My own mother wants to kill me
Luther’s pov
Charlotte’s palm was damp in mine; she was already sweating as we walked up the steps to Mr. Sanders’ porch. It was a nice place with a white fence, in a quiet and tidy neighbourhood. After I rang the doorbell, Charlotte started shifting from one foot to the other. She avoided looking at me and let out a shaky breath.
“Look,” I said, stepping in front of her, with my back facing the door. I gently touched her chin to lift her face so I could see her eyes, and I softened my expression.
“I know you are thinking about all the things that could go wrong. But you do not need to be nervous, love. Everything will be alright. And even if it is not, we will figure something out together.” I meant it. I always believed that even the biggest problems could be solved.
“What if he throws us out?” she asked, just before the door opened. I turned around quickly.
“Good morning, Mr. Sanders,” I said, reaching out my hand. He was tall, with short blond hair that was shaved at the sides, a bit of grey in his stubble. He kept his hand on the door handle and looked back and forth between me and Charlotte.
“Good morning. Do I know you?” he asked, not taking my hand.
“No, but our friend came to speak with you a few days ago,” I replied, pulling my hand back and instead holding Charlotte’s.
“Oh. You mean Mateo? I am not interested in talking about the past anymore, if that is why you are here,” he said flatly. “I already told your detective friend what he needed to know.” He started to close the door.
“Marya Sanders is alive.” Charlotte said suddenly. Her voice stopped him.
He looked at her slowly, his eyes narrowing as he stared. Charlotte was shifting slightly where she stood.
“What did you just say?” he asked, sounding every word slowly. His face was growing more serious.
“I do not like saying things twice, Mr. Sanders. And it is not polite to turn people away without hearing what they came to say.” Charlotte replied with strength in her voice, lifting her chin. I could not help but admire how quickly she went from nervous to confident. I used to love that side of her before we even started dating. She was young, but she knew how to speak up for herself.
“Are you lying to me using whatever your friend told you?” he shouted, his eyes filled with anger.
“Do not speak to my girlfriend like that,” I said calmly, keeping my face expressionless.
“Oh really? And what will you do?” he shot back. “She just used my dead wife’s name to pull me into a conversation I never agreed to. If you do not leave this minute, I will call the police and report you both as trespassers.”
I actually let out a short laugh at how serious he looked. Charlotte let out a low snort too.
“Call them if you want,” she said, standing tall. “But I am not going anywhere until you agree to help me stop her and make sure she answers for everything she has done.”
Mr. Sanders looked like he was in his mid-fifties. He stared at her and shook his head slightly, as though she was being ridiculous.
“I do not think you understand. I buried her myself,” he said with a hint of sarcasm, as if that settled it.
“Then why did she move to another state, marry my late father, and give birth to me?” Charlotte asked sharply.
He blinked once, confused, then tilted his head to look at her like she had just said something impossible.
“What are you talking about?”
“Marya is my mother. She changed her name to Sophie. If you do not believe me,” Charlotte paused, opened her purse, and pulled out an old licence. She held it up in front of him.
“Then explain why I have this, her Utah driver’s licence,” she said, staring him down.
Mr. Sanders stepped back as if someone had shoved him. His mouth dropped open, and he rubbed his eyes more than once, trying to make sense of what he was seeing. He did not say a word. He just stood there staring at the licence.
Now that Charlotte had his full attention, I was sure he would start thinking clearly and give us something useful.
“Come in,” he said at last, his hands trembling as he motioned us inside, still staring at the card.
“Thank you,” I replied with a hint of sarcasm, then gently guided Charlotte into the house.
The place was warm and neat. I guessed he either had a woman in his life or he simply had a good sense of style for someone his age.
“This is my girlfriend,” I started, once we were seated and had turned down his offer for coffee. “And my brother is married to her mother, who is your so-called ‘dead wife,’ Sophie.”
Charlotte sat beside me, and I kept holding her hand.
“We have reason to believe she murdered my father,” I continued, “and now she is trying to sell his house, maybe even more. I only learned about her old life after I found that licence among her papers. Since our friend already had your address, we decided to come and ask if you could help us stop her and make sure she faces justice.”
Charlotte explained the rest clearly. Her voice was strong. This was not a scared young woman sitting beside me, it was someone fighting for what was right, someone trying to protect the memory of the man who raised her.
“This is... I need more proof,” he said quietly, his eyes fixed on nothing in particular.
Without saying a word, Charlotte pulled out her phone from her purse, scrolled through her photo gallery, tapped on a picture, and handed it to Mr. Sanders. It was a family photo. When he saw it, the phone slipped from his hands and landed between his knees.
“It is really her,” he said softly, almost like he was talking to himself.
“Now,” Charlotte spoke up, her tone firm, “are you ready to listen to what we came here to say, or do you need more proof?” She left the phone where it had fallen.
“She changed her hair... and her eyes,” he mumbled. It was clear he had not even heard Charlotte’s question.
“Mr. Sanders?” I called, raising my voice a little. He snapped out of his daze.
“Y-yes?” he answered, blinking as he looked down at the phone again.
“Are you ready to listen?” I asked once more, tapping my foot against the floor. I could only imagine the storm going on inside his head. To believe someone is gone for years, only to find out she is alive and living under a new name, that must have shaken him deeply.
He opened his mouth a few times, trying to speak, but no words came out. Finally, he just gave a small nod.
Charlotte let out a breath beside me and moved closer, flashing a little smile. I knew this moment mattered to her. But even as she relaxed a bit, my mind was stuck on something else, I hoped Mr. Sanders would not bring up the conversation he had with Mateo about the Cadillac. Charlotte did not know she was being watched by her stepbrother, and I was not ready to tell her. Not yet.
“Did you ever divorce my mother?” Charlotte asked.
He shook his head slowly.
“Good,” she said, getting straight to the point. “Then here is the main reason we are here. Do you have a copy of your marriage certificate? If we can get it, her marriage to my father becomes invalid. That would stop her from claiming his house, or anything else that belonged to him.”
Mr. Sanders did not speak. He stood up and pointed towards the stairs, his face still stiff. We watched him as he slowly made his way to the L-shaped staircase and climbed, his shoulders weighed down like someone carrying years of confusion and heartbreak.
“Poor man… he cannot wrap his head around any of this. Mom is a monster,” Charlotte said, shaking her head and clicking her tongue.
“But her time is up, baby. She is not going to get away with this,” I replied, rubbing the back of her hand gently.
“I just hope she does not catch on to what we are doing,” she said, leaning against my shoulder with a soft yawn. “If she finds out, she might disappear again. And we cannot risk that.”
I kissed the top of her head and held her close. We had barely slept an hour before the flight attendant came to wake us for landing.
After waiting in silence for several minutes, Mr. Sanders came back into the room holding a folder. He handed it to me, then slowly sat down on the single chair across from us. The lines on his forehead looked deeper than before.
“Everything you need is inside,” he said quietly. “I will do whatever I can to help get her off the streets.”
Then he looked at us and asked, “If you do not mind me asking… how was your father killed?”
It was an unexpected question, but Charlotte answered without hesitation.
“Typical,” Mr. Sanders muttered, leaning his head back.
“What do you mean by that?” I asked.
“The night she disappeared,” he began, “someone tried to shoot me. They missed, only grazed my elbow. It was not serious. But I never told anyone because I did not want to believe it was her. Still… something told me she wanted to stop me from talking to the police. And the only way to do that was by getting rid of me.”
Charlotte sat up straight, her eyes wide. “Oh no.”
“What is it, babe?” I asked quickly, worried by her sudden change.
“If the same man who shot my father is the one who broke in the night you left… then my mother is the one who sent him.”
I had no words. There was no covering it up anymore. I looked at her, but she was already lost in her thoughts, pressing her hand to the left side of her chest.
“My own mother wants to kill me,” she said quietly, as if speaking to herself.
Her voice was calm, but the weight of what she said hung in the air like thick smoke. I held her tighter, knowing that no matter how strong she seemed, this truth would stay with her forever.
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