Chapter 9 - THE DAUGHTER IN THE PHOTOGRAPH
Arthur Bell entered the house without waiting for an invitation.
He was in his late sixties, with silver hair and a polished manner that had always made me uncomfortable.
Two men stood behind him.
"Mr. Whitmore," he said pleasantly. "Your father is very ill. He asked me to retrieve certain documents."
"You can leave."
"I'm afraid these records belong to the Whitmore estate."
"They concern a woman who was threatened, a child whose identity was falsified, and a missing newborn."
Arthur's smile faded.
"You're making serious accusations."
"Then let's make them in front of the police."
He glanced toward Emily.
"Miss Carter, I believe you have something that belongs to my client."
Emily stood slowly.
"No. I have something that belongs to the truth."
Arthur's expression hardened.
He reached into his briefcase and removed a folder.
"Your father authorized a settlement three years ago. Emily was paid to leave Massachusetts and surrender all claims involving the child."
I stared at the papers.
The signature looked like mine.
But the date was wrong.
"I never signed this."
Arthur shrugged.
"Then perhaps you should examine your own records more carefully."
Emily took the folder.
"This is the document your father showed me before I disappeared."
She turned to the last page.
"There's a witness signature."
I leaned closer.
Daniel Mercer.
Arthur reached for the folder, but I caught his wrist.
"Don't."
For the first time, his composure cracked.
"You have no idea how many people depend on your father's company."
"And you have no idea how little I care about protecting it anymore."
Arthur backed away.
"You'll regret this."
"Perhaps. But you'll regret staying."
He left with his men.
The moment the door closed, Emily began to shake.
I held her while she cried.
"I thought he'd found me," she whispered.
"He won't hurt you again."
"You can't promise that."
"No," I admitted. "But I can promise he won't face us separately."
We returned to the estate that evening.
Emma was waiting in the entrance hall.
The moment she saw Emily, she froze.
Emily dropped to her knees.
"Hello, sweetheart."
Emma stared at her.
Clara stood behind her, tears streaming down her face.
"Mommy?"
Emily held out her arms.
Emma ran into them.
The sound that came from Emily was somewhere between a sob and a laugh. She wrapped her daughter in both arms, kissing her hair, her cheeks, her forehead.
"I missed you so much," she whispered. "Every single day."
Emma touched Emily's face.
"Why didn't you come home?"
Emily closed her eyes.
"I was trying to find my way back."
Emma considered that.
Then she pressed two fingers against her temples, made her familiar pout, and said, "You're not very good at directions, Mommy."
Everyone laughed through their tears.
For the first time in three years, the estate felt like a home.
But the truth still had one final door to open.
In the basement, I examined the documents again.
A second adoption agreement was hidden behind the first.
It carried my mother's signature and a handwritten note:
If I cannot raise her, Lucas must know that his sister deserves the same love as any other child.
The infant's name had been covered by a strip of paper.
I carefully lifted the edge.
The name beneath it was Elizabeth Whitmore.
My twin sister.
A birth certificate had been attached to the back.
Unlike the other documents, it carried a hospital seal and the signature of a nurse who was still alive.
I called the number listed in the margin.
An elderly woman answered.
When I explained who I was, she went silent.
"Mr. Whitmore," she finally said, "I've waited twenty-eight years for someone to ask me that question."
"Where is my sister?"
"She was adopted by a family in Connecticut. Your father arranged everything. But the adoptive parents were told the baby had no living relatives."
"Do you know where she is now?"
"I do."
"Tell me."
The woman gave me an address.
Then she added, "There's something else. Your sister contacted me last month. She was looking for you."
My heart pounded.
"Why?"
"She said someone had sent her a photograph of a little girl who looked exactly like her."
I looked toward the living room.
Emma was sitting on Emily's lap, laughing at something Clara had said.
"What photograph?"
The nurse's voice trembled.
"Your daughter, Mr. Whitmore. Emma."
I hung up.
For three years, I had believed Emily was the only person whose disappearance had shattered my life.
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Now I understood that my father had erased an entire branch of our family.
And someone had just shown my missing sister a picture of my daughter.
