled with static, then Alexander's voice came through, distorted but recognizable:

"Security systems compromised. Backup generators disabled. Initiating lockdown protocol."

Haven's smug expression faltered. "What is this?"

I smiled, wrenching free in their moment of confusion. "My son is very good with electronics. And he's not in the car anymore."

The sound of police sirens wailed in the distance, growing closer.

"You called the police?" Haven scoffed. "And what will you tell them? That I stole your identity? That I had a woman killed seven years ago? You have no proof."

I pulled out the DNA report. "I have this. And Catherine Matthews' journal detailing everything—including Richard's confession about my mother's murder."

For the first time, fear flickered across Haven's face. "Those documents won't hold up in court."

"Maybe not," I conceded, "but they'll create enough doubt to warrant an investigation. Are you prepared for your father's crimes to be exposed? For exhumation orders? For modern DNA tests that will prove everything Catherine wrote?"

The guards exchanged uneasy glances, clearly reconsidering their position in this confrontation.

"Ms. Matthews," one began hesitantly, "we were hired to locate Ms. Lipsey, not to become involved in criminal matters."

"Shut up," Haven snapped. "She's bluffing. There won't be any investigation because she won't leave this cemetery alive." She reached into her purse and pulled out a small pistol.

"Haven," I said calmly, though my heart was racing, "think about what you're doing. Murder in front of witnesses? Even you aren't that reckless."

"These men work for me," she replied coldly. "They'll confirm it was self-defense when the grieving widow protected herself from her husband's deranged stalker."

The rain intensified outside, drumming against the stone roof. The police sirens had stopped—either they'd arrived or been misdirected elsewhere.

Haven raised the gun, aiming at my chest. "Any last words, sister?"

A crash of thunder shook the ground, and suddenly the mausoleum door slammed shut, trapping us inside. The flashlight beam caught Haven's startled expression just before it went out, plunging us into total darkness.

Chaos erupted. The guards shouted, fumbling for their own lights. I dropped to the floor, crawling away from where I'd been standing. Haven fired blindly, the muzzle flash briefly illuminating her panicked face.

"Mom!" Alexander's voice called from outside. "The northeast corner stone is loose!"

I felt my way along the wall until my fingers found a stone that shifted under pressure. Pushing hard, I felt it give way, creating a small opening—just large enough for me to squeeze through if I tried.

Another gunshot, closer this time. Haven was firing methodically, working her way across the space.

"I can hear you breathing, Scarlett," she called, her voice unnervingly calm. "You can't escape me. You never could."

I pushed harder on the stone, widening the gap. Outside, I could see Alexander's small face, wet with rain and fear.

"Hurry, Mom!"

I thrust the DNA report through the opening first. "Take this to the car!"

He hesitated. "But—"

"Now, Alexander!"

As he ran with the document, I braced myself to follow. But before I could squeeze through, something heavy crashed into the side of the mausoleum. The ancient structure groaned, dust and small fragments of stone raining down.

"What was that?" Haven demanded, her voice higher with panic.

The answer came in the form of a deafening crack as the massive oak tree beside the mausoleum, weakened by the storm and struck by lightning, toppled against the building. The roof partially collapsed, sending stone and debris crashing down.

I pressed myself against the wall, covering my head as chunks of marble rained down around me. When the dust settled, dim light filtered through the damaged roof. Haven lay trapped beneath a fallen beam, the gun still clutched in her hand but now pointed uselessly at the ceiling. The guards were scrambling to free themselves from the debris.

I seized my chance, pushing through the opening and emerging into the rain. Alexander was waiting by a large headstone, clutching the DNA report protectively against his chest.

"Mom!" he cried, running to me. "Are you okay?"

I gathered him into my arms, holding him tight. "I'm fine. You did perfectly."

"The police are really coming now," he said. "I actually called them this time."

I looked back at the damaged mausoleum, where Haven was screaming for help. "We need to go. Now."

As we hurried back to our car, Alexander asked, "Did you find what we needed? About Grandma?"

I nodded grimly. "I found much more than that. The truth about everything."

We drove away just as police and emergency vehicles arrived at the cemetery gates. In the rearview mirror, I watched as Haven was extracted from the rubble, her face contorted with rage as she screamed at the officers, pointing in the direction we had fled.

"Where are we going now?" Alexander asked, clutching the DNA report.

I gripped the steering wheel tighter. "To see your father. It's time he learned who his wife really is—and who I really am."

But as we merged onto the highway, my phone rang—an unknown number. I put it on speaker.

"Scarlett," Victor Stone's voice came through, strained and urgent. "Louie's private jet crashed an hour ago over the Atlantic. They're saying there are no survivors."

The world seemed to stop. "What? That's impossible. He's in the hospital."

"He checked himself out this morning against medical advice. The manifest shows he was the only passenger, along with the pilot and co-pilot."

Alexander's face had gone pale. "Father is... dead?"

Victor continued, "They've recovered the black box. There's something you need to hear."

"What is it?" I asked, dreading the answer.

"Just one sentence, recorded moments before the crash: 'Scarlett... the one who saved me.'"

I nearly drove off the road, my mind reeling back to a memory I'd long suppressed—a teenage boy drowning in a pool, a crescent-shaped cut on my side from the broken pool ladder I'd used to pull him out. Could it have been Louie? After all these years, had he finally recognized me as his rescuer?

"Victor," I said, my voice steadier than I felt, "I need you to do something for me. Find out everything you can about that plane crash. Something doesn't add up."

"You think it wasn't an accident?"

I glanced at Alexander, whose analytical mind was already visibly working through the possibilities.

"I think," I said carefully, "that Haven has just eliminated a major obstacle between her and the Wagner fortune. And I think she'll be coming for us next."