Chapter 3 - The Woman in the Photograph
I stared at the shadow in the doorway.
My entire body went rigid.
“You were never supposed to find out that the baby survived…”
Julian’s voice was quiet.
Too quiet.
I turned slowly.
He stood beneath the doorway light wearing the same expensive shirt I had seen in the photograph from the unknown number.
His hair was slightly damp.
His jaw was unshaven.
There was a faint tan across his face that no business meeting in Chicago could explain.
Hawaii.
He had come home.
He looked at the notebook in my hand.
Then at the photograph on the desk.
Then at me.
For several seconds, neither of us spoke.
Finally, I whispered, “You knew.”
Julian didn't answer.
“You knew she survived.”
His eyes moved toward the floor.
“Clarissa—”
“Don't.”
I stepped backward.
“Don't say my name like you're worried about me.”
His expression tightened.
“I can explain.”
“You told me she died.”
“I was trying to protect you.”
I laughed.
It was a small, broken sound.
“Protect me?”
I lifted the photograph.
“From my own daughter?”
Julian walked into the room.
I immediately stepped away.
“Stay there.”
He stopped.
His face had changed.
The irritation was gone.
The arrogance was gone.
For the first time since I had known him, Julian looked afraid.
That frightened me more than anything else.
“How long?” I asked.
He swallowed.
“How long has she been alive?”
He didn't answer.
“How long, Julian?”
“Twenty years.”
The words landed like a physical blow.
I grabbed the edge of the desk.
Twenty years.
My daughter had been alive for twenty years.
While I mourned her.
While I visited a grave that might have contained nothing.
While I blamed myself for surviving her.
While Julian held me at night and told me there was nothing anyone could have done.
Twenty years.
I looked at him.
“You watched me grieve.”
His eyes filled with something I couldn't identify.
“I didn't have a choice.”
“You always had a choice.”
“You don't understand.”
“Then explain it.”
He remained silent.
I stepped toward him.
“Where is she?”
“Clarissa—”
“Where is my daughter?”
His jaw clenched.
“I can't tell you.”
I stared at him.
Then I understood.
He wasn't denying it.
He wasn't saying Evelyn was wrong.
He wasn't telling me the photograph was fake.
He was simply refusing to tell me where my child was.
I picked up the silver key.
“Does this open the room where she is?”
Julian's eyes dropped to the key.
His face went white.
“You found that?”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“My mother gave it to me.”
His expression changed.
“Before she died?”
“Yes.”
He closed his eyes.
For one second, he looked like a little boy who had just realized he had been caught.
Then he opened them.
“She shouldn't have done that.”
“She spent twenty years waiting for you to fail.”
“That isn't what happened.”
“She gave me the key.”
“She was dying.”
“And she knew you lied to me.”
Julian took another step.
“Listen to me.”
“No.”
“You don't know what you're dealing with.”
“I know exactly what I'm dealing with.”
I held up the notebook.
“A husband who lied about his daughter.”
I held up the photograph.
“A family that hid my child.”
Then I pointed toward the documents.
“And a dead woman who spent twenty years preparing me to destroy everything you built.”
His face hardened.
“Evelyn didn't understand what she was protecting.”
“Then tell me.”
“I can't.”
“Why?”
“Because if you know, you're in danger.”
I stared at him.
“You keep saying that.”
“Because it's true.”
“From whom?”
He said nothing.
I moved closer.
“From you?”
His eyes flickered.
That tiny movement told me more than his words.
I stepped back.
“Get out.”
“Clarissa.”
“Get out of Evelyn's room.”
“This is my house.”
“No.”
My voice was calm.
It surprised even me.
“This was Evelyn's house.”
I placed the notebook against my chest.
“And she left it to me.”
Julian's face changed.
“You don't know what the trust says.”
“I know enough.”
“You think that trust gives you control?”
“I think your mother knew exactly what she was doing.”
He stared at me.
Then he smiled.
It wasn't the smile I knew.
It was colder.
“You really think Evelyn was protecting you?”
“Yes.”
“She wasn't.”
My stomach tightened.
“What does that mean?”
Julian walked toward the desk.
He picked up the photograph of the newborn.
“You think this is your daughter.”
“It is.”
“No.”
He placed the photograph down.
“You've been looking at it upside down.”
I frowned.
“What?”
He turned it over.
There was writing on the back.
I had seen only the front.
Now I saw the faded handwriting.
Baby R-17.
Below it was another line.
Transferred at 3:12 A.M.
My hands went cold.
“Transferred where?”
Julian looked at me.
“That is what Evelyn spent twenty years trying to hide.”
“From whom?”
He hesitated.
“From the people who took her.”
I felt my knees weaken.
“Who took my baby?”
Julian didn't answer.
I grabbed his arm.
“Who?”
He looked at my hand.
Then at me.
“The woman in the photograph.”
I froze.
“What woman?”
He pointed toward the computer.
I turned.
The photograph from the unknown number was still open on the screen.
Evelyn stood beside the incubator.
But I hadn't noticed the person standing behind her.
A woman.
Young.
Blonde.
Her face was partially hidden by shadow.
She wore a hospital badge.
I moved closer.
My breathing became shallow.
There was something familiar about her.
The shape of her eyes.
The way she held her head.
The small scar near her left eyebrow.
I had seen that face before.
Recently.
I searched my memory.
Then it came.
The laughter through Julian's phone.
The woman's voice.
The young woman on the island.
I looked at Julian.
“The woman with you.”
He said nothing.
“She was the woman in the photograph.”
His silence confirmed it.
I felt sick.
“You took your mistress to Hawaii while your mother was dying.”
“She isn't my mistress.”
I stared at him.
“Then who is she?”
Julian's expression became unreadable.
“She has another name.”
“What name?”
He didn't answer.
I slapped the photograph onto the desk.
“Tell me.”
He looked toward the hallway.
Then lowered his voice.
“Her name is Vanessa.”
I repeated it.
“Vanessa.”
“Yes.”
“Where is she now?”
“Gone.”
“Gone where?”
“I don't know.”
“You expect me to believe that?”
“No.”
His answer was immediate.
I stared at him.
At least he was finally telling me the truth about one thing.
I walked toward the filing cabinet.
“What's inside?”
“Nothing you need.”
I pulled the drawer.
Locked.
I took out the silver key.
Julian moved quickly.
“Don't.”
I turned.
“Why?”
“Because once you open that drawer, you can't pretend you don't know anymore.”
“I stopped pretending twenty years ago.”
I inserted the key.
It turned.
The drawer opened.
Inside were dozens of sealed envelopes.
Each one had a date.
Some were twenty years old.
Some were recent.
I picked up the newest envelope.
My name was written across it.
CLARISSA.
I opened it.
Inside was a single sheet.
The handwriting was Evelyn's.
If Julian tells you Vanessa is the woman in the photograph, believe him.
I looked at Julian.
He stared at the floor.
I continued reading.
But if he tells you Vanessa is the mother of your daughter, do not believe him.
My breath caught.
I read the next line.
Vanessa did not give birth to your child. She stole her.
I couldn't move.
The paper trembled in my hand.
Julian whispered, “That's why I told you to stop.”
I looked up.
“You knew?”
“Yes.”
“You knew she stole my daughter?”
“Yes.”
“Then why is she still alive?”
His expression changed.
“She isn't.”
I stared at him.
“What?”
“Vanessa died six years ago.”
My mind raced.
“That woman on the island—”
“Is not Vanessa.”
I slowly lowered the letter.
“Then who is she?”
Julian didn't answer.
I stepped closer.
“Who was the woman laughing on your phone?”
He looked at me.
Then at the photograph.
Then at the letter in my hand.
“She called herself Vanessa.”
My stomach dropped.
“But that wasn't her real name.”
“What's her real name?”
Julian opened his mouth.
Nothing came out.
Then a sound came from the hallway.
A phone ringing.
Not mine.
Not Julian's.
We both turned.
The ringing continued.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
It was coming from the library.
Julian's face went pale.
“Don't answer it.”
I stared at him.
“Why?”
“Because whoever is calling knows we're here.”
The phone rang again.
I walked toward the library.
“Clarissa.”
I didn't stop.
“Don't.”
I entered the room.
An old black telephone sat on Evelyn's desk.
It hadn't been there before.
I was certain of it.
The receiver rang again.
I reached for it.
Julian grabbed my wrist.
“Please.”
I looked at him.
He was terrified.
Not angry.
Not controlling.
Terrified.
I pulled my hand free.
Then I lifted the receiver.
“Hello?”
For several seconds, there was only static.
Then a woman's breathing.
Slow.
Close.
I pressed the phone tighter against my ear.
“Who is this?”
The woman whispered my name.
“Clarissa.”
My blood turned cold.
“Who are you?”
A pause.
Then she said something that made Julian collapse into the nearest chair.
“I think you deserve to know what happened at 3:12 that morning.”
I couldn't speak.
The woman continued.
“Your daughter was alive.”
I closed my eyes.
“Yes.”
“And Julian wasn't the one who gave her away.”
I opened my eyes.
I looked at my husband.
He was staring at me.
The woman's voice became softer.
“Evelyn was.”
I stopped breathing.
Then the line went dead.
Julian slowly stood.
“Give me the phone.”
I didn't move.
He took one step toward me.
“Clarissa, listen to me.”
My fingers tightened around the receiver.
“What did my mother do?”
He didn't answer.
I looked down at Evelyn's notebook.
Then at the hidden room.
Then at Julian.
And for the first time, I realized there was another possibility.
Maybe Evelyn hadn't spent twenty years protecting me from Julian.
Maybe she had spent twenty years protecting Julian from me.
My phone suddenly vibrated.
A new message appeared.
One photograph.
I opened it.
It showed a young woman standing beside a little girl.
The girl's face was blurred.
But around her neck was a tiny silver necklace.
The same necklace I had placed around my newborn daughter's neck twenty years ago.
Under the photograph were four words:
SHE KNOWS WHO YOU ARE.
Then another message arrived.
May you like
COME ALONE.
And beneath it was an address I had never seen before...
