No.
Then we find out.
Jack looked at the photograph.
What if he knows something I don't want to hear?
Maggie was quiet for a moment.
Then you hear it anyway.
Jack rubbed his face.
I spent thirty-four years believing Rebecca was dead.
You were told she was.
I should have looked harder.
You were twenty-one, Jack. You were grieving, and you had been given what you believed was confirmation.
I should have looked harder.
Maggie didn't argue.
Sometimes the cruelest thing a person could do was agree with someone who was already punishing himself.
Instead, she pulled out a chair and sat opposite him.
What do we know?
Jack took a breath.
Rebecca was pregnant when I left for Montana. Her father didn't approve of me. He told me I wasn't good enough for her, that I had no money and no future.
Was he wrong?
Not about the money.
And the future?
Jack looked at the photograph.
I thought I had one.
He explained the letters, the sudden silence, and the message from Rebecca's father.
Maggie listened without interruption.
When he finished, she asked, "Did you keep the letter?"
Jack nodded.
He opened the bottom drawer of his desk and removed a battered metal box. Inside were photographs, an old watch, a broken pocketknife, and several folded pieces of paper.
He lifted the letter carefully.
The paper had yellowed with age. The ink had faded.
Jack read it aloud.
Jack,
I am writing to inform you that Rebecca has passed away. The child she carried also died. There is nothing more to discuss. My daughter made her choices, and I ask that you respect the family's grief and allow us privacy.
David Hale.
Maggie read it twice.
David Hale.
Yes.
You told Sarah you didn't know a David Carter.
I didn't.
But her father was supposedly David Carter.
Jack leaned back.
Unless he used another name.
Maggie tapped the letter.
Or someone lied.
The words seemed to settle into the room.
Someone lied.
It was such a simple explanation, and yet it opened a door Jack had spent decades refusing to approach.
He looked at the date.
The letter had arrived six months after his twenty-first birthday.
Six months after he had returned from Montana.
Six months after Rebecca had stopped answering his letters.
Six months after someone had apparently decided that Jack Sullivan no longer deserved to know the truth.
Maggie rose.
I'm going to make a few calls.
To whom?
People who remember the Hale family.
Most of them are dead or gone.
Then I'll find the ones who aren't.
Jack stood.
And Sarah?
Maggie studied him.
You let her decide what she wants to know.
He nodded reluctantly.
For the first time since the previous afternoon, he understood that finding the truth would not necessarily make anything better.
It might only give the pain a name.
That afternoon, Sarah took Lily to the grocery store.
They had food now, but Sarah wanted to make a list and learn exactly how much they could afford once the donations ran out.
Lily carried a small notebook and wrote down the prices.
Milk, she announced. "Three dollars and forty-nine cents."
Put it on the list.
Bread. Two dollars and ninety-nine cents.
Good.
Eggs. Four dollars and twelve cents.
Sarah winced.
Maybe we'll get the smaller carton.
Lily looked at the price tag.
Why does everything cost so much?
Because grown-ups are very bad at making life simple.
Lily considered that.
Then why are grown-ups in charge?
Sarah laughed.
For a few precious minutes, the store became a place where a mother and daughter could talk about ordinary things.
Then Sarah saw the man standing near the pharmacy counter.
Frank Delaney.
She didn't know his name yet, but she would remember his face for the rest of her life.
He was in his late sixties, with silver hair, a neat mustache, and a dark coat that looked expensive despite the warm weather. He held a bottle of water in one hand and studied Sarah with an expression that was almost recognition.
When their eyes met, he smiled.
Sarah Carter?
She stopped.
Yes?
You're Rebecca's daughter.
The notebook slipped from Lily's hands.
Sarah stared at him.
Who are you?
Frank Delaney.
The name meant nothing to her.
He extended a hand.
I knew your grandfather.
Sarah didn't take it.
My grandfather?
David Hale. Your mother's father.
Sarah's mouth went dry.
My mother's father was named David Hale?
Frank's smile faded slightly.
Of course.
No. She told me her father was named David Carter.
Frank studied her for a long moment.
Then he glanced at Lily.
Perhaps we should talk somewhere private.
Sarah felt an immediate, instinctive alarm.
No.
His eyebrows rose.
No?
I don't know you.
That's understandable.
And I don't discuss my family with strangers.
Frank nodded as though she had made a perfectly reasonable observation.
Your mother was a complicated woman. She had a tendency to conceal things.
Sarah's hands curled into fists.
Don't talk about my mother.
Frank's expression hardened for a fraction of a second.
Then the smile returned.
Of course. My apologies.
He reached into his coat pocket and produced a business card.
Call me if you have questions. There are things about your mother's past you deserve to understand.
He placed the card on the shelf beside her.
Then he walked away.
Sarah stared after him.
Lily tugged at her sleeve.
Mom?
Sarah picked up the card.
The name was printed in black lettering above a business address downtown.
Frank Delaney.
Beneath it was the title: Delaney Property and Development.
Sarah felt a chill move through her.
Because she recognized the company name.
It was the same company that owned the apartment complex where she and Lily lived.
The same company whose property manager had given her three weeks to pay the overdue rent.
And the same company that had sent her a letter the previous month informing her that the building was scheduled for redevelopment.
Sarah looked toward the entrance.