My Husband Gifted Me A Silk Dress That Nearly Killed His Sister. He Blamed Me For Her “Allergy,” But I Found Drugs In Her Tea. What Is He Trying To Hide?

There was an old tattered rag doll and a butterfly-shaped hair clip with a broken wing. Several yellowed photographs of an unknown girl with a radiant smile were also there.

And underneath everything, what shocked me the most was a stack of old newspaper clippings. They were carefully cut and arranged.

The pages were yellowed with time, but the large bold headlines were still clearly legible. I shakily picked up a clipping.

The headline struck my eyes: “Tragic Traffic Accident on Route 9W: University Student Dies Instantly.”

I hastily read the lines below. The article described an accident that occurred on a rainy afternoon almost 10 years ago.

A car lost control and hit a girl riding her bicycle on the shoulder. The victim was a sophomore in the school of education at Columbia University with a promising future ahead of her.

The article did not specify the driver’s identity, only stating that the case was still under investigation. My throat went dry.

I moved on to the other clippings. They all reported on the same accident, cut from different newspapers.

One even published a blurry photo of the accident scene: a twisted bicycle and a blood stain spreading on the wet asphalt. I shivered; a chill ran down my spine.

Why were clippings about a tragic accident from 10 years ago kept so carefully in Clara’s room? Was the girl in the yellowed photos the unfortunate victim?

My mind spun with countless theories. What connection did this accident have with my husband’s family secret?

Why was Clara keeping these things? Was this the cause of her strange illness?

Was the punishment of the past that the mysterious man referred to precisely this accident? I quickly photographed all the clippings with my phone.

I didn’t dare take them for fear of being discovered. I carefully put everything back in its place, erasing any trace.

Just as I was closing Clara’s bedroom door, I heard the familiar sound of my mother-in-law’s car in the driveway. My heart leaped into my throat.

She was back earlier than expected. I rushed downstairs, went into the kitchen, and pretended to be cleaning.

She had almost caught me red-handed. I knew that if I were discovered, the consequences would be unimaginable.

My mother-in-law entered the house. Her sharp gaze swept over me from head to toe.

I tried to keep my head down, pretending to be busy cleaning, my heart still pounding from the scare. Luckily, she didn’t notice anything unusual.

She just muttered something about how tired she was of the family dinner and went straight up to her room to rest. I sighed in relief, but the sense of security was only temporary.

In my pocket, the phone with the photos of the newspaper clippings burned like a hot coal. It gave me hope of finding the truth, but it was also capable of burning me at any moment.

The Ghost of Route 9W

I couldn’t sleep a wink that night. I locked myself in my room, reviewing the photos over and over.

The radiant face of the girl in the yellowed photos and the tragic headlines about the accident replayed in my mind. I was sure this was the key to deciphering all the tragedies happening in this house.

But what should I do? Confront my mother-in-law with this?

She would surely deny everything and even accuse me of making it up. Finally, I decided that the only person I could talk to at this moment was Matthew.

Although he had treated me cruelly, although he had sided with his family, deep in his eyes I still saw torment. He wasn’t completely heartless.

He is my husband and he owes me an explanation. I waited two days until the opportunity came.

My mother-in-law said she had to go to her parents’ town for a few days to sort out some family matters. Only I, Matthew, and Clara, locked silently in her room, were left at home.

That night after a dinner for two and suffocating silence, I saw Matthew preparing to lock himself in his study again. I took a deep breath, gathered all my courage, and stood in front of him. “Matthew, I need to talk to you.” “Just this once. I’m begging you. Don’t run away anymore.”

Matthew looked up, his expression tired and somewhat irritated. “What is it now?” “I’ve already told you there’s nothing to talk about.”

I didn’t back down. I looked him straight in the eye, my voice trembling but firm. “Yes, there is.” “We need to talk about an accident—a tragic accident on Route 9W almost 10 years ago.”

Upon hearing this, Matthew’s face changed. The irritation vanished, replaced by an undeniable panic.

He stared at me, his lips trembling. “How do you know about that?”

“What I know isn’t important. What’s important is that you tell me the truth.” I held up my phone and showed him the photos of the newspaper clippings. “Who is this girl? Why are articles about her death kept in Clara’s room?”

Matthew looked at the phone screen and froze. He took a step back and collapsed into a nearby chair, clutching his head in his hands.

His silence lasted for several minutes, a silence so heavy it felt like it could crush a horrifying past. Finally, he looked up, his eyes red.

He began to speak, his voice choked as if each word were a knife stabbing his own chest. “Since you know, I won’t hide it from you anymore.” “That accident was real. The girl in the photo was named Lucy. She was the victim, and the person who caused the accident was Clara.”

My ears were ringing. Although I had suspected it, hearing it confirmed from Matthew’s own mouth left me in shock.

He continued: “It was a rainy afternoon.” “Clara, who was only 16 at the time, secretly took our father’s car to practice driving.” “She was too inexperienced, and with the rain and the slippery road, she lost control and hit Lucy, who was riding her bike in the same direction.”

“Lucy died instantly. After the accident, Clara went into such a state of panic she nearly went insane.” Matthew said, his voice filled with pain. “She wouldn’t stop screaming and crying, hitting her head against the wall saying she had killed someone.” “My parents were desperate, too. On one hand they loved their daughter, but on the other they were terrified she would go to jail.” “You know Clara has always been in delicate health. If she had to go to prison, she probably wouldn’t survive.”

“So your family covered it all up?” I asked, a lump in my throat.