Chapter 8 - My Mother’s Christmas Secret
I refused to ask in the town square.
Thomas wanted spectacle.
He had taken enough from us.
At the station, Margaret finally spoke.
“My husband was not your father.”
“I know that.”
“No. I mean Thomas was not only Eric’s father.”
The room went silent.
Eric stared at her.
Margaret looked at me.
“Your mother had an affair with Thomas.”
I laughed because the alternative was screaming.
“You’re saying Eric and I—”
“No.”
She answered quickly.
“Thomas is not your father.”
“Then why say it like that?”
“Because your mother wanted Thomas to believe you might be his child.”
“Why?”
“To protect the evidence.”
My mother convinced Thomas that harming her might mean harming his own daughter.
It bought time.
Long enough to duplicate the list.
Long enough to give it to Margaret.
Long enough to escape.
“So who was my father?”
“The man who raised you.”
Relief came mixed with anger.
Thomas had staged the projection simply to destabilize us.
It almost worked.
Eric paced.
“He’s running out of leverage.”
Alvarez shook her head.
“Men like Thomas create leverage.”
Noah sat beside Lucy coloring a paper ornament.
He looked up.
“Can Christmas be over?”
Lucy said, “Not until presents.”
“Good point.”
Their ability to remain children in fragments broke my heart.
The next clue came from Wade.
Police captured him at a motel outside Danbury.
He demanded immunity.
He did not get it.
But he talked.
Thomas kept a second archive in a warehouse disguised as a holiday decoration company.
More important, Wade said Victor had turned against Thomas.
“Victor helped Eric escape.”
Eric nodded.
“A man unlocked the station room. I never saw his face.”
Wade laughed.
“Victor hates the old man more than you do.”
“Where is he?”
“Probably dead.”
He smiled when he said it.
Alvarez ended the interview.
Police searched the warehouse.
They found surveillance equipment, forged documents, and files on dozens of families.
They also found a locked office.
Inside was Victor Dalton.
Alive.
He looked remarkably like Eric.
Not identical.
But enough.
Margaret saw him through the observation window and collapsed into a chair.
“My baby.”
Victor did not want to see her.
“I’m fifty-one,” he told Alvarez. “She doesn’t get to start motherhood tonight.”
Noah whispered to me, “Families are weird.”
“That may be the smartest thing anyone has said.”
Victor gave police Thomas’s final location.
A lakeside mansion owned through shell companies.
By the time tactical teams arrived, Thomas was gone.
But the dining room table had been set for Christmas dinner.
Seven places.
Thomas.
Margaret.
Eric.
Victor.
Me.
Noah.
Lucy.
At each setting was a handwritten card.
Mine read:
KATHERINE — THE WOMAN WHO NEVER STOPPED LOOKING.
Noah’s:
NOAH — THE BOY WHO RUINED EVERYTHING BY REMEMBERING.
Eric’s:
ERIC — THE SON WHO CHOSE FAMILY OVER POWER.
And Lucy’s:
LUCY — THE REPLACEMENT CHILD.
I tore it in half.
Noah took the pieces and threw them into the fireplace.
“She’s not replacement anything.”
Lucy hugged him.
“Thanks.”
He shrugged.
“Still not sharing my presents.”
Upstairs police found Thomas’s planning room.
A calendar was marked through New Year’s Eve.
Christmas Day had one note.
DINNER, IF THEY COOPERATE.
December 26:
BURN EVERYTHING.
December 27:
LEAVE COUNTRY.
Then December 31:
SECOND BOY.
Alvarez frowned.
“What second boy?”
Eric looked at Victor.
Victor looked at Margaret.
Margaret went white.
“No.”
May you like
“What?” I demanded.
Margaret whispered, “Noah wasn’t the only child taken five years ago.”
