Chapter 2 - The Photograph in the Pink Purse
“Daddy.”
The word left Nora’s mouth with the effortless innocence only a three-year-old could possess.
My heart stopped.
Adrian’s expression changed.
“Excuse me?”
Nora opened her little plastic purse and began digging through a collection of treasures that made perfect sense only to her: two crayons, a plastic bracelet, three pennies, a folded tissue, a cookie wrapped in a napkin, and a photograph.
I recognized it instantly.
No.
I crossed the room too quickly.
“Nora, sweetheart—”
But Adrian was faster.
She proudly handed him the photograph.
“This is my daddy.”
Every sound in the foyer disappeared.
The picture had been taken four years earlier beside the Charles River. James stood behind me, his arms around my waist, his chin resting against my hair.
I'd cropped myself out after Nora was born.
All that remained was James.
Young.
Alive.
Smiling.
Adrian stared at the photograph.
His face emptied.
“Where did you get this?”
Nora pointed at me.
“Mommy.”
Adrian slowly stood.
I had seen him negotiate with contractors, dismiss an employee for stealing, and silence a room full of executives with one glance.
I had never seen him look frightened.
Until now.
“Emily.”
My name sounded like an accusation.
“Not here.”
“Who is this child’s father?”
Mrs. Holloway quietly ordered the staff away.
Nobody needed to be told twice.
Within seconds, only Adrian, Nora, and I remained beneath the chandelier.
I crouched beside Nora.
“Sweetheart, could you go find Mrs. Holloway?”
“But my picture—”
“I'll keep it safe.”
Adrian's fingers tightened around it.
Nora frowned.
Then she whispered dramatically, “Handle it.”
Despite everything, Adrian’s mouth twitched.
Mine didn't.
When Nora disappeared down the corridor, Adrian turned the photograph over.
There was handwriting on the back.
James’s handwriting.
Boston. Best mistake I ever made. J.
Adrian looked at me.
“How did you know my brother?”
There was no believable lie left.
“I loved him.”
The words seemed to strike him physically.
“You loved James?”
“Yes.”
“For how long?”
“Almost two years.”
Adrian stepped backward.
“That's impossible.”
“It isn't.”
“I knew everyone in James’s life.”
“No. You knew everyone he allowed the Coles to know.”
His jaw tightened.
“My brother didn't hide people from me.”
“He hid me.”
“Why?”
I looked toward the hallway.
“Because of your father.”
That stopped him.
Richard Cole had died eighteen months after James.
He'd been a powerful businessman, an intimidating father, and a man who believed family reputation mattered more than happiness.
Adrian’s voice lowered.
“What did my father do?”
“He found out about us.”
“And?”
“He offered me money.”
Adrian went perfectly still.
“How much?”
“Two hundred thousand dollars.”
His eyes hardened.
“You took it?”
“No.”
Something like relief flashed across his face.
Then suspicion returned.
“You expect me to believe my father tried to pay you to disappear?”
“I don't care what you believe.”
“You should.”
“Why?”
“Because you're standing in my house telling me my dead brother secretly loved you, my father tried to buy you off, and your daughter carries James’s photograph in her purse.”
I swallowed.
“I'm aware.”
He stepped closer.
“How old is Nora?”
“Three.”
“How many months?”
I said nothing.
Adrian’s breathing changed.
“Emily.”
“Three years and five months.”
He calculated instantly.
James had died forty-six months earlier.
I watched the realization arrive.
“No.”
“Adrian—”
“No.”
He looked toward the corridor where Nora had disappeared.
Then at the photograph.
Then at me.
His face became frighteningly calm.
“Tell me I'm wrong.”
I couldn't.
“Emily.”
Tears burned my eyes.
“She is James’s daughter.”
Adrian closed his eyes.
For several seconds, neither of us spoke.
When he opened them, grief had replaced anger.
“My brother had a child?”
“He never knew.”
“You didn't tell him?”
“I was going to.”
“When?”
“The night he died.”
That silenced him.
“I had taken three pregnancy tests that afternoon. I called James. He said he was coming to Boston.”
Adrian stared at me.
A memory seemed to strike him.
“What?”
He looked away.
“James wasn't supposed to be driving that road.”
Cold moved through me.
“What does that mean?”
“He told me he had a meeting.”
“With whom?”
“He never said.”
I remembered James’s final call.
Rain behind his voice.
Traffic.
And something else.
Fear.
“I'll explain everything when I get there,” he'd told me.
Then he had added something I'd spent four years trying not to remember.
If anyone asks, you haven't heard from me.
At the time, I thought it concerned his father.
Now Adrian was staring at the photograph as though four years of assumptions had just collapsed.
“His crash was ruled an accident,” I whispered.
“Yes.”
“But you don't believe that anymore.”
Adrian didn't answer.
That frightened me more than if he had.
He walked toward his study.
“Where are you going?”
“To find something.”
“What?”
He stopped.
“The last voicemail James ever left me.”
I followed.
Adrian unlocked a drawer and removed an old phone.
“I kept it because I couldn't bring myself to delete his voice.”
He powered it on.
Then pressed play.
Static filled the study.
James’s voice followed.
“Adrian, I need you to listen carefully. Dad knows more than I thought.”
My knees weakened.
Then James said:
“And if anything happens to me, find Emily.”
Adrian slowly turned toward me.
The message continued.
“Because she has something the Cole family can never be allowed to take from her.”
The recording ended.
Neither of us moved.
Adrian stared at me.
“What did James know you were carrying?”
May you like
I looked toward the hallway where our little girl was laughing.
And for the first time in four years, I wondered whether James had known about Nora after all.
