Chapter 2 - The Archive of ShadowsThe morning sun filtered through the blinds of our Columbus home, casting long, geometric shadows across the living room floor. The apartment was deathly quiet. Beckett was in the kitchen, making coffee he knew I wouldn't finish, his movements heavy with the shock of the previous night.
On my phone screen, Vesper’s Facebook post glowed like a beacon of pure malice.
“So heartbroken that a day meant to celebrate love was hijacked by selfishness. I tried to calm my sister down when she attacked me over bridesmaid arrangements, and in her rage, she slipped and fell. Please respect our family’s privacy during this difficult time. 🙏✨”
Beneath it, my mother had commented: “We love you, sweetheart. Stay strong. The truth always wins.”
My fingers hovered over the screen. For twenty-nine years, I had been the designated shock-absorber of the Bennett family. When Vesper crashed her car at nineteen, I drove two hours to pick her up while my parents paid off the highway patrolman. When Vesper failed out of her first business venture, I spent my weekends auditing her ledger books so my mother wouldn't have to face the humiliation of failure. I had accepted my role as the responsible, uncelebrated younger sister because I believed love was something earned through endurance.
"Sloan," Beckett said softly, setting a mug of black coffee on the side table. "The lawyer I called this morning specializes in civil battery. We can file an injunction by noon. She won't be able to post another word without facing contempt of court."
"Not yet," I said, my voice unnervingly calm. "An injunction punishes the symptom. I want to cure the disease."
"What does that mean?"
"My mother told me I fell out of an apple tree when I was eight," I replied, pulling my laptop onto my knees. "The doctor said that fracture required massive blunt force trauma. Children don't remodel bone like that from a simple fall. Someone hit me, Beckett. Or pushed me down the stairs. And my parents were right there when it happened."
I opened a web browser and navigated to the archived records portal of St. Jude’s Memorial Pediatric Hospital, the facility that had served our county in the late nineties. The digital system required a multi-step verification process for records older than twenty years. I filled out my Social Security number, my maiden name, and uploaded a photo of my driver's license.
An automated message flashed across the screen: Request received. Due to archival protocols, physical retrieval may take up to 48 hours.
"Forty-eight hours," I muttered. "They think they have time to bury it."
"They don't know you're looking," Beckett reminded me gently.
"They know I have a brain scan," I said, looking up at him. "And my mother sounded entirely too rehearsed when I called her from the ER. She didn't ask how many stitches I had. She didn't ask if I had a concussion. She immediately jumped to defend Vesper and justify the apple tree story. People who are innocent don't pre-emptively manage the narrative of a crime scene."
I picked up my phone and dialed a number I hadn't called in three years.
It rang twice before a gravelly, deep voice answered.
"Yeah?"
"Uncle Hayes?"
There was a sharp intake of breath on the other end of the line. The sound of a chainsaw idling in the background clicked off, replaced by the rustle of pine needles and heavy footsteps.
"Sloan?" My uncle’s voice sounded old, tired, and suddenly terrified. "Honey... I heard about the wedding. I saw the news clips online. Are you alright? Your father called me this morning, warning me not to speak to reporters."
"My father called you to manage the PR?" I asked, a bitter laugh escaping my lips. "He didn't call to ask if I was in the hospital?"
"No," Hayes muttered. "Alistair only cares about what the country club thinks. What did he say to you?"
"Nothing. He hasn't called me at all," I said. "Uncle Hayes, I need you to tell me the truth about something. And you have to be completely honest with me."
Silence stretched across the line, heavy with twenty-one years of unsaid things.
"About what, kiddo?"
"When I was eight years old," I said, my voice dropping to a harsh whisper. "The summer I supposedly fell out of the apple tree in the backyard. Tell me what actually happened."
A heavy sigh echoed through the receiver, followed by the sound of a match striking. Hayes was lighting a cigarette—a habit he only indulged when he was deeply shaken.
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"Sloan," he whispered hoarsely. "Your father told me never to speak of that summer again. If he finds out I told you—"
"My father isn't going to find out anything," I interrupted, gripping the phone so hard my fingers ached. "Vesper just smashed a five-inch heel into my head at my wedding, and my parents helped her escape the venue. The ER doctor found a depressed skull fracture on my brain scan. Someone broke my head when I was a child, Uncle Hayes. And I need to know if it was them."
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