Part 6: Martin’s name appeared on the screen.
Part 6: Martin’s name appeared on the screen.
I answered immediately.
“Is something wrong?”
“I found something in the west-wing room.”
“What?”
“A note behind the ventilation grate.”
I sat upright.
“From Grace?”
“Yes.”
“What does it say?”
Martin hesitated.
“It is addressed to Mrs. Caldwell.”
I looked at Dr. Lang.
“Read it.”
There was a rustle of paper over the line.
“Evelyn,” Martin began, “I know what happened to Daniel. I also know why Richard chose me.”
He stopped.
“Go on.”
“The rest is only one sentence.”
“What is it?”
Martin’s voice lowered.
“Ask yourself why Ethan’s father insisted on meeting me before our wedding.”
My breath caught.
Dr. Lang turned toward me.
“Did Grace know your father before you?” she asked.
“No.”
I was certain.
Almost certain.
Grace and I had met at a museum benefit five years after my father died. She was working as a restoration consultant. I had spilled champagne near a seventeenth-century painting and she had scolded me as if I were a careless student.
She had known my name, of course. Everyone in the room had.
But she had never met my father.
Had she?
“Martin,” I said, “does my mother know about the note?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“She has locked herself in the study.”
A familiar worry entered his voice.
“Stay near her,” I said.
“I will.”
“Don’t force the door. Just stay.”
“I understand.”
I ended the call.
Dr. Lang studied me.
“Grace may have discovered a connection between her family and yours.”
“She would have told me.”
“Perhaps she did not know until recently.”
I thought of the final weeks before I left for Seattle. Grace had spent several afternoons in the estate archive, telling me she was looking for old family photographs to place in the nursery.
At the time, I thought it was sentimental.
Now I remembered how quiet she had become after one of those visits.
“What was her maiden name?” Dr. Lang asked.
“Mercer.”
The word left my mouth before I understood it.
Dr. Lang’s eyes widened.
“Anna Mercer.”
I stared at her.
“Grace told me Anna was her aunt.”
“Did she?”
“No.”
The road ahead seemed to narrow.
Grace Anne Mercer.
Anna Mercer.
A nurse who had cared for my mother in the institution thirty-two years earlier.
“How did I never know this?” I whispered.
“Families become skilled at editing their histories.”
I called Grace’s sister.
The call rang six times before a sleepy voice answered.
“Ethan?”
“Claire, I’m sorry. I need to ask you something.”
“Where is Grace?”
The fear in her voice told me she knew less than I had hoped.
“I’m trying to find her.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’ll explain. Is Anna Mercer your aunt?”
Silence.
“Claire?”
“She was our grandmother’s cousin.”
“Was?”
“She died when we were children.”
My skin went cold.
“No. Anna is alive.”
“That’s not possible.”
“Did Grace know?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Did your family ever have another Anna?”
“No.”
“Are you certain?”
“I’m looking at her photograph.”
There was movement on the line, then the sound of a drawer opening.
“She died in 1999,” Claire said. “There was a funeral.”
I looked at Dr. Lang.
She had heard every word.
“Claire, send me the photograph.”
A message arrived seconds later.
The image showed three women standing outside a white clapboard house. One was Grace’s mother. Beside her stood Claire at perhaps eight years old, and a younger Grace with missing front teeth.
Behind them was an elderly woman with round glasses and silver hair.
Dr. Lang shook her head.
“That is not the woman I spoke to.”
“Could someone else be using the name?”
“Perhaps.”
I asked Claire, “Did Grace ever mention someone in Vermont?”
“No. Ethan, what is happening?”
“I don’t know yet.”
“Is she safe?”
“I believe she was safe twelve hours ago.”
It was the best truth I had.
Claire began to cry quietly.
“Find her.”
“I will.”
“Promise me.”
Promises had become dangerous things.
Still, I said, “I promise.”
When the call ended, dawn had begun to lighten the horizon.
We crossed into Vermont beneath a sky the color of pale steel.
The address led us through a small town and onto a narrow road bordered by maple trees. Mist hovered over the fields. Farmhouses appeared at long intervals, their windows glowing softly against the morning.
The landscape was peaceful in a way that felt almost cruel.
At seven thirty, we turned onto a gravel drive.
A white house stood at the edge of the woods, simple and well kept. Blue shutters framed the windows. Smoke rose from the chimney.
Thomas stopped the car.
No one spoke.
I opened the door.
The cold morning air struck my face.
Dr. Lang came around the other side, carrying the medical bag. We walked together toward the porch.
Before I could knock, the door opened.
A woman stood there.
She was in her late sixties, tall, with silver hair braided over one shoulder. She wore a green wool cardigan and held a mug in both hands.
Dr. Lang looked relieved.
“Anna.”
The woman’s gaze moved to me.
“You look like Richard.”
The comparison stopped me at the threshold.
“Where is Grace?”
“She is resting.”
Every muscle in my body loosened and tightened at once.
“She’s here?”
“She was.”
The relief vanished.
“What does that mean?”
“She left before dawn.”
“With Daniel?”
Anna glanced past me toward the car.
“Come inside.”
“No. Tell me where my wife is.”
“She asked me not to.”
I stepped closer.
“She is thirty-six weeks pregnant. She has been confined, drugged, and lied to. I need to know she is safe.”
Anna’s expression softened.
“She is safe.”
“You cannot expect me to accept that.”
“No,” she said. “I expect you to prove she can trust you.”
The words struck harder because they were fair.
Dr. Lang touched my shoulder.
“Let us in, Anna.”
After a moment, Anna stepped aside.
The house smelled of woodsmoke and coffee. A small fire burned in the living room. On the sofa lay a folded blanket and a blue scarf I recognized immediately.
Grace’s.
I crossed the room and picked it up.
She had worn it the day we learned we were expecting a boy.
“She was here,” I whispered.
“Yes,” Anna said.
“How was she?”
“Tired. Frightened. Determined.”
“Was the baby all right?”
Dr. Lang asked the question gently.
Anna nodded.
“He was active. Grace had no signs of labor when she left.”
“When did she arrive?”
“Eleven days ago.”
“With Daniel?”
“Yes.”
“Who is he?” I asked.
Anna sat in a wooden chair beside the fire.
“That depends on which answer you are prepared to hear.”
“I’m done with prepared answers.”
“So was Grace.”
She pointed toward the sofa.
I sat, still holding the scarf.
Dr. Lang remained near the window.
Anna looked into the fire.
“Thirty-two years ago, I worked as a psychiatric nurse at St. Augustine’s Rest Home.”
“My mother was there.”
“Yes.”
“Were you her nurse?”
“For a time.”
“Did she belong there?”
Anna’s face tightened.
“No.”
The answer came without hesitation.
“She was frightened and angry, but she was not delusional. She kept insisting that her husband and father had hidden something from her.”
“Daniel.”
“Yes.”
“Was he alive?”
Anna looked at me.
“I believe he was.”
My heart began to pound.
“Believe?”
“I saw a child.”
“Where?”
“At St. Augustine’s.”
I stood.
“You’re saying my mother’s baby was in the institution?”
“Not as a patient. He was brought there twice by Dr. Whitmore.”
“Why?”
“I never learned the full reason.”
“Did Evelyn see him?”
“No. She was heavily medicated during both visits.”
I crossed the room, unable to sit still.
“Then how do you know the child was hers?”
“He wore an identification bracelet.”
“What did it say?”
“Baby Caldwell.”
“That proves only his name.”
“No,” Anna said. “But his eyes were Evelyn’s.”
I stopped.
My mother’s eyes were pale gray, almost silver.
Mine were brown like my father’s.
“What happened to the baby?”
“Dr. Whitmore said he had been placed with a family.”
“Which family?”
“He would not tell me.”
“And you did nothing?”
Anna looked down at her hands.
“I was twenty-six years old. St. Augustine’s was controlled by wealthy families who wanted difficult matters handled discreetly. Nurses who asked questions lost their jobs.”
“So you stayed quiet.”
“For three weeks.”
She looked up.
“Then I copied Evelyn’s records and sent them to a journalist.”
“What happened?”
“The journalist disappeared before the story was published.”
Dr. Lang frowned.
“Disappeared?”
“He left his apartment. His editor said he had resigned and moved west. I never believed it.”
May you like
“What was his name?” I asked.
“Michael Mercer.”
