Chapter 5 - The Woman in the Photograph
I didn't leave the ballroom with Alexander.
That was the first decision I made entirely for myself that night.
Richard arranged for a driver who had worked with his firm for more than a decade.
Margaret Hale agreed to accompany us.
Alexander protested.
Victoria threatened.
Mercer smiled as though everything was happening according to a schedule only he understood.
I ignored them all.
By the time I stepped into the cold Boston night, the city had become a blur of wet pavement and reflected headlights.
My phone had forty-seven missed calls.
Some from friends.
Some from numbers I didn't recognize.
Fourteen from Alexander.
I turned it off.
Then I looked at Richard.
"If you're hiding anything else from me, this is your chance."
He sat opposite me in the back of the car.
"I am."
At least he had stopped pretending.
I folded my arms.
"Then talk."
He looked toward Margaret.
She gave a small nod.
Richard opened his briefcase.
"Your mother's family history was deliberately altered after the fire."
I stared at him.
"By whom?"
"Your father, with legal assistance."
"Yours?"
"Partly."
I looked away.
It was astonishing how many people had participated in decisions about my life without consulting me.
"Why?"
Richard took out a thin folder.
"Because Eleanor Vale had a daughter."
I remembered Mercer's words.
My daughter.
I turned back.
"Was the child his?"
Margaret answered.
"Yes."
"Then Eleanor was married to Mercer?"
"No."
Richard placed a photograph on the seat between us.
It showed a young woman with dark hair holding a baby wrapped in a yellow blanket.
The woman had my mother's face.
But the photograph was much older than the one from the ballroom.
"Is that Eleanor?"
Margaret nodded.
"And the baby?"
Richard hesitated.
"Her name was Rebecca."
I waited.
Margaret looked at me with visible regret.
"Rebecca was born during a period when Eleanor was trying to separate herself from Mercer."
"Why?"
"Because he was using the research company to control her financial independence."
Richard leaned forward.
"Eleanor had developed several of the early inventions."
"Then why didn't she simply leave?"
Margaret's expression tightened.
"Because Mercer claimed rights to the patents and threatened litigation against anyone who helped her."
I looked at the photograph again.
The child couldn't have been more than a few months old.
"What happened to Rebecca?"
Richard's voice was low.
"She disappeared."
I looked up.
"What?"
"At sixteen months old."
I stared at him.
"Disappeared how?"
"During a custody dispute."
My heartbeat quickened.
"Was she kidnapped?"
"The records don't establish that."
"Then what do they establish?"
Richard exhaled.
"That Eleanor reported the child missing, Mercer accused her of concealing Rebecca, and the custody proceedings became sealed."
I studied him.
"And?"
"Three months later, Eleanor vanished."
I sat completely still.
"Was that before the fire?"
"Yes."
I looked at Margaret.
"Then why would Eleanor come to your office eight years after my mother died?"
"Because she had been living under another identity."
"Where?"
"That was never confirmed."
I looked at the photographs.
Two sisters.
One dead.
One missing.
A child who had vanished.
And a wealthy man who had spent decades trying to acquire their work.
"Does Mercer believe my mother took Rebecca?"
Richard nodded slowly.
"Yes."
I closed my eyes.
That explained his strange statement.
But it raised another question.
"Did she?"
Margaret answered carefully.
"We don't know."
I looked at her.
"Do you believe she did?"
She considered it.
"I believe Catherine would have protected a child who was in danger."
It sounded like my mother.
My memories of her were small, ordinary things.
She always carried extra mittens in winter.
She rescued injured birds.
She never let me leave the house without breakfast.
Once, when I was eight, a neighbor accused me of breaking a window.
My mother stood beside me in the driveway and asked the man for evidence.
He had none.
She didn't raise her voice.
She simply waited until he apologized.
That was the woman I remembered.
But people were complicated.
And children never knew the entire lives of their parents.
"Was Rebecca ever found?"
Richard shook his head.
"Not publicly."
I opened my eyes.
"That's an interesting choice of words."
He hesitated.
"Emily—"
"Was she found?"
Richard looked toward Margaret.
Margaret looked away.
I felt anger rise again.
"Enough."
Richard swallowed.
"There were unconfirmed reports."
"Of what?"
"A child who may have been living with a family connected to Eleanor."
"Where?"
"Rhode Island."
"When?"
"More than twenty years ago."
I stared at him.
"Did my father know?"
Richard didn't answer.
I looked down at my hands.
Then at the photograph.
The baby in the yellow blanket had dark eyes.
A tiny mouth.
One hand curled against Eleanor's dress.
Something about the picture bothered me.
I leaned closer.
The baby wore a thin gold bracelet.
Three overlapping circles.
One vertical line.
The same symbol my mother had worn.
I touched the photograph.
"Richard."
He looked at me.
"Why did my mother have that pendant?"
His expression changed.
"It was a family emblem."
"Whose family?"
"The Vales."
I frowned.
"My mother's maiden name was Bennett."
"Legally, yes."
"And Eleanor was a Vale."
"Yes."
I stared at him.
"Why did they have different names?"
Richard removed another paper.
"Because Catherine was adopted by her maternal aunt at seventeen."
I shook my head.
"Why?"
"To protect her assets during the original dispute."
I felt sick.
Names changed.
Records sealed.
Families separated.
A child disappeared.
And somehow, every story led back to the same company.
"Was my mother's death related to Mercer?"
Richard looked at Margaret.
She answered.
"We cannot establish that."
"But you suspect it."
"Yes."
I turned toward the window.
Boston slid past in ribbons of yellow light.
I thought about Alexander standing up from his wheelchair.
About the smoothness of the movement.
The complete absence of effort.
About the months I had apologized for not being strong enough to carry him.
Then I thought about the way he had stepped between Margaret and me when she reached into her purse.
He had moved instinctively.
Protectively.
Almost as though he expected violence.
I hated myself for noticing.
Because it would have been easier if he were simply cruel.
"Eighteen months ago," I said, "did Alexander know Mercer?"
Richard nodded.
"Yes."
"Did he work for him?"
"Not directly."
"Was he investigating him?"
Richard paused.
"Possibly."
I looked at him.
"That's not an answer."
"It's the most accurate one I can give."
I leaned back.
"Then call him."
Richard stared.
"Alexander?"
"Yes."
"Emily, are you certain?"
"No."
I held out my hand.
"But I'm tired of everyone deciding what I'm allowed to hear."
Richard dialed.
Alexander answered on the first ring.
"Richard?"
"It's Emily."
Silence.
Then his voice changed.
"Are you safe?"
I almost laughed.
"Don't."
"Emily—"
"Tell me what happened to Rebecca."
There was a long pause.
"How do you know that name?"
"Richard told me."
Alexander swore quietly.
"Where are you?"
"Answer the question."
"Emily, Rebecca has nothing to do with our marriage."
"Then why does her father want my company?"
Silence.
I leaned forward.
"Alexander."
His breathing changed.
"Mercer doesn't know where she is."
I looked at Richard.
"He thinks my mother took her."
"Yes."
"Did she?"
Alexander hesitated.
Then said:
"Your mother helped hide her."
My heart stopped.
"Where?"
He exhaled.
"Emily, listen to me carefully."
"Where is Rebecca?"
His next words came slowly.
"That's what your father was trying to tell me on the night he died."
I closed my eyes.
"What did he say?"
Alexander was silent for several seconds.
Then he answered:
"He said Rebecca had grown up under another name."
I opened my eyes.
"What name?"
He swallowed.
"Emily."
I went cold.
"Don't."
"Your father believed—"
"Alexander, don't you dare."
May you like
But he finished.
"He believed the child Mercer had been searching for was you."
