Note

July 6, 2020. The Najbreit Estate.

After my lesson with Salome the next morning, I return to my room, checking my phone. I’m about to open up another text from Sean Corolla, when I spy a large manila envelope lying flat in the centre of my bed.

I glance around, giving my room a once over, but I see no signs of my room being disturbed. My mail has been hand-delivered to me by the staff up until now. Nobody else should have access to my room. So that leaves the question.

Who would leave me such a thing?

Curiosity gets the better of me, and I pick up the envelope. Nothing’s written on the side facing me. I flip it over. Empty as well, save for the thick wax seal gluing the envelope shut. No postmark anywhere. Not sent by mail then. Somebody in this house left this envelope here for me.

I rip open the seal, revealing a stack of papers inside the envelope.

I pull out the first sheet of paper, and my heart skips a beat.

It’s a black and white photo of my mom, Linda, laughing with an arm thrown around Father’s waist. I haven’t seen her in years. I’ve never seen this photo before. My heart breaks slightly. She’s gone, and I never got the chance to say goodbye to her. I slowly put the photo aside, revealing the next page.

It’s all of her obituaries that were ever published in the major newspapers. I recognise them instantly, because I have most of them memorised, word for word. They were all I had when she passed. They were how I found out she passed.

I reread those familiar words, the lines jumping out at me:

…crowned Miss America when she was nineteen…

…with a warmth to match Warren’s steely disposition…

…a life that was only marred by the family’s excommunication of her son Markus…

…she frequently brought him up in interviews, expressing her displeasure at how the whole affair was handled, even as Warren went about erasing all traces of his existence in the household…

…struck by a myriad of health conditions in the final months of her life, seemingly out of nowhere…

I stare at the grainy little picture of her funeral at the bottom. Everybody looks solemn in their black suits and dresses. How did two decades past so swiftly?

I put the page aside, unsure of what to expect next. I find a multi-page packet stapled together next.

Hospitalization Records for Patient Linda Najbreit the lettering at the top declares.

I skim through the bureaucratic form-details, eyes jumping from highlight to highlight:

…cause of **** determined to be Gastrointestinal Failure…

…patient initially hospitalised for chronic paraesthesia, acute abdominal pain, vomiting…

…patient’s ex-husband gave daughter Jessica only limited access to visiting hours…

…conditions worsened, signs of nerve damage (hyperalgesia, cranial nerve impairment, etc.) arising about two weeks after…

…declined autopsy despite surprising onset and progression of symptoms…

Though I’m not a medical professional, even I can sense that something is off. Why would my mom, a perfectly healthy supermodel just six months before her ****, suddenly collapse like this in the space of weeks? Why did Father not move heaven and earth to make sure she made it through? She got good treatment, so far as I can tell, but that was just it. Good. Not the exceptional lengths that he could have—should have—gone to.

And again, I find myself wondering. Who would send this? Somebody with knowledge of what happened, but somebody afraid of revealing themselves. I can immediately rule out the sisters that I have gotten closest to, but there are so many people who live and work in this house…

I put the packet of pages aside, and pull out the last remaining page in the envelope.

It’s the **** Certificate for Linda Najbreit.

There’s a handwritten message at the bottom.

This is what happens to those who get in the way.

I’d recognise that looping cursive anywhere.

Hyerim.