Chapter 3 - Grandma’s Christmas Cookies
Margaret Dalton lived in a stone house overlooking Long Island Sound, where every December she decorated twelve identical wreaths and complained that modern Christmas lights were “too blue.”
When Detective Alvarez and I arrived, Margaret opened the door wearing pearls.
She looked at me.
Then at the police car.
“Katherine.”
“They found Noah.”
The color drained from her face.
Not surprise.
Fear.
I knew it immediately.
Alvarez knew it too.
Margaret gripped the doorframe.
“Alive?”
“You knew.”
“No.”
“You knew.”
Her composure cracked.
“Come inside.”
“I’m not drinking tea while you explain why my son recognized you.”
Margaret closed her eyes.
“He recognized me?”
“He says you brought cookies.”
Her hand flew to her mouth.
I had imagined confronting whoever stole Noah for five years. In every fantasy I screamed.
In reality, my voice became quiet.
“How many Christmases?”
Margaret began crying.
“Three.”
I nearly stopped breathing.
“You saw my child three Christmases and came home without him?”
“It wasn’t that simple.”
“It was exactly that simple.”
Alvarez stepped between us before grief became something uglier.
Margaret led us into the library.
She said Eric contacted her eleven months after he vanished.
“Eric?”
“He called from a blocked number. He said Noah was alive.”
“Why didn’t you call me?”
“He said if I involved police, Wade would kill him.”
I stared at her.
“So you believed a kidnapper and betrayed me?”
“I believed my son.”
“Your son was missing too!”
Margaret opened a drawer and removed a stack of envelopes.
Photographs.
Noah at five.
Six.
Seven.
Each beside a Christmas tree.
My knees weakened.
“You had these?”
“I was allowed one visit each December.”
“Allowed by whom?”
“Wade.”
“Why?”
“Money.”
Margaret admitted paying Wade nearly $300,000 over four years.
She thought she was keeping Eric and Noah alive.
“Why didn’t he release them?”
“He kept changing the terms.”
Alvarez asked, “Where were the meetings?”
“Different houses.”
“The Christmas house?”
Margaret looked startled.
“You know about that?”
“Address.”
“I don’t have one.”
I laughed bitterly.
“You drove there.”
“Blindfolded.”
“Of course.”
Every answer made the story worse.
Then Margaret said something I did not expect.
“Noah wasn’t always there.”
“What?”
“The last visit, there were other children.”
Alvarez leaned forward.
“How many?”
“I saw two.”
My anger turned to horror.
“Who were they?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did you report it?”
Margaret whispered, “No.”
I looked at the Christmas tree glittering behind her.
“You spent years telling everyone I was a bad mother.”
She cried.
“I hated myself.”
“So you made me carry it.”
“Yes.”
For once she did not defend herself.
Alvarez collected the photographs.
One showed a fireplace.
Another a staircase.
In the corner of the third, barely visible, was a brass plaque.
HOLLIS FAMILY FOUNDATION.
A search connected the foundation to an abandoned children’s retreat outside New Milford.
The property had been closed for six years.
It had green shutters.
White fencing.
And archived real-estate photographs showed a huge stone house.
“The Christmas house,” I whispered.
Police moved immediately.
I returned to the safe apartment where Noah and Lucy were watching an old Christmas cartoon.
Noah saw my face.
“You talked to Cookie Lady.”
“Yes.”
“She lies.”
“I know.”
“Everybody lies.”
I sat beside him.
“I’m going to try not to.”
“Try?”
“I’m human. I’ll mess up. But I won’t lie to make you easier to control.”
He considered that.
“Okay.”
The phone rang.
Alvarez.
They had reached the Hollis property.
Empty.
Recently abandoned.
In the basement were mattresses, canned food, children’s clothes, and a wall covered in dates.
Five years of dates.
At the bottom was a fresh message:
KATHERINE FOUND THE BOY. MOVE ERIC BEFORE CHRISTMAS.
I gripped the phone.
“Move him where?”
“We don’t know.”
Then Alvarez sent me a photograph.
A dining table covered in old Christmas cards.
One was addressed to me.
Eric’s handwriting.
Katherine, if Noah ever gets home, don’t trust my mother.
I stared at the words.
Then turned the card over.
There was more.
May you like
And don’t trust the police officer who handled the river search.
Detective Alvarez had handled the river search.
