THE BIRTHMARK BENEATH THE DIRT

The old woman grabbed my wrist and whispered:

“Where did you get that locket?”

My husband, Adrian Cole, stepped toward the bathtub as the silver locket trembled in my bare hand.

There was a tiny crescent scratched into its back.

The same crescent was on the woman's shoulder.

This was no coincidence.

For several seconds, nobody moved.

Water dripped from my fingertips onto the white marble floor.

The old woman sat hunched inside our enormous bathtub, her soaked brown dress clinging to her thin body. Gray hair hung around her deeply lined face. Soap bubbles slid slowly down her neck.

Less than ten minutes earlier, I had been disgusted by her.

Now I could barely breathe.

“My locket?” I asked.

My voice sounded distant.

The elderly woman's eyes remained fixed on it.

Not on me.

Not on Adrian.

On the locket.

Her cracked lips parted.

“Please,” she whispered. “Let me see it.”

I looked over my shoulder.

Adrian stood exactly where he had been since I began bathing her, several feet behind us, his sleeves rolled to his forearms and his arms folded across his chest.

My husband was forty years old, wealthy enough that people changed their schedules when he entered a room, and normally impossible to surprise.

He didn't look surprised now.

That frightened me more than anything.

“You knew,” I said.

Adrian's jaw tightened.

“Claire—”

“You knew.”

“Give her the locket.”

I stared at him.

That morning he had brought a homeless elderly woman into our home without warning.

Her clothes had smelled of rain, smoke, and months of sleeping somewhere without running water. Our housekeeper, Rosa, had rushed forward when Adrian entered, but he stopped her.

Then he looked directly at me.

“I want you to bathe her in our tub. And please, don't call the staff. Do it yourself.”

I had thought he'd lost his mind.

We had employees for everything.

Housekeepers.

Drivers.

Gardeners.

A private chef.

And yet my millionaire husband wanted me kneeling beside a bathtub, personally washing a woman he'd apparently found on the street.

I had hated myself for the disgust I felt.

But I had still put on yellow rubber gloves before touching her.

Now one glove lay on the floor.

The other was still on my left hand.

And the locket I'd hidden for twenty years rested in my right palm.

I had received it when I was eleven.

That was the year my mother disappeared.

At least, that was the word everyone used.

Disappeared.

Not died.

Not left.

Not abandoned me.

Just disappeared.

My father had refused to discuss it.

Whenever I asked questions, he gave the same answer.

“Your mother made her choice.”

When I turned eighteen, he finally told me she was probably dead.

I never believed him.

But eventually I learned how to live as if I did.

The locket was the last thing I had left of her.

I had never shown it to Adrian.

Or so I thought.

The elderly woman lifted a shaking hand from the bathwater.

“Please.”

I moved closer.

Her fingers closed around the locket.

She turned it over.

Her thumb traced the scratched crescent.

Then she pressed the small release.

Click.

The locket opened.

Inside was a faded photograph.

A young woman holding a little girl.

Most of the picture had been damaged by time, but the girl's face was still visible.

Me.

Age six.

The old woman inhaled sharply.

Her shoulders began trembling.

“No,” she whispered.

I stared at her.

“What?”

She looked up.

For the first time since entering our home, she looked directly into my eyes.

“Claire?”

My knees nearly gave out.

The bathroom became completely silent.

Adrian lowered his arms.

I gripped the edge of the bathtub.

“How do you know my name?”

The woman's mouth opened, but nothing came out.

She looked frightened now.

Not of me.

Of Adrian.

I followed her gaze.

“What did you tell her?” I demanded.

“Nothing.”

“Then why does she know my name?”

Adrian stepped closer.

“Claire, there's something you need to understand.”

“No. She needs to answer me.”

I turned back.

“Who are you?”

The woman squeezed her eyes shut.

A tear rolled down her cheek and disappeared into the water.

“I used to have one just like this.”

My heart slammed against my ribs.

“A locket?”

She nodded.

“Two of them.”

“What do you mean, two?”

She touched the crescent on the back.

“They were made together.”

I looked down at my locket.

For twenty years, I had believed the crescent was simply a scratch.

Now I realized it was too perfect.

Someone had deliberately carved it there.

My eyes moved to the birthmark on her shoulder.

Same shape.

Same direction.

A crescent opening toward the left.

“Who gave them to you?” I asked.

She didn't answer.

Instead, she touched my face.

Her fingers were cold.

I instinctively recoiled.

Pain crossed her expression.

I immediately felt ashamed.

“I'm sorry,” I whispered.

“No,” she said. “You don't have anything to apologize for.”

Those words hit me strangely.

As if she wasn't talking about my reaction.

As if she meant something much older.

I looked at Adrian again.

He was watching us with an expression I'd never seen before.

Guilt.

My husband was guilty of something.

“Start talking.”

Adrian glanced toward the bathroom door.

“Not here.”

I laughed once.

It sounded almost hysterical.

“You bring a homeless woman into my house. You order me to bathe her. She has the same symbol as the locket my missing mother gave me. She knows my name. And now you want privacy?”

“Claire.”

“Who is she?”

His silence answered more than words could have.

I stood.

Bathwater ran down my dress.

“Who is she, Adrian?”

The elderly woman suddenly grabbed my hand again.

“Don't blame him.”

I froze.

“You know my husband?”

She lowered her eyes.

“No.”

“Then why defend him?”

“Because he found me.”

“Where?”

She hesitated.

“Near Saint Matthew's.”

My stomach tightened.

Saint Matthew's.

The church where my mother used to take me every Sunday.

It was nearly forty miles away.

Adrian had never once mentioned going there.

I faced him.

“What were you doing at Saint Matthew's?”

He rubbed his jaw.

“Looking for her.”

That answer was worse.

“You were looking for her?”

“Yes.”

“For how long?”

“Six months.”

I felt the room tilt.

Six months.

For half a year, my husband had been secretly searching for this woman.

“And you never told me?”

“I needed to be certain.”

“Certain of what?”

He looked at the elderly woman.

Then at me.

“That she was the person I thought she was.”

I turned toward her.

She was crying silently.

“What person?”

Adrian didn't answer.

I stepped toward him.

“You have five seconds.”

“Claire—”

“Five.”

“Your father lied to you.”

Everything inside me stopped.

I stared at him.

My father, Richard Bennett, had died four years earlier.

He had been a respected attorney.

Disciplined.

Private.

Cold.

And the one person who had controlled every piece of information about my mother's disappearance.

“What does my father have to do with this?”

Adrian glanced toward the elderly woman.

“A lot.”

She suddenly began shaking harder.

I knelt beside her again.

“Are you okay?”

Her breathing became shallow.

Adrian reached for his phone.

“I'll call Dr. Mercer.”

“No hospitals,” the woman said sharply.

Her sudden strength startled us both.

“Please. No hospitals.”

“Why?”

She looked terrified.

“They'll find me.”

“Who?”

She clutched the locket.

“They always find me.”

I looked at Adrian.

“What is she talking about?”

He was already dialing.

Then the old woman whispered something.

So quietly I almost missed it.

“Richard.”

My father's name.

My blood went cold.

“You knew Richard Bennett?”

Her face crumpled.

“I knew what he did.”

I forgot how to breathe.

“What did my father do?”

She looked at me.

“Claire, there are things a child should never have to remember.”

“How do you know what I remembered?”

Her eyes filled with fresh tears.

“Because I was there.”

A fragment flashed through my mind.

A woman's voice.

A slammed door.

My mother kneeling in front of me.

Her hands shaking as she fastened a silver locket around my neck.

Never take this off, sweetheart.

I had forgotten the words until that moment.

Another fragment.

My father shouting.

My mother crying.

Then darkness.

I grabbed the edge of the bathtub.

“What happened that night?”

The elderly woman pressed the locket into my palm.

“You were supposed to come with me.”

“With you where?”

“Away.”

“Why didn't I?”

Her face twisted with pain.

“Because he caught us.”

My throat tightened.

“My father?”

She nodded.

I stood slowly.

Adrian ended his call.

“Dr. Mercer is coming.”

I barely heard him.

The woman stared down into the bathwater.

“I thought you were dead.”

I swallowed.

“Why?”

“Because Richard told me you were.”

The words struck like a physical blow.

I stumbled backward.

Adrian caught my elbow.

I ripped my arm away.

“Don't touch me.”

“Claire—”

“You knew this?”

“Not all of it.”

“How much?”

“Enough to know your father didn't tell you the truth.”

I stared at the man I had slept beside for nine years.

“How long?”

“Claire.”

“How long have you known?”

He hesitated.

“Eight months.”

I slapped him.

The sound cracked through the bathroom.

The elderly woman flinched.

Adrian didn't move.

A red mark appeared across his cheek.

“You let me visit my father's grave,” I said. “You watched me put flowers there. You listened while I told you I wished I'd asked him more about my mother.”

“I needed proof.”

“You needed to tell me!”

“I was trying to protect you.”

“From what?”

His eyes changed.

“From the people who helped him.”

Silence.

“What people?”

Before he could answer, the bathroom intercom chimed.

Rosa's voice came through.

“Mr. Cole?”

Adrian pressed the button.