And because he cared so much about what the world thought, he was willing to destroy the life she wanted.
Rebecca turned away.
She did not cry.
She would not give him that satisfaction.
For the next several weeks, she searched for another way out.
She found a job at a small bakery across town, arranging to leave the house before sunrise and return before her father noticed she had gone.
She saved every dollar she earned.
She wrote to Jack again.
Then again.
She never received an answer.
As the months passed, she began to wonder whether he had abandoned her.
The thought frightened her more than anything her father could do.
But she kept writing.
She wrote about the baby.
She wrote about the loneliness.
She wrote about the tiny silver charm she wore beneath her blouse, the one Jack had made for her in the machine shop.
She wrote that she loved him.
And she wrote that if he ever returned, she would be waiting beneath the oak tree.
In the present, Jack stood in the garage while Maggie placed a thick folder on the workbench.
These are the names of people who worked for the Hale family in the late eighties and early nineties.
Jack opened it.
There were photographs, newspaper clippings, and copies of property records.
Maggie had spent two days making calls.
Some of them remember Rebecca, she said. "One woman worked as a housekeeper at the Hale estate. Her name is Eleanor Price. She's living in a retirement community outside Springfield."
Jack looked up.
Does she remember me?
She remembers a young mechanic who came to the house once or twice.
That's something.
There's more.
Maggie handed him a photocopy of a letter.
The handwriting was unfamiliar.
Rebecca was moved from the family estate on the evening of October 14. Mr. Hale instructed us to say nothing. The child was born two days later.
Jack read it twice.
His fingers tightened around the paper.
Who wrote this?
We don't know. It was among documents connected to the estate.
Moved where?
That's the problem.
He stared at the date.
October 14.
He remembered October.
He remembered returning from Montana, driving straight to Rebecca's house, and finding the windows dark. He remembered knocking until his knuckles hurt.
He remembered David Hale opening the door.
She's gone, the older man had said.
Where?
Somewhere you can't follow.
Jack had demanded an explanation.
David had refused.
Then, six months later, the letter had arrived.
Rebecca was dead.
The baby was dead.
Jack sat down slowly.
What if the baby survived?
Maggie didn't answer.
What if Sarah is her daughter?
Then someone lied to both of you.
Jack looked at the letter again.
Why?
That's what we need to find out.
He rose abruptly.
I'm going to see Eleanor.
I'll come with you.
No.
Maggie folded her arms.
That wasn't a question.
Jack stared at her.
She stared back.
Finally, he sighed.
Fine.
Eleanor Price lived in a small room overlooking a garden.
She was eighty-six years old, with white hair, delicate hands, and eyes that seemed much younger than the rest of her.
When Jack introduced himself, she studied his face for a long moment.
Then she smiled sadly.
You're the boy who loved Rebecca.
Jack swallowed.
Yes, ma'am.
I wondered what happened to you.
I was told she died.
Eleanor's expression changed.
That was a lie.
The words landed with such force that Jack had to grip the back of a chair.
Maggie stepped forward.
Mrs. Price, can you tell us what happened?
Eleanor looked toward the window.
For a while, she said nothing.
Then she began.
Rebecca had been confined to the estate after her father discovered the pregnancy. She had tried to leave several times, and each attempt had resulted in tighter restrictions.
Frank Delaney had become a frequent visitor.
He claimed to be helping David Hale protect the family's reputation.
In truth, Eleanor believed Frank wanted Rebecca for himself.
He was always watching her, Eleanor said. "Always finding excuses to be near her. She despised him."
Jack felt sick.
Did she love anyone else?
No.
Was she married?
Eleanor shook her head.
Never.
Jack closed his eyes.
Eleanor continued.
Rebecca gave birth in a small private clinic. Her father arranged everything. He said the child had died.
Did you see the baby?
Eleanor hesitated.
Yes.
Jack opened his eyes.
What did you see?
A little girl. Dark hair. Hazel eyes. She was crying so loudly that the nurse laughed.
Jack's breath caught.
What happened to her?
Rebecca was told the baby had died. She was devastated. She refused to eat for days. Then, one evening, I heard her speaking to someone in the hallway.
Who?
Frank.
Eleanor's voice trembled.
He told her that if she continued asking questions, the child would never be safe.
Jack stared at her.
Are you saying he threatened a newborn?
I'm saying Frank Delaney was a cruel man who believed everything belonged to him.
Maggie leaned forward.
Do you know where the child went?
Eleanor nodded slowly.
Not exactly. But I remember the nurse's name. Helen Morris.
She gave Maggie an address.
Then she looked at Jack.
There's something else.
He waited.
Rebecca never stopped waiting for you.
The room seemed to grow smaller.
She believed you would come back. Even after her father told her you had abandoned her, even after he said you had married someone else, she believed you would come back.
Jack's eyes filled.
I wrote to her.
I know.
What?
Eleanor reached into the drawer beside her bed and removed a small envelope.
Inside were several letters.
Jack recognized his handwriting immediately.
His hands shook as he unfolded the first one.
Rebecca,
I'm coming home next week. I have enough money saved to rent a small place, and my uncle says I can have a job at the garage permanently. I don't know what your father will say, but I don't care anymore. I want to marry you. I want to raise our child with you.