Chapter 15 - The Daughter Vanessa Lost
St. Catherine’s wasn’t a convent anymore.
The old brick building outside Frederick, Maryland, had become a private retreat center run by the same charitable order that once operated a home for pregnant teenagers.
Vanessa was silent for the entire drive.
Cross followed separately.
I didn’t trust him enough to ride with us.
I didn’t trust anyone enough anymore.
Samuel waited in the parking lot beside his car.
He looked angry.
“You brought Cross?”
“I brought myself. He drove.”
Samuel’s eyes narrowed.
Cross said, “Nice to see you too.”
“Did Diane send you?”
“No.”
“Then who are you working for?”
Cross looked at me.
“Currently? Survival.”
I turned to Samuel.
“What happened?”
“I arrived twenty minutes before I called. Sister Margaret recognized Ruth’s name. She took me to a records room.”
“And?”
“There was an envelope taped beneath a drawer exactly where Ruth said it would be.”
“Empty?”
“No. Gone.”
“How do you know?”
“Because the tape was freshly cut.”
Vanessa hugged herself.
“Who was here?”
Samuel looked at her.
“Sister Margaret says a woman came yesterday claiming to represent your family.”
“Mom?”
“No.”
“What woman?”
“She signed the visitor log as Eleanor Whitmore.”
Silence.
I actually laughed.
Not because it was funny.
Because my brain rejected the alternative.
“Eleanor would be sixty-four.”
“Approximately.”
“Description?”
Samuel hesitated.
“Woman in her sixties. Blond-gray hair. Blue eyes.”
Vanessa looked at me.
“That could be anyone.”
“Did Sister Margaret see identification?”
“Yes.”
“Real?”
“She thought so.”
Cross stepped closer.
“What time?”
“Four twelve.”
“Cameras?”
“Front entrance only.”
We went inside.
Sister Margaret was eighty if she was a day, sharp-backed and unimpressed by all of us.
She looked at Vanessa for a long moment.
“I remember you.”
Vanessa’s eyes lowered.
“I remember you too.”
“You were furious.”
“I was seventeen.”
“You had reason.”
Vanessa swallowed.
“I’m sorry for what my mother said to you.”
Sister Margaret’s mouth tightened.
“Your mother said many things.”
I asked, “The woman who came yesterday—did she say why she wanted the envelope?”
“She said Ruth had asked her to retrieve family papers.”
“Did she identify herself as Eleanor?”
“Yes.”
“What did she look like?”
The nun studied me.
“Like you.”
My heart stopped.
Cross and Samuel exchanged a glance.
“How much like me?”
“Enough that when you walked in, I wondered whether you were her daughter.”
My knees felt weak.
“Did she say anything else?”
Sister Margaret thought.
“She asked about a child.”
Vanessa went rigid.
“What child?”
The nun turned to her.
“Yours.”
Vanessa gripped my arm.
“What did she ask?”
“Whether the adoption records still existed.”
“Do they?”
“Some.”
“Did you show her?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because she was not entitled.”
Vanessa exhaled.
The nun continued.
“She said the girl’s name was Lily.”
Vanessa began crying.
I put a hand on her shoulder.
“You named her?”
Vanessa nodded.
“Lily Ruth.”
After Grandma.
Sister Margaret’s expression softened.
“You should know your daughter was placed with a family in Pennsylvania.”
Vanessa looked up.
“You know?”
“I know what the old records say.”
“I was told I could never contact her.”
“That was the agreement your mother insisted upon.”
“My mother.”
“Yes.”
Vanessa wiped her face.
“Can I see the record?”
“Not without following legal procedures.”
Cross looked toward the hallway.
“This might not be the time.”
Vanessa rounded on him.
“It’s exactly the time.”
I stepped between them.
“The ledger.”
Sister Margaret led us to the records room.
Samuel showed us the drawer.
Freshly cut tape.
A dust rectangle where an envelope had rested.
I crouched.
No hidden compartment.
No second clue.
Then I noticed pencil marks inside the drawer.
Three numbers.
317.
Again.
Cross leaned over.
“Locker number.”
“Or something else.”
Sister Margaret said, “That was Ruth’s room number when she stayed here.”
I looked at her.
“Grandma stayed here?”
“Briefly.”
“When?”
“1998.”
October 1998.
The year Eleanor returned.
“Why?”
“She accompanied a woman.”
My voice came out thin.
“Eleanor?”
“I was not working in intake then.”
“Records?”
“Possibly.”
Room 317.
We climbed to the third floor.
The building had been renovated, but the room numbers remained.
317 was now a small guest room.
Sister Margaret unlocked it.
Nothing remarkable.
Bed.
Desk.
Cross.
Vanessa.
Samuel.
Me.
I stared at the floorboards.
“Walter built compartments,” I murmured.
Samuel heard.
“What?”
“The music box. The stone plaque. Grandma learned from him.”
I checked the desk.
Modern.
Not original.
Closet.
Baseboard.
Window frame.
Vanessa walked to the old radiator cover.
“This is weird.”
“What?”
“One screw is different.”
We removed the metal cover.
Behind it was a narrow cavity.
Inside sat a green cloth-bound ledger.
Samuel whispered, “My God.”
I reached for it.
Cross grabbed my wrist.
“Wait.”
I stared at him.
“Let go.”
“Look.”
A thin wire ran beneath the ledger.
Not an explosive.
A tamper alarm.
Cross traced it to a tiny modern transmitter.
“Someone installed this recently.”
“Who?”
“Whoever knew we would find it.”
Sister Margaret crossed herself.
I took a picture before Cross carefully disconnected the device.
Then I lifted the ledger.
Heavy.
Old.
Real.
The first page read:
ORCHARD CONTROL AND DISTRIBUTION REGISTER
WALTER H. WHITMORE
PRIMARY CUSTODIAN
Below that:
SUCCESSOR CUSTODIAN:
ELEANOR C. WHITMORE
Her name had been crossed out.
Below:
EVELYN C. WHITMORE
EFFECTIVE UPON AGE 30 OR DEATH OF WALTER H. WHITMORE, WHICHEVER OCCURS LATER.
I was thirty-seven.
Grandpa had been dead twelve years.
I had legally become Orchard’s successor seven years ago without knowing it.
I turned pages.
Accounts.
Properties.
Codes.
Names.
Then near the back, one page had been removed.
Cleanly.
Freshly.
A note had been placed in its place.
Typed.
Not Grandma’s handwriting.
Evelyn,
You found the book. Good.
Now ask Diane what she did with Lily.
Vanessa read over my shoulder.
Her face went white.
“What does that mean?”
Sister Margaret looked alarmed.
Cross swore.
Samuel said, “Vanessa, when was the last time you received proof your daughter was alive?”
Vanessa stared at the old bed as if seventeen-year-old herself might still be sitting there.
“I used to count the bricks outside that window,” she whispered. “I thought if I memorized every one, I could prove I had actually been here after Mom brought me home and pretended the semester never happened.”
For years I had believed Vanessa’s selfishness came from being protected too much. I was beginning to understand that some of it came from being erased whenever her pain became inconvenient.
She wiped her face.
“Grandma visited once. She held my hand and said, ‘One day you get to decide which parts of this family story are yours.’ I hated her for leaving afterward.”
Now Grandma had led us back to that exact room.
May you like
She stared at him.
“I never did.”
