Chapter 7 - THE DAUGHTER WHO REFUSED TO INHERIT A LIE
“Don't assume Sophie is protecting her father.”
Thomas said it before Maya could demand that Claire find the woman in the photograph.
They stood beside the old church cabinet, the cassette player between them.
Maya looked at the image again.
Sophie Bellamy had grown into a poised young woman with dark hair and an expression difficult to read.
Her father stood beside her.
One hand rested on the portfolio.
Maya felt betrayed by someone she barely remembered.
“She has the original music,” Maya said.
“Possibly.”
“And she went straight to him.”
“We don't know why.”
Maya looked toward the cassette.
Her mother's voice still seemed to linger in the room.
“Everyone keeps telling me what I don't know.”
Thomas accepted the criticism.
Then he said, “Let's find out.”
Claire arranged a meeting through the show's production office.
Sophie had agreed to speak privately.
The following afternoon, Maya entered a modest rehearsal studio in Washington, where Sophie was preparing for a chamber concert.
A grand piano occupied one corner.
Violins rested in open cases.
A woman stood by the window, turning a blue ribbon between her fingers.
Sophie looked up.
For a moment, neither spoke.
Then Sophie whispered, “Little Maya?”
Maya froze.
Nobody had called her that in years.
Sophie stepped forward.
“I hoped I'd see you again.”
Maya didn't move.
“Why were you with your father?”
Sophie stopped.
Her smile disappeared.
“I wondered how long it would take you to ask.”
“Then answer.”
Sophie nodded.
“He contacted me after your audition.”
“What did he want?”
“The portfolio.”
“Did you give it to him?”
“No.”
Maya studied her.
“Then why does the photograph show him holding it?”
Sophie crossed to a table.
She opened the dark leather case.
Inside were carefully preserved manuscripts.
“He was trying to take it.”
Maya stared.
“He did that in public?”
Sophie gave a humorless smile.
“My father has always believed people will avoid making a scene if he behaves as though he's entitled to whatever he wants.”
Maya remembered the audition.
The laughter.
The accusations.
The security guards approaching.
“Yes,” she said quietly. “I noticed.”
Sophie removed a handwritten score.
At the top was Elena Santos's name.
Beneath it:
The House With the Yellow Door.
Maya reached toward the paper.
Then stopped.
“Can I?”
Sophie handed it to her.
The handwriting was unmistakable.
Her mother had used round, slightly uneven letters.
She dotted her musical notation carefully.
She sometimes drew tiny stars beside passages she particularly liked.
Maya saw a star near the middle section.
Her throat tightened.
“This is hers.”
“Yes.”
“Why did she give it to you?”
Sophie sat beside the piano.
“Because she knew I was afraid of my father.”
Maya looked up.
Sophie took a breath.
“He could be generous. He paid for my lessons, bought expensive instruments, traveled to my concerts.”
“That doesn't sound frightening.”
“It wasn't always. But everything came with conditions.”
Sophie explained that Richard measured affection through achievement.
A missed competition meant disappointment.
A wrong answer meant lectures.
And questioning his decisions meant being accused of disloyalty.
“When I was fourteen, I asked him why Mrs. Santos wasn't credited on a recording.”
“What did he say?”
“That she had been paid.”
Sophie looked at the manuscript.
“I asked whether being paid meant she hadn't written it.”
Maya waited.
“My father told me not to ask again.”
“So you did?”
“Yes.”
Sophie smiled faintly.
“I was fourteen. I had no idea when to stop.”
Elena had eventually entrusted Sophie with copies of the original manuscripts.
She asked her to keep them safe until the dispute was resolved.
Then the accident happened.
Maya looked down.
“My mother died before she could get them back.”
Sophie nodded.
“I was devastated.”
“Why didn't you tell anyone?”
“I tried.”
She opened another compartment.
Inside were envelopes addressed to lawyers, publishers, and music organizations.
Some had been returned.
Others contained replies acknowledging receipt without promising action.
“My father controlled my education and my housing. When I turned eighteen, I finally left.”
“Why didn't you come find me?”
Sophie looked ashamed.
“I didn't know where you were.”
Maya thought about the foster placements.
The changing addresses.
The records that followed her without ever helping anyone locate her.
Sophie continued.
“I wrote to your grandmother. The letters came back. Later, I searched online, but I didn't know your last name hadn't changed.”
“It didn't.”
“I know that now.”
Maya looked at the envelopes.
“So many people lost track of me.”
Sophie wiped her eyes.
“I should have kept looking.”
Maya wanted to stay angry.
Part of her still was.
But the evidence of Sophie's efforts lay across the table.
She had been a child when Elena died.
A frightened child trying to challenge a powerful father.
“You were fourteen,” Maya said.
Sophie looked up.
“My mother used to tell me children weren't responsible for fixing adults.”
“She told me something like that too.”
For the first time, they smiled at each other.
Then Sophie opened the final section of the portfolio.
Inside were handwritten contracts and recording notes.
Maya's heart quickened.
“Is this enough to prove what happened?”
“Some of it.”
Sophie pulled out a recording agreement.
“Elena signed a limited license for six demonstration recordings. The publisher was allowed to distribute specific arrangements, but the agreement didn't transfer every composition.”
Thomas examined the paper.
“That's significant.”
Sophie nodded.
“But there's a problem.”
Maya looked toward her.
“What problem?”
“The original signed agreement and some session recordings were never delivered to the archive. Without authenticated records, my father's attorneys could argue these are drafts.”
Maya looked at the papers.
“Then where are the originals?”
Sophie hesitated.
“I believe Thomas knows.”
The room went silent.
Maya turned.
Thomas didn't move.
“What is she talking about?”
Sophie looked directly at him.
“My father told me you took the original recording ledger after the arbitration.”
Thomas slowly sat.
Maya's voice tightened.
“You told me you signed a statement.”
“I did.”
“Did you take the ledger?”
“Yes.”
She stared.
“Where is it?”
Thomas rubbed his face.
“I kept it for several years.”
“Where is it now?”
He looked at Sophie.
Then back at Maya.
“I gave it to your mother.”
Maya felt her patience snap.
“My mother died seven years ago.”
“I know.”
“And you're only telling me now?”
Thomas lowered his head.
“I was ashamed.”
“Of what?”
“Because the ledger showed how thoroughly we'd failed her.”
Maya looked at him with disbelief.
He continued.
“The original recording sessions listed Elena as composer. After the arbitration, some credits were revised. I had initialed several pages confirming the changes.”
“You helped erase her.”
Thomas nodded.
“Yes.”
Sophie spoke quietly.
“He was under pressure from the publisher.”
Maya turned toward her.
“That doesn't excuse it.”
“No,” Sophie said. “It doesn't.”
Thomas looked at Maya.
“I was afraid Bellamy would destroy my career before it began.”
“And my mother lost hers instead.”
“Yes.”
No one spoke.
Maya approached the grand piano.
She placed Elena's manuscript on the music stand.
Then she played the opening of The House With the Yellow Door.
Her hands remained steady.
When she stopped, she turned toward Thomas.
“I can't make you a better person.”
“I know.”
“But you can decide what to do now.”
Thomas straightened.
“What do you need?”
“The truth. All of it. Publicly.”
He nodded.
“I'll give it.”
Sophie opened her violin case.
“There's one more recording.”
She removed a small digital archive drive.
“I transferred it from a tape my mother kept.”
Maya blinked.
“Your mother?”
Sophie nodded.
“She died when I was seventeen. Before that, she kept copies of some of the sessions.”
Maya looked at the drive.
“What's on it?”
“A rehearsal from the year before the accident.”
Sophie connected it to a laptop.
The speakers crackled.
Elena's piano filled the room.
Then Bellamy's voice interrupted.
“That's the version we're releasing.”
Elena replied.
“No. That's Maya's ending. It isn't part of the commercial arrangement.”
Bellamy sounded impatient.
“Elena, nobody cares about the difference.”
“I care.”
“You're being unreasonable.”
Elena answered firmly.
“Then write your own ending.”
The recording stopped.
Maya stared at the laptop.
For the first time, she had heard her mother stand up to Richard Bellamy.
Sophie looked at her.
“The last page of the manuscript contains the ending he never received.”
Maya turned the music over.
A blank page.
Nothing.
“Where is it?”
Sophie reached into the portfolio.
Then stopped.
Her face changed.
“No.”
She searched the remaining folders.
Twice.
Then a third time.
“What's wrong?” Maya asked.
Sophie looked up, frightened.
“The final page was here yesterday.”
Thomas stood.
“Are you certain?”
“Yes.”
Maya thought of the photograph outside the studio.
Richard's hand on the portfolio.
May you like
Sophie whispered:
“My father didn't get the entire manuscript. He only took the page containing your mother's second ending.”
