Chapter 2 Threads of Deceit

# Chapter 2: Threads of Deceit

Sleep eluded me that night. I lay in bed, the DNA report hidden in my nightstand drawer, feeling as though my entire life had been built on quicksand. By morning, I had made my decision: I needed proof—irrefutable evidence of Elsie's intentions before confronting my father.

I called Daniel Reeves, a former FBI agent turned private investigator who had helped the Harvey Corporation with sensitive matters in the past. His discretion was legendary, his methods impeccable. We met at a nondescript coffee shop in Chelsea, far from the prying eyes of Upper East Side society.

"This stays between us," I said, sliding an envelope containing $50,000 in cash across the table. "I need everything you can find on Elsie Stephens. Background, finances, communications. And I need to know exactly how she's accessing information about my family."

Daniel nodded once, pocketing the envelope without counting it. "Three days. I'll have preliminary findings by then."

Those three days were the longest of my life. I maintained a façade of normalcy, even meeting Elsie for our regular Tuesday lunch at Eleven Madison Park. She arrived wearing a Burberry trench coat identical to one I'd purchased the previous week.

"Great minds think alike," she laughed, gesturing to our matching coats.

I forced a smile. "Indeed they do."

Throughout lunch, I found myself scrutinizing her features, searching for resemblances to my father. The shape of her eyes, perhaps? The way she tilted her head when considering a question? Had I been blind, or simply unwilling to see?

"Is everything okay, Lara?" Elsie asked, her brow furrowed with what appeared to be genuine concern. "You seem distracted."

"Just work stress," I lied smoothly. "The foundation's annual gala is consuming all my mental energy."

She reached across the table, squeezing my hand. "You know I'm always here for you. Whatever you need."

Her touch made my skin crawl, but I maintained my composure.

"Actually," I said, deliberately leaving a smear of my signature coral lipstick on my coffee cup, "I could use your help with the seating chart. Would you mind stopping by the office tomorrow?"

"Of course not," she replied eagerly. "What time?"

I set the trap: 2 PM at the Harvey Foundation offices, where I'd installed additional surveillance cameras that morning.

After lunch, I received a text from Daniel: "Found something. Meeting at usual place. 4 PM."

The coffee shop was quieter in the afternoon. Daniel slid a folder across the table without preamble.

"Elsie Stephens," he began, "born Elizabeth Sarah Stephens, October 30, 1993, to a Jane Doe at New York-Presbyterian. Adopted by the Stephens family at three months. Foster care from ages seven to eighteen after her adoptive parents died in a car accident."

I nodded impatiently. "This I already knew."

"What you didn't know," Daniel continued, "is that her college tuition was paid in full by an anonymous donor through the Harvey Educational Trust. The same donor who purchased her first apartment in Manhattan and arranged her initial job at Vogue."

My heart skipped a beat. "My father."

"Yes. But here's where it gets interesting." He pulled out a series of photographs. "These are from security footage at various Harvey properties over the past five years."

The images showed Elsie at events I hadn't even known she attended—a Harvey Corporation Christmas party four years ago, a family foundation meeting three years back, even my cousin's wedding where I distinctly remembered her not being on the guest list.

"She's been orbiting your family for years, long before you 'officially' met her."

My mouth went dry. "And this?" I pointed to the last photo, which showed Elsie deep in conversation with our longtime family housekeeper, Mrs. Reynolds.

"Taken six months ago. Your housekeeper meets with Elsie approximately twice a month at a café in Queens. Cash changes hands each time."

I felt sick. Mrs. Reynolds had been with us since I was a child. She knew everything about our family—routines, preferences, secrets.

"There's more," Daniel said quietly. "She knows things about your childhood that aren't public knowledge."

He played an audio recording on his phone—Elsie's voice, clear as day, recounting a story about how I'd broken my arm at age six falling from a tree house at our Hamptons estate. A story only family members knew.

"How—"

"Mrs. Reynolds, most likely. But there's something else you should see."

The final photograph showed Elsie entering a private psychiatric facility in Connecticut.

"She visits monthly. The patient is registered as Margaret Stephens, supposedly her adoptive grandmother. But I cross-checked records—Margaret Stephens died fifteen years ago."

"Then who is she visiting?"

Daniel's eyes met mine. "That's what I intend to find out next."

The following day, Elsie arrived at my office precisely at 2 PM. I had strategically left my coffee cup on the desk, coral lipstick print perfectly visible on the rim. The hidden cameras were recording.

"Sorry I'm running late," I lied, gesturing to the seating charts spread across my desk. "Help yourself to coffee. I just need to finish this call."

I stepped into the adjoining room, watching the monitor that displayed a live feed of my office. Elsie glanced around, then picked up my coffee cup. She examined the lipstick mark for a moment before pulling out her own lipstick—the exact shade I was wearing—and applying it carefully. Then, in a move that chilled me to the bone, she drank from the exact spot where my lips had been, deliberately overlaying her print on mine.

After she left, I retrieved the cup as evidence, sealing it in a plastic bag.

That night, I received a text from Daniel with a photo attachment. It showed Elsie entering the psychiatric facility, but this time, he'd managed to access the visitor log. The patient's name made my blood run cold: Melanie Harvey.

My father's wife before my mother. The woman who had supposedly died in a boating accident twenty-five years ago.

She was alive.

The annual Harvey Corporation meeting was scheduled for the following day. It was time to accelerate my plan. I knew Elsie would attend—she never missed an opportunity to be seen at Harvey events, especially since securing a junior position in our marketing department three months ago.

The company safe in my father's office contained documents only the board of directors had access to. I'd memorized the combination years ago but had never had reason to use it. Today, I made sure Elsie saw me enter it—a seemingly careless moment when I "didn't realize" she was watching from the doorway.

Inside the safe, I'd planted a folder labeled "Adoption Records: Confidential." It contained fabricated documents suggesting I had been adopted as an infant, with my biological parents listed as "unknown." A complete fiction, but one I hoped would push Elsie into revealing her true intentions.

As the meeting concluded, I noticed Elsie lingering near my father's office. I pretended to be engrossed in conversation with our CFO, watching from my peripheral vision as she slipped inside the moment the hallway cleared.

The cameras I'd installed captured everything: Elsie entering the safe combination, removing the folder, photographing each document with trembling hands. Her expression was a mixture of shock and vindication. She replaced everything exactly as she'd found it and exited the office, her face composed once more.

That evening, my father called. His voice sounded strained.

"Lara, I understand you and Elsie are planning a trip to Greece next month."

I twirled a pen between my fingers. "Just a quick getaway to Santorini. Why?"

A long pause followed. "I don't think it's a good idea."

"Because...?"

"Business is hectic right now. I need you here for the Johnson merger."

It was a transparent excuse. The Johnson merger wasn't scheduled to finalize for another six months.

"Is there something you're not telling me, Dad?" I pressed.

His sigh was heavy with unspoken burdens. "Santorini has... difficult memories for our family."

My mother had loved Greece. We'd vacationed there every summer until her death when I was eight. But Santorini specifically? We'd never been there together.

"What memories, Dad?"

"Just trust me on this, Lara. Choose another destination."

After we hung up, I stared at the phone, pieces clicking into place. Santorini wasn't significant to my mother.

But perhaps it was significant to Melanie.

I texted Elsie immediately: "Dad's trying to talk me out of Santorini. Makes me want to go even more. Still in?"

Her response came seconds later: "Absolutely! I've always felt drawn to the Greek Islands."

I smiled grimly at her eagerness. The trap was set.

That night, I finally opened my father's safe again, this time retrieving every document related to Melanie Harvey. There wasn't much—a marriage certificate, property deeds, and a death certificate dated May 11, 1993—one day before my birthday.

The official cause of death was listed as "drowning," the location "Mediterranean Sea, near Santorini, Greece."

My hands trembled as I replaced the documents. If Melanie Harvey was alive in a Connecticut facility, then who had drowned off the coast of Santorini?

And why was my father so desperate to keep me away from there?