The next morning, Emma took the day off again—this time without even pretending to give an excuse.
Sleep had been impossible. Her body ached from exhaustion, but her mind refused to rest. Her thoughts played like a broken record: Olivia knew. Grace lied. James appeared. Michael Morgan existed.
And now, there was only one thing left to do:
Start digging.
⸻
By 10:15 a.m., Emma stood in the Ravenshade Town Archive Office, a squat brick building tucked beside the post office. She hadn't been here since university—back when she wrote a college essay on World War II evacuees. The smell of paper and dust still hung in the air, a scent that hadn't changed in decades.
She approached the desk where a sleepy-looking clerk sat, sipping from a thermos with a fading "I ♥ Local History" sticker on it.
"Hi," she said, trying to sound steady. "I'm looking for local records from about thirty years ago. Court filings. Name: Michael Morgan."
The man blinked slowly. "Morgan… first name again?"
"Michael," she repeated. "Possibly lived in Ravenshade in the mid-1990s. Maybe 1997 or 1998."
He gave her a skeptical glance but stood and shuffled toward the back. "We don't keep digital records for personal filings that old. You'll need to check the microfiche."
He returned moments later with a stack of folders, placing them heavily on the table. "Family court cases, birth registries, and hospital records—public entries only. You'll need to dig. Index codes are on the side."
Emma nodded, swallowing her nerves. "Thank you."
⸻
The first hour passed slowly.
Birth certificates. Wills. Property disputes.
Then a flash of something familiar:
Morgan, Michael Thomas v. Clarke, Grace Eleanor (Family Court Filing, March 1999)
Emma's fingers froze.
She pulled the file.
Inside was a single-page record—a summary of proceedings, not the full transcript.
Petitioner: Michael Morgan
Respondent: Grace Clarke
Claim: Custody rights over minor child, Evelyn Grace Morgan
Outcome: Petition denied.
No details. No explanation.
Just: "Petition denied."
Emma's heart pounded.
He'd tried.
He'd actually tried.
Everything her mother said—about him abandoning them, about walking away—wasn't the whole story. Michael Morgan had filed for custody. He wanted to stay.
But something happened.
Something shut it all down.
⸻
She spent another hour pulling what she could—property rental records (Michael had rented a flat on Oakwell Road), hospital entries (one ER visit, possible assault, no follow-up), and a grainy old photocopy of a driver's license from the mid-2000s.
The more she pieced together, the more she realized her mother had built an entire life over a grave of forgotten facts.
Michael hadn't been a ghost.
He was erased.
⸻
By the time she stepped out of the archive building, the sun had climbed high in the sky, blinding and bright. But Emma felt none of its warmth. Just a creeping chill in her spine.
Someone hadn't wanted Michael in her life.
And they'd succeeded.
⸻
That night, she met James Miller again—this time at the inn where he was staying.
Room 14, just like he said.
He opened the door before she knocked.
"You came," he said, surprised.
"I found court records," she said simply. "He filed for custody."
James nodded. "I told you he never walked away."
"Why was the petition denied?" she asked. "Do you know?"
James stepped back and gestured for her to enter.
"Have a seat," he said.
Emma sat on the edge of a faded leather chair.
James leaned against the wall.
"There were… complications," he said. "Michael didn't have the resources to fight. Grace had support. Connections. And there was something else."
He hesitated.
Emma looked up. "What?"
"They said he was unstable," James said quietly. "There were allegations."
Emma stiffened. "What kind of allegations?"
"Domestic arguments. Claims of emotional volatility. Grace painted him as a threat. There were no criminal charges—but it was enough. He didn't have a chance."
Emma clenched her fists. "Were they true?"
James met her eyes. "He was impulsive. Passionate. But never violent. Never cruel. Just… broken-hearted."
Emma took a shaky breath. "So that's it? He lost custody and disappeared?"
"No." James walked to a drawer and pulled out another photograph. "He stayed close. Quietly. He moved to the next town over—Wickmere. Worked at a garage. Watched you grow up from a distance. I have photos. Letters he wrote but never sent."
He handed her a stack.
Emma flipped through them.
There she was—on her first bike. At the school gates. Holding a paper crown at her fifth birthday party.
Her stomach dropped.
"He was there?"
James nodded. "Every milestone. Just from the edges."
Emma pressed the photos to her chest.
"How could she do this to me?" she whispered. "How could they all lie?"
James sat down across from her.
"Because sometimes, people think lies protect us better than the truth."
She looked at him, eyes glassy.
"I want to meet anyone who knew him. I want to know everything."
James didn't hesitate.
"Then we'll start in Wickmere."
⸻
That night, as Emma lay in bed, the photographs beside her, she didn't feel broken.
She felt angry. Focused.
She would find the truth.
Even if it destroyed everything.