Chapter 3 - The Photograph Nobody Had Noticed
“Your sister wasn't working for my father's business, Emma.”
Vincent stood beside the fireplace, still holding the phone Margaret had called.
“She was helping people leave dangerous homes.”
I stared at him.
“What people?”
“Women whose husbands wouldn't let them go. Families threatened by men who thought money gave them ownership over another person's life.”
He paused.
“My father helped establish a private refuge called Hearth House. Rebecca supplied flowers for its events. Eventually, she began delivering groceries and helping residents arrange transportation.”
“Rebecca never told me.”
“She wasn't supposed to identify the people staying there.”
I thought about the sister who used to bring leftover roses to my apartment.
The woman who remembered every birthday.
Who once drove forty minutes because I'd called her crying after a terrible date.
I'd believed I knew everything about her.
Apparently, I hadn't known half.
“Why would she keep that from me?”
Vincent's expression softened.
“Sometimes people keep secrets because they're ashamed. Sometimes they keep them because they're protecting somebody.”
“Which was Rebecca doing?”
“I don't know yet.”
He looked toward the empty fireplace.
“Eleven years ago, my father gave his wife Vivian a yellow handkerchief. She was helping coordinate Hearth House. It had two white stitches in one corner, made by an elderly resident who wanted to thank her.”
“Vivian?”
“My stepmother. The woman you know as Margaret.”
My mouth went dry.
“Why did she disappear?”
Vincent hesitated.
“One of the refuge's confidential addresses was given to a man who wasn't supposed to know it. A woman was hurt.”
“And Vivian did it?”
“That's what my father believed.”
“What did she say?”
“Nothing I was willing to hear.”
His answer surprised me.
He looked away.
“I was twenty-seven. Angry. Certain I understood everything.”
“Did you?”
“No.”
For a moment, he looked older than the man who'd stood so confidently inside the elevator.
Then Marco returned.
“Car's ready.”
Vincent turned toward me.
“Emma, we can go to your apartment, or we can ask the police to meet us there. Your choice.”
I thought about Daniel's hand closing around my wrist.
Then Rebecca's warning about the sewing box.
“I want to see what they took.”
Vincent nodded.
“Then I'll come with you.”
My apartment had never looked particularly impressive.
Two rooms above a laundromat.
A tiny kitchen.
A bedroom window that rattled whenever the wind picked up.
But it was mine.
I'd paid the rent myself, worked extra shifts to keep it, and slowly filled it with things that reminded me of home.
Rebecca's photograph sat beside the television.
Her favorite coffee mug was on the shelf.
And beneath my bed, there should have been a wooden sewing box.
I unlocked the door.
Everything looked normal.
That frightened me more than an obvious break-in would have.
The blanket was neatly folded.
The dishes were stacked.
Even the little ceramic bird Rebecca had given me was sitting in its usual place.
Vincent stayed beside the doorway.
“Do you want me to check the bedroom?”
I shook my head.
“I need to do it.”
I knelt beside the bed.
Reached underneath.
And felt nothing.
The box was gone.
I sat back on my heels.
“She really took it.”
Marco checked the windows.
“No sign anyone forced their way inside.”
I closed my eyes.
“Margaret has a key.”
Vincent turned.
“You gave her one?”
“After Rebecca died. She watered my plants when I couldn't get out of bed.”
The memory made my stomach turn.
I'd trusted that woman enough to let her into the one place where I felt safe.
“She knew where the sewing box was,” I whispered.
“She asked about it every few weeks.”
Vincent crouched beside me.
“What did she say?”
“That Rebecca would've wanted me to stop holding on to old things.”
I looked at the empty space beneath the bed.
“She kept offering to help me sort everything.”
Vincent's expression hardened.
“Did you ever agree?”
“No. I couldn't.”
“Good.”
I swallowed.
“What if she'd found it months ago?”
“Then we'd be asking why she waited until tonight to take it.”
I hadn't considered that.
Margaret could have stolen the box any Sunday.
She'd had eighteen months.
Why wait until Daniel threatened me at the hotel?
Marco examined the apartment while Vincent helped me gather a few clothes.
I insisted on packing them myself.
I wasn't a little girl.
I was frightened, but I still knew how to look after my belongings.
As I reached for my sweater, something fell from the closet shelf.
A framed photograph.
Rebecca's wedding.
I picked it up.
She looked beautiful in her simple ivory dress.
Daniel stood beside her, smiling the smile I'd once believed meant kindness.
I remembered that afternoon.
The cake had leaned slightly.
Rebecca had cried because our parents weren't alive to see her marry.
And Daniel had promised to take care of her.
I pressed my thumb against the glass.
“You lied to her,” I whispered.
Vincent stood behind me.
“Emma?”
I shook my head.
“It's nothing.”
But then I noticed someone standing near the back of the photograph.
A woman in a pale blue dress.
Dark blonde hair pinned beneath a small hat.
She was watching Daniel rather than the bride.
My heart began pounding.
I held the picture beneath the lamp.
“Vincent.”
He came closer.
“What's wrong?”
I pointed.
“Look at her.”
He studied the woman's face.
Then his expression changed.
“That's Vivian.”
I shook my head.
“No. Margaret told me she met Rebecca through a church group shortly before Rebecca died.”
Vincent looked at the photograph again.
“When was this taken?”
“Eight years ago.”
He stared at me.
“Emma, Vivian disappeared eleven years ago.”
I looked down at the photograph.
Three years after disappearing from the Russo family, she'd been standing at my sister's wedding.
Close enough to touch Daniel Mercer.
I remembered something else.
The woman in the photograph was holding a small bouquet.
Rebecca had told me it came from a friend who couldn't stay for the reception.
I hadn't asked another question.
Why would I?
It was a wedding.
People were happy.
Nobody was looking for danger.
Now I examined the picture more closely.
The woman's fingers rested on Daniel's sleeve.
Not like a stranger.
Like someone reminding him she was there.
“Vincent,” I whispered, “Margaret didn't become Rebecca's friend before she died.”
He looked at me.
May you like
I felt my throat close.
“She's been part of my sister's marriage from the very beginning.”
