Chapter 2: The Woman in the Photograph

The next morning, I did something I had never done in my entire life.

I lied to my father.

At breakfast, I smiled, asked whether he had slept well, and pretended I hadn’t heard Victoria whispering about my mother’s disappearance.

Then I told him I was going into town to meet an old friend.

Instead, I drove forty minutes north to the medical facility mentioned in the newspaper article.

The building no longer operated as a hospital. It had been converted into an administrative office for a private healthcare group, but the original brick structure still stood behind a row of pine trees.

I parked across the street and stared at it through the windshield.

October 15, 2009.

My mother had supposedly been dead for three days.

Yet someone had been wearing her hospital bracelet.

Someone had written a number on it.

And my father had nearly collapsed when I asked him about it.

I entered the building at 10:23 a.m.

A receptionist looked up from her computer.

“Good morning. Can I help you?””

“My name is Eleanor Bennett. I’m trying to locate records concerning a patient who was admitted here in October 2009.””

“I’m afraid we don’t release medical information to visitors.””

“I understand. I’m not asking for confidential medical details. I’m trying to verify whether a family member was ever admitted.””

The receptionist hesitated.

“What was the patient’s name?””

“Catherine Bennett.””

Her fingers stopped moving.

It lasted less than a second.

But I saw it.

She looked toward the closed door behind her, then back at me.

“Please wait here.””

She disappeared down the corridor.

I waited for eleven minutes.

When she returned, she carried a small business card.

“Dr. Samuel Whitmore is no longer employed here, but you may be able to contact him through his private practice.””

I took the card.

“Did you know my mother?””

The receptionist swallowed.

“No.””

“Then why did you look frightened when I said her name?””

Her eyes filled with tears so suddenly that I forgot what I had planned to say next.

“Miss Bennett,” she whispered, “you should leave.””

“Why?””

“Because some people will do anything to keep certain records from being found.””

Before I could ask another question, a man in a gray suit emerged from the corridor.

He was tall, perhaps in his early sixties, with silver hair and a narrow scar running from his left temple toward his ear.

He looked directly at me.

“Eleanor?””

I stepped back.

“Do I know you?””

“My name is Peter Lawson. I was your mother’s attorney.””

The room seemed to tilt.

“My mother had an attorney?””

“Yes.””

“My father never mentioned you.””

“I imagine he didn’t.””

Peter glanced at the receptionist.

“May we speak somewhere private?””

I followed him into a small conference room with frosted glass windows. He closed the door and remained standing.

“Your mother hired me shortly before she died,” he said.

“Before she died?””

He looked at me carefully.

“That’s what you were told, wasn’t it?””

I gripped the edge of the table.

“Please stop speaking in riddles.””

Peter removed a folder from his briefcase.

“I can’t disclose everything without verifying your identity and confirming that the relevant documents are still legally accessible. But I can tell you this: your mother was alive after the date your father gave you.””

I shook my head.

“No. I attended her funeral.””

“You attended a funeral,” he corrected gently.

“That doesn’t establish whose remains were buried.””

My throat tightened.

I remembered the closed casket.

I remembered my father holding my hand so tightly that my fingers hurt.

I remembered Victoria telling me not to look inside because my mother’s face had been badly injured.

And I remembered the small white rose placed on the lid.

A rose my mother had always hated.

“She was afraid of someone,” Peter continued.

“She believed her husband had discovered something about the family finances. She also believed your stepmother was involved.””

“Why didn’t you tell me?””

“You were twelve. After the funeral, I tried to contact your father. He told me your mother had left instructions that you were never to be disturbed by the details of her personal affairs.””

“That sounds nothing like her.””

“I agreed. That’s why I kept the file.””

He opened the folder.

Inside was a photocopy of a letter written in my mother’s familiar handwriting.

Peter, if anything happens to me, protect Eleanor. Richard doesn’t understand what Victoria is capable of. And if Eleanor ever begins asking questions, give her the envelope marked 814.

My hands trembled.

“Where is that envelope?””

Peter closed the folder.