I didn't sleep much that night. The anonymous message remained open on my phone, its few sentences carrying more weight than their length suggested. Ask Ethan what happened to the original records after the accident. Whoever had sent it knew about the records, knew that Ethan might have been involved, and expected me to understand that the missing information mattered. I wanted to call the number immediately, but Mr. Collins's warning stopped me. If the sender was genuine, a careless reply could destroy the chance of learning more.
The next morning, I met Mr. Collins at his office. He read the message twice, then asked me to forward the original screenshot and preserve the number exactly as it appeared. He explained that an anonymous accusation was not proof of anything, but it could point us toward a legitimate line of inquiry. He would ask the appropriate investigators to examine whether the records mentioned in the message existed and whether their disappearance had been documented.
“Could Ethan have taken them?” I asked.
“He could have had access to them,” Mr. Collins replied. “That is different from establishing that he removed them. We need to separate what we suspect from what we can demonstrate.”
He wrote the sender's wording in his notes, then asked me to describe every occasion when I had seen Ethan handle paperwork related to my education or the accident. I remembered him carrying a stack of envelopes from the kitchen counter four years earlier. At the time, he had said our father had asked him to organize the mail. I had no reason to connect that ordinary task to the letter that never reached me.
Mr. Collins listened without interrupting. When I finished, he asked whether I had kept any personal records from that period. I had saved emails, bank statements, and a few photographs of documents I had taken before my mother confiscated the papers from the filing cabinet. Most were incomplete, but one email contained a reference number from my original university application. He asked me to send it to him so it could be compared with the official records.
By midday, he had contacted the relevant offices to request preservation of any remaining documentation. He also advised me not to contact Ethan. If my brother knew the investigation was examining the missing records, he might be tempted to destroy material or coordinate an explanation with our parents. We needed to let the investigators establish what existed before anyone had an opportunity to alter the trail.
I tried to concentrate on ordinary tasks that afternoon. I washed a cup, answered two work emails, and folded laundry that had been sitting in a basket for days. Each small action felt strangely difficult. My mind kept returning to the courtroom, to the victim's mother holding the portrait, and to the possibility that someone in my family had deliberately concealed information after the collision.
I couldn't allow myself to turn suspicion into certainty. Ethan had spent years protecting Olivia, but that didn't prove he had interfered with the investigation. My father had admitted knowing about my acceptance letter, but he hadn't confessed to helping Olivia escape responsibility for the death. Every unanswered question had to remain unanswered until the evidence gave us something firmer.
Late that afternoon, my mother called. I watched her name flash across the screen before answering.
“Your brother says you've received some sort of message,” she began.
My stomach tightened. “How does Ethan know about it?”
“He says you're making accusations about him.”
“I haven't spoken to him.”
There was a pause. I could hear a television playing faintly in the background at her house. My mother lowered her voice. “Clara, you need to stop treating everyone like an enemy. We're already under enough pressure.”
“Then why is Ethan talking about a message he hasn't seen?”
She didn't answer directly. Instead, she asked whether I intended to drag my brother into the case. I told her that I intended to give relevant information to my attorney and let the proper process determine what it meant. She sighed as though I had deliberately misunderstood her, then ended the call.
I reported the conversation to Mr. Collins. He didn't interpret it as proof that Ethan had seen the message, but he noted the timing. Someone had apparently told my mother about the investigation, or she had heard enough to guess what was happening. Either way, we would not change our approach. We would preserve communications and let the investigators follow the facts.
The following morning, Mr. Collins informed me that the request for the original records had produced a useful lead. A set of materials connected to the initial investigation had been transferred between offices during the early stages of the case. The available inventory suggested that some supporting documentation might not have been included in the copy later reviewed by the defense. No one could yet say whether anything had been deliberately removed. A formal examination would be necessary.
That afternoon, I returned to the courthouse for a procedural meeting. The prosecutor acknowledged that the discrepancy required attention and agreed to cooperate with a review of the relevant file history. He remained cautious about the conclusions the defense was drawing, but he no longer treated the identity dispute as a side issue.
As we left the meeting, I noticed Ethan standing near the entrance. He had come without our parents. When he saw me, he approached quickly, his face drawn and tired.
“Who sent you that message?” he demanded.
I stopped walking. “You know what it says?”
He seemed to realize what he'd revealed. His eyes shifted toward Mr. Collins, then back to me.
“Mom told me you're getting messages from strangers,” he said. “She's worried you're being manipulated.”
“Then why did you ask who sent it?”
“Because I know how people are. They'll tell you anything if they think you can be used.”
I studied him. His concern sounded rehearsed, but his fear seemed real. I couldn't tell whether he was frightened of a false accusation, of a truth he had hidden, or simply of losing control of the family story.
“Did you handle the records after the accident?” I asked.
His jaw tightened. “I helped Dad with paperwork. That's all.”
“What paperwork?”
“Family paperwork. Insurance. Things you wouldn't understand.”
“Then explain them.”
He stepped closer, lowering his voice. “You don't know what happened that night, Clara. You were not there for everything.”
The words struck harder than I expected. I had always known I wasn't present for the collision. I had not known whether Ethan was claiming to possess firsthand knowledge of it.
Mr. Collins intervened before I could ask another question. He reminded Ethan that he should direct any relevant information to the investigators and warned him not to discuss the case with me outside the legal process. Ethan looked furious, but he backed away.
I watched him cross the entrance hall. He stopped briefly beside a column and took out his phone. His shoulders were rigid, and he appeared to be typing a message. I couldn't see the recipient or what he wrote. I didn't need to invent an explanation; the moment itself was enough to show that our conversation had unsettled him.
That evening, a second message arrived from the same unknown number.
The records were not all in the case file. Ask why Ethan went to the repair shop two days later.
I forwarded it to Mr. Collins immediately. The new message gave us a specific lead, but not a conclusion. We would need to identify the repair shop, establish whether it had any connection to the vehicle involved, and determine whether Ethan had actually visited it. Until then, the message remained an allegation that needed verification.
Mr. Collins called me shortly afterward. He said the investigators would examine the information and that I should not attempt to visit the shop myself. He also reminded me that the case concerned a fatal collision, not merely the theft of my identity. If the new lead was relevant, it had to be handled with the same care as every other piece of evidence.
I agreed, then sat at my kitchen table with the phone resting beside my hand. The family I had spent years trying to protect had begun to turn against itself. My mother was afraid of what Ethan knew. Ethan was afraid of what the records might reveal. Olivia was watching both of them, waiting for someone to rescue her.
For the first time, I understood why the anonymous sender had directed me toward my brother. The missing records might explain more than how my name had been placed on the indictment. They might show what my family had done after the collision—and who had known the truth while I was being prepared to take the blame.
Click here to continue reading: PART 7: Ethan Denied Knowing Anything About the Missing Records Until the Investigators Found a Detail He Couldn’t Explain
My Family Ordered Me to Take the Blame, but One Envelope on the Defense Table Threatened Everything They Had Built
Part 6 of 20
