The drive took an entire day, and somewhere along the highway I cried because memories of Isabelle always returned strongest when I was moving forward against my will.
When I arrived, the town looked smaller and more faded than I remembered, but nothing about it seemed sinister until I reached the house on Las Palmas Street.
The house was freshly painted and filled with signs of a new life, and I stood there wondering if I had the wrong address until I checked the number again.
A stranger opened the door when I knocked, and when I asked for Eleanor Whitaker, he looked at me with a strange expression before saying, “You are too late, she passed away almost three years ago.”
The words made no sense at first, because three days ago I had sent her money and three months ago she had texted me a simple thank you.
“I have been sending her money,” I said, and he replied carefully that he knew nothing about that and had bought the house after her death.
I asked where she was buried, and he gave me directions to the town cemetery, and I walked back to my car with groceries meant for a woman who might have been dead for years.
At the cemetery, I found Eleanor’s grave with a date that confirmed everything, and next to it I saw Isabelle’s grave again but noticed something I had never questioned before.
Her name read Isabelle Carter Dawson, and I felt a chill because she had always told me she stopped using that second surname long before we met.
My phone buzzed suddenly with a message from Eleanor’s number, and for a brief second my body believed in ghosts before I picked it up and read the words.
“Need the new routing number, who is this,” the message said, and I typed back, “Who is this,” with shaking hands.
The reply came quickly and simply said, “Family, who is asking,” and I laughed in the dark because that word has always hidden more lies than truth.
I checked into a small inn and spoke with the receptionist, who mentioned there had been inheritance disputes after Eleanor’s death involving a niece.
The next morning, I went to the church and spoke with Father Daniel Harper, who remembered me and confirmed Eleanor died in 2023 and had been cared for by her niece, Melissa Grant.
He hesitated before telling me Eleanor had become anxious in her final years and believed Isabelle might still be alive, which at first had been dismissed as grief or confusion.