Now, you may ask, "But Yuki, didn’t they ever notice your sisters’ behavior?" That, my friends, I’ll give you—they did. While Tifani passed under their radar as merely eccentric, Reika did not. And that brings me to our third secret.

One fateful day, when my sisters were in sixth grade, Reika’s teacher called home, her voice filled with a mix of concern and hesitation. It was a call that would shift the balance of our household, revealing a side of Reika that no one—except perhaps me—had seen coming. The teacher, Mrs. Akari, was one of those people who radiate kindness, with gentle eyes and a nurturing demeanor.

She spoke softly, but her words were heavy with implication. "Mrs. Kumo, I’m calling because I’ve noticed some troubling behavior from Reika," she began cautiously, as if picking her way through a minefield. "It seems... well, she’s been isolating herself from the other students, but that’s not the main concern. It’s the... incidents. Several students have reported feeling uneasy around her. There have been... manipulations, threats—subtle but consistent."

My mother listened with a stoic expression, her face giving away nothing, but I could see the faint twitch at the corner of her mouth—a telltale sign that she was bracing herself for a storm. Tifani, sitting nearby, feigned disinterest, flipping through a magazine, but I caught the way her eyes darted over every few seconds, her curiosity barely concealed.

Mrs. Akari continued, choosing her words carefully. "It’s not just what she says, but the way she says it. There’s a pattern of... emotional manipulation that’s starting to concern not just the students, but some of the teachers as well. It’s as if she’s orchestrating reactions, testing boundaries. I think it might be worth exploring further, perhaps speaking with a professional—just to be sure everything is alright."

Our mother thanked Mrs. Akari with a calmness that belied the turmoil I knew was brewing beneath the surface. She promised to speak with Reika, to "address the situation," but as soon as she hung up, she turned to us with eyes that were suddenly cold, sharp. I could tell she was less concerned with Reika's actions and more with the potential tarnishing of the family’s reputation. Reika, for her part, met our mother’s gaze with a steely confidence that made my stomach churn. She didn’t flinch, didn’t try to explain or defend herself. It was almost as if she expected this, like it was all part of a grander plan. And maybe it was. Maybe she had already calculated every possible outcome and had a response ready for each one.

"Reika, do you have anything to say about this?" our mother asked, her voice edged with warning.

Reika shrugged, the picture of indifference. "They’re just kids, Mama. They overreact. I was just having fun." But even as she spoke, there was a flicker in her eyes—something cold, detached. It wasn’t the expression of a child who didn’t understand the consequences of her actions; it was the look of someone who knew exactly what she was doing and was carefully weighing her next move. My mother saw it too, though she didn’t acknowledge it out loud. Instead, she simply nodded, a silent warning passing between them.

From that day on, Reika became the family’s hidden daughter. She was homeschooled, and in every interview about our family’s wealth, she was shielded with excuses as to why she was now away from the public eye. Our parents even hid her from me and Tifani. Reika, now always locked in her room, became nothing more than a shadow in the house—a presence felt but rarely seen. It was as if the walls themselves conspired to keep her out of sight, and perhaps out of mind. Reika, the third secret of our family, became the one we all pretended didn’t exist, a ghostly figure haunting the corners of our lives.

Her room, once a vibrant space filled with her books and art supplies, now stood cold and quiet, the door always closed, and the curtains perpetually drawn. It was like a forbidden area, a part of the house that had been cordoned off—not just physically, but emotionally as well. Tifani and I were never told directly to stay away, but the implication was clear: Reika’s world was no longer part of ours.

Occasionally, I would hear the soft murmurs of our parents speaking behind closed doors, their voices low and urgent, but even then, they rarely mentioned her by name. Reika had become a problem to manage, a secret to contain. In the grand Kumo tradition, anything unpleasant was tucked neatly out of sight.

I wondered what Reika did with her days, locked away from us. Did she miss the outside world, or was this isolation something she thrived in—a place where she could plot without the interruptions of daily life? I couldn’t be sure, and that uncertainty gnawed at me. Reika had always been a mystery, but now she was an enigma shrouded in layers of secrecy.

As for Tifani, she seemed to revel in the newfound attention that came with being the visible sister, the one who carried the family’s image on her shoulders. She stepped into the spotlight with ease, her performances more dazzling than ever. She played the role of the dutiful daughter perfectly, all smiles and charm, while Reika's absence lingered like a shadow over every family gathering, every photo op, every dinner party.

But the media was growing increasingly unsatisfied with Reika's sudden disappearance, which led our parents to tell one of the biggest lies of all. They fabricated a story that would shield our family's pristine image and put an end to the prying questions that threatened to unravel our carefully maintained facade. Reika, they said, had tragically passed away from a sudden illness. It was an announcement made with solemn faces and carefully rehearsed grief, a performance worthy of the family’s penchant for controlling narratives.

But the truth was far more complex. Reika wasn’t dead; she was merely banished—sent away to live with Aunt Areti in Greece. A continent away, she was far enough to be forgotten by those who knew her in Japan, but not so far that she was lost entirely.

Months passed, and the memory of Reika faded from the minds of those around us. But for me, she remained a constant, lingering at the edge of my thoughts. One day, a postcard arrived from Greece. It was addressed to me, with no return address,. On the front was a picture of the Aegean Sea, calm and blue under a clear sky. On the back, written in Reika’s unmistakable handwriting, were the words in code,but as I decoded it writing in my notebook I noticed what was written: "Secrets never stay buried for long. They have a way of clawing their way back to the surface, don’t they, Yuki?-R”

I stared at the card, my heart pounding. Reika wasn’t gone. She was watching, waiting, and very much aware of the lies our parents had spun. The calm sea on the postcard seemed almost mocking—a serene facade hiding the tempest brewing beneath the surface. And deep down, I knew: this was far from over.