Chapter 2 - The Woman Who Wanted Nothing
Damon called Elena before sunrise.
She didn't answer.
He called again.
Nothing.
By the third attempt, Silas was already standing in Damon's study with a laptop open and two cups of coffee growing cold.
"Her address is real," Silas said. "Small apartment in Harbor Point. Lease is in her name. She's been there three years."
"Family?"
"Mother died eighteen months ago. Margaret Vale. School librarian. No father listed on Elena's birth certificate."
"And Rose?"
"That's where it gets strange."
Damon looked up.
"How strange?"
"There is no Rose Vale."
"People don't disappear from history."
"They do when somebody helps."
Silas turned the laptop.
He had searched marriage records, property records, employment records, death certificates and newspaper archives.
Nothing.
Rose Vale had apparently never existed.
Damon thought about Arthur's face when he'd seen the music box.
"Search my grandmother."
"I already started."
Damon's grandmother, Dorothy Kessler, had died twelve years earlier.
She had been the one person in his family who treated wealth like an inconvenience rather than an identity.
She had taught Damon piano badly, chess brilliantly, and how to recognize people who smiled only when they needed something.
She had also sung.
Damon suddenly remembered that.
Not often.
Usually when she believed she was alone.
His chest tightened.
"The melody," he said.
Silas looked at him.
"My grandmother sang it."
Now he knew.
Not perfectly.
Not enough to reproduce it.
But enough.
The song Elena had been humming was the same melody Dorothy used to sing while tending roses in the greenhouse.
Damon stood.
"I'm going to Elena."
"Maybe don't arrive at a woman's apartment at seven in the morning looking like you haven't slept."
"I haven't."
"Exactly."
Damon ignored him.
Elena opened her apartment door only after he identified himself twice.
She wore gray sweatpants and an oversized sweater. Her hair was loose. There was no makeup on her face.
She stared at him.
"Do rich people not sleep?"
"Not last night."
"What happened?"
Damon showed her the photograph.
Everything changed.
Elena took the phone.
Her fingers trembled.
"That's the box."
"Yes."
"Who's the older woman?"
"My grandmother."
Elena enlarged the younger woman's face.
"I know her."
Damon's pulse changed.
"Who?"
Elena disappeared into the apartment.
She returned carrying a worn envelope.
Inside was another photograph.
The same blonde woman.
Older.
Holding a baby.
On the back, faded handwriting read:
Margaret and Mama, 1978.
"That's Rose," Elena said.
Damon stared.
Rose Vale had known Dorothy Kessler.
And someone had erased her.
"May I come in?"
Elena hesitated.
Then stepped aside.
Her apartment was small but warm. Books occupied nearly every available surface. A secondhand piano sat against one wall.
Damon noticed sheet music.
"You play?"
"Badly."
"So do I."
"I doubt that."
"My grandmother tried."
Elena looked at the photograph again.
"Why would your grandmother have known mine?"
"I don't know."
"Why did that man at the party recognize the box?"
"I don't know."
"Why did someone send you my address?"
Damon looked at her sharply.
"How did you know that?"
"You just told me."
"No, I didn't."
Silence.
Elena went pale.
Damon realized his mistake.
"Someone sent me your address."
She backed away.
"Who?"
"Unknown number."
"Why?"
"I don't know."
"Stop saying that."
Her voice cracked.
Damon lowered his tone.
"You're right."
Elena folded her arms tightly.
"I went to work last night because I needed an extra shift. That's all. I sang because my feet hurt and because my mother used to sing when she was tired. Then you walked through a door, and suddenly strangers are sending you photographs of my grandmother."
"I know."
"No. You don't."
She turned away.
Damon noticed the silver music box on the piano.
"Can I see it?"
Elena hesitated before handing it to him.
It was heavier than expected.
The initials D.K. had been scratched into the underside.
He opened the lid.
A tiny mechanical melody played.
Damon froze.
It wasn't the song Elena had sung.
It was another melody.
One he knew intimately.
His grandmother's favorite waltz.
He examined the velvet interior.
Something seemed uneven.
"Has this ever been repaired?"
"Not that I know of."
Damon pressed gently against the lining.
A panel shifted.
Elena gasped.
Beneath the velvet was a tiny folded piece of paper.
Neither touched it.
Finally Elena whispered, "Open it."
Damon unfolded the paper.
There was only a date.
November 14, 1978.
And an address.
17 Bellweather Lane.
Silas called.
Damon answered immediately.
"I found Rose."
"Where?"
"I'll explain later. But there's more. Dorothy Kessler made a private payment to someone named Rosalind Mercer every month from 1978 until 1996."
Damon looked at Elena.
"Rose wasn't Rose Vale."
"What?"
"Her real name may have been Rosalind Mercer."
Elena sat down.
Silas continued.
"And Arthur Whitmore worked for your grandfather in 1978."
Damon went still.
"Doing what?"
"Legal affairs."
The room seemed smaller.
Damon looked again at the date hidden inside the music box.
November 14, 1978.
"What happened that day?"
"I'm checking."
"Check Bellweather Lane."
Silas went quiet.
"Damon."
"What?"
"I already did."
Damon waited.
"Seventeen Bellweather Lane was your grandparents' first house."
Elena looked at him.
Neither needed to say it.
The music box had come from Damon's family.
That afternoon, Damon and Elena drove to the old address.
The house no longer belonged to the Kesslers. It had been abandoned for years and was scheduled for demolition.
They entered through a side door after Damon obtained permission from the property company.
Dust covered everything.
Elena followed him through the empty rooms.
"This feels illegal."
"It's not."
"That somehow makes it less interesting."
Damon smiled despite himself.
They found the old music room.
The piano was gone.
A faded rectangle remained on the floor where it had once stood.
Elena walked toward the wall.
"Look."
A tiny rose had been carved into the wooden molding.
Below it were two letters.
R.M.
Damon crouched.
Beside them were another two.
D.K.
Dorothy Kessler.
Rosalind Mercer.
"What were they hiding?" Elena whispered.
Damon ran his fingers along the molding.
Something clicked.
A narrow compartment opened.
Inside was an envelope.
On the front:
FOR MARGARET.
Elena stopped breathing.
Margaret.
Her mother.
She reached for it.
Before her fingers touched the envelope, a floorboard creaked behind them.
Damon turned.
The doorway was no longer empty.
May you like
Arthur Whitmore stood there.
And in his hand was the other half of the photograph.
