“What did she say?”
“She asked whether you had photographs of Hannah.”
Margaret looked toward the cedar chest beneath the window.
“I have hundreds.”
“Then choose a few. Don’t overwhelm her.”
“You give a great many orders for a man without an investigator’s license.”
“I’m trying to prevent two frightened people from hurting each other.”
“I am not frightened.”
“Yes, you are.”
Margaret ended the call.
She opened the cedar chest.
Hannah’s life waited inside in paper envelopes and old albums.
Hannah at five, standing in a horse trough.
Hannah at nine, missing both front teeth.
Hannah at fourteen, furious because Margaret had photographed her in muddy clothes.
Hannah at nineteen, sitting on the porch with Grace in her arms, looking exhausted and proud.
Margaret chose that photograph.
She placed it beside the green suitcase on the kitchen table.
She did not sleep.
At 9:12 the next morning, a silver car appeared on the eastern road.
Margaret watched from the porch.
Adrian was driving.
A young woman sat beside him.
The car stopped outside the gate.
For a long time, neither passenger moved.
Then the young woman stepped out.
She wore jeans, a dark sweater and brown boots unsuited to ranch mud. Her hair was tied behind her head. She looked toward the house with the expression of someone standing at the entrance to a building that might contain either treasure or disaster.
Margaret descended the steps.
Adrian remained near the car.
The young woman approached the gate.
“Margaret Sloan?”
Her voice was different from Hannah’s.
Softer.
But when she raised one eyebrow, Margaret saw her daughter so clearly that twenty-two years disappeared.
“My name is Sophie,” the young woman said.
“I know.”
“That’s a strange thing to say to someone you’ve never met.”
“You’re right.”
Margaret opened the gate.
Sophie did not enter immediately.
“Mr. Cole said you have documents.”
“They’re inside.”
“And photographs?”
“Yes.”
“Of Hannah?”
Margaret nodded.
Sophie looked across the yard at the horses, the barn and the cottonwoods.
“Did she live here?”
“Until she was twenty.”
“Was she happy?”
“Sometimes.”
“Did she want me?”
The question struck harder than anything inside Eleanor’s confession.
Margaret stepped closer.
“She wanted you from the moment she knew you existed.”
Sophie’s jaw tightened.
“My father said my biological mother abandoned me.”
“Nathaniel Bellamy is not your biological father.”
“He is still my father.”
Margaret forced herself to remain calm.
“I understand.”
“No, you don’t. Everyone keeps telling me what I’m supposed to call people. Birth mother. Adoptive mother. Real father. Fake father. I don’t know what any of those words mean anymore.”
“Then don’t use them today.”
Sophie stared at her.
“What should I call you?”
“Margaret will do.”
A small change appeared in Sophie’s expression. Not trust, but surprise.
She entered the gate.
Inside the kitchen, Margaret showed her the suitcase.
Sophie touched the yellow blanket.
“I dreamed about this color when I was a child,” she said.
Margaret did not respond. She was afraid that speaking would break the fragile calm between them.
Sophie examined the bracelet, the photographs and the hospital records. She listened to Eleanor’s confession without interrupting.
When it ended, she remained still.
Adrian waited near the door.
Margaret placed the photograph of Hannah and Grace on the table.
Sophie picked it up.
“That’s me?”
“Yes.”
“And that’s Hannah?”
“Yes.”
Sophie held the photograph closer.
“She looks tired.”
“She was.”
“Scared?”
“Very.”
“Happy?”
Margaret’s eyes filled.
“Happier than I had ever seen her.”
Sophie turned the photograph over, though nothing was written on the back.
“Where is she?”
Margaret had rehearsed several versions of the answer.
None of them survived the moment.
“She died eighteen years ago.”
Sophie closed her eyes.
“Did she know I was alive?”
“No.”
The photograph trembled in her hand.
“So she spent the rest of her life thinking I died in that fire?”
“Yes.”
Sophie stood so quickly that the chair fell behind her.
She walked out of the kitchen.
Margaret began to follow, but Adrian raised a hand.
“Give her a moment.”
“She shouldn’t be alone.”
“She has been alone with this truth since yesterday.”
Margaret ignored him and went outside.
Sophie stood near the horse fence, facing the open fields.
“I’m sorry,” Margaret said.
Sophie wiped her face.
“For what?”
“For not finding you.”
“You thought I was dead.”
“I should have demanded proof. I should have opened the coffin. I should have questioned every nurse in that hospital.”
“You were grieving.”
“So was Hannah.”
Sophie turned around.
“What was she like?”
Margaret walked to the fence.