Chapter 3: The Photograph That Shouldn't Exist
For several seconds, I couldn't hear anything except the fluorescent lights buzzing overhead.
My uncle was dead.
Brenda said he had been dead for twenty-seven years.
Yet someone claiming to be Daniel had called her the previous afternoon.
Someone who knew about the dog.
Someone who knew about the photograph.
I gripped the edge of the table.
“That doesn't make sense,” I said.
“You told me she asked whether you'd contacted Daniel.””
Detective Collins nodded.
“She did.””
“And now she's saying he's dead?””
“That's her current statement.””
“Then one of those statements is a lie.””
“That's possible,” Collins replied.
“But we need evidence before deciding which one.””
Officer Reed pulled out a chair and sat across from me.
“Ms. Carter, do you know how your uncle supposedly died?””
“No. My mother never told me.””
“Did she ever receive a death certificate?””
“I don't know.””
“Did anyone attend a funeral?””
I searched my memory.
I remembered my mother crying in the kitchen late at night. I remembered a slammed door, a broken coffee cup, and my father telling her to stop asking questions.
But I had no memory of a funeral.
“I was ten,” I said.
“If there was one, I wasn't taken.””
Collins made a note.
“Your mother was still alive when Daniel disappeared?””
“Yes.””
“And Brenda knew both of them?””
“Apparently.””
“Did your mother ever explain why?””
“No.””
I looked down at the photograph again.
Three people.
One baby.
Six words written in my mother's handwriting.
One lie destroyed three innocent lives.
“What was the envelope?”” I asked.
Collins exchanged a glance with Reed.
“We haven't finished authenticating the documents,” she said.
“But I can tell you that the envelope contained a handwritten letter and a photocopy of a birth certificate.””
“Whose birth certificate?””
“The name on the document is Daniel Carter.””
I felt a sudden, sickening sense of recognition.
Daniel had been my mother's brother.
But the birth certificate wasn't his original one. The date of birth didn't match the few family details I remembered, and the mother's name was different.
“That's impossible,” I whispered.
“Why?””
“My grandparents had two children. Evelyn and Daniel. I saw their names in my mother's family Bible.””
Collins leaned forward.
“Do you still have that Bible?””
“Yes. It's at home.””
“Would you be willing to bring it in?””
I nodded.
Then I hesitated.
“Detective, if Daniel is dead, who called Brenda?””
“We're investigating that too.””
“Could it have been someone pretending to be him?””
“Yes.””
“Could he actually be alive?””
Collins didn't answer immediately.
“Until we verify the historical records, we shouldn't assume either possibility.””
That was a reasonable answer.
It was also unbearable.
Brenda arrived at the station later that afternoon with a lawyer.
She wore a charcoal-gray suit, her blonde bob carefully arranged, and a thin gold necklace that rested against her collarbone.
She looked composed until she saw me.
Then her eyes darted toward the photograph on the table.
“You shouldn't be here,” she said.
My lawyer wasn't present, but Detective Collins immediately intervened.
“Mrs. Whitmore, Ms. Carter is assisting with the investigation. You may speak to your attorney before answering any questions.””
Brenda sat down.
Her lawyer, a broad-shouldered man named Philip Grant, placed a leather briefcase on the table.
“My client is willing to clarify certain matters,” he said.
“But she will not speculate about events from nearly three decades ago without reviewing the evidence.””
Collins nodded.
“That's fair. Mrs. Whitmore, did you steal Ms. Carter's handbag?””
“No.””
“Did you handle it?””
Brenda glanced at Grant.
“I may have touched it.””
“You previously told officers you'd never seen the bag before.””
“I didn't recognize it at first.””
I stared at her.
“You stood in my house and looked directly at it.””
Brenda turned toward me.
“You don't understand what happened.””
“Then explain it.””
Grant lifted a hand.
“Please direct questions through the detective.””
Collins opened a folder.
“The handbag was recovered beneath a flowerpot on your property. The keychain matched the description provided by Ms. Carter. Why was it there?””
“I didn't put it there.””
“Who did?””
Brenda pressed her lips together.
“Daniel.””
“Daniel Carter?””
“Yes.””
“How did he access your property?””
“He had a key.””
“To your house?””
“To the side gate.””
I felt my stomach tighten.
“Why would my uncle have a key to your house?””
Brenda ignored me.
“He came to see me. He said he needed somewhere to leave something temporarily.””
“When?””
“Recently.””
“Define recently.””
“Within the last month.””
Collins made another note.
“You're claiming a man who supposedly died twenty-seven years ago visited your property within the last month?””
Brenda's face reddened.
“I said I believed it was Daniel.””
“You recognized him?””
“I recognized his voice.””
“The same voice you heard on the phone yesterday?””
“Yes.””
“Did you see him?””
Brenda hesitated.
“No.””
“Then how do you know it was him?””
“Because he knew things only Daniel would know.””
“Such as?””
Brenda looked at me.
“Your mother.””
I felt as if the room had tilted.
“What about my mother?””
Brenda swallowed.
“She told him something before she died. Something she should never have told him.””
“What did she tell him?””
“I don't know exactly.””
“You just said he knew things about her.””
“I know what he told me!””
“Then tell us.””
Brenda slammed her palm against the table.
“He said Evelyn had finally decided to tell the truth!””
The room went silent.
Detective Collins waited a moment.
“What truth?””
Brenda's eyes filled with tears, but her voice remained sharp.
“The truth about the baby.””
My mouth went dry.
“What baby?””
Brenda looked at the photograph.
“The baby I was holding.””
I stared at her.
“You had a child?””
Brenda's expression hardened.
“That's none of your business.””
“You're in a police station explaining why my stolen handbag was buried with a photograph of my mother and uncle. I think it is my business.””
Grant leaned toward his client and whispered something.
Brenda shook her head.
“No,” she said.
“I'm tired of protecting everyone else.””
She looked directly at me.
“The baby in that photograph was yours.””
I didn't understand.
“What?””
“You were the baby.””
“No.””
“You were.””
I pushed my chair back so abruptly that its legs scraped across the floor.
“My mother gave birth to me in a hospital in Ohio. I have the records.””
Brenda shook her head.
“Your mother raised you. That doesn't mean she gave birth to you.””
Detective Collins lifted her hand.
“Mrs. Whitmore, be precise. Are you claiming Ms. Carter was adopted?””
“Yes.””
I looked at Brenda, waiting for the punch line.
It never came.
“My mother never told me I was adopted.””
“Of course she didn't,” Brenda replied.
“She was very good at making people believe whatever she wanted.””
The cruelty in her voice was so familiar that, for a moment, I felt like I was standing on my own porch again, watching her kick Bidu.
“You don't get to talk about my mother like that,” I said.
Brenda leaned forward.
“Then ask her why she never showed you your original birth certificate.””
“She died three years ago.””
For the first time, Brenda looked genuinely unsettled.
She hadn't known.
Or she hadn't expected me to say it so plainly.
Her mouth opened, then closed.
Detective Collins interrupted.
“Mrs. Whitmore, do you have any documentation supporting your claim?””
“No.””
“Then we will need to verify it independently.””
Brenda nodded stiffly.
But as the officers escorted her out, she turned back toward me.
“Ask your mother why she kept Daniel away from you,” she said.
“Ask her why he spent his entire life trying to find you.””
Then she was gone.
I remained standing beside the table, unable to move.
My mother had raised me alone after my father died when I was young. She had worked double shifts, packed my lunches, attended every school play, and sat beside my bed whenever I was sick.
She had been the person I trusted most in the world.
Now a woman who had kicked my dog was telling me that my entire childhood had been built on a lie.
I wanted to dismiss her.
I wanted to call her a liar and walk out.
But there was that photograph.
And the birth certificate.
And the man who had called Brenda using my uncle's name.
Detective Collins approached me quietly.
“Ms. Carter, I understand this is overwhelming. We won't treat Mrs.
Whitmore's claims as established facts. We'll investigate them.””
I nodded, though I wasn't sure I believed her.
“What happens now?””
“We verify the records. We examine the documents. And we find out who placed your handbag in that planter.””
I looked at the photograph one last time.
My mother stood in the center, smiling at the camera.
Brenda held a baby.
Daniel stood beside them.
For the first time, I noticed something I had missed earlier.
Daniel's hand rested protectively on Brenda's shoulder.
And Brenda's other hand was wrapped around a small silver bracelet on the baby's wrist.
A bracelet I had seen in my mother's jewelry box when I was a child.
I remembered it clearly because it had a tiny heart-shaped charm.
My mother used to take it out sometimes, hold it in her palm, and cry.
When I asked whose it was, she always said the same thing.
“Someone we lost.””
That evening, I drove home and retrieved the old family Bible from the top shelf of my bedroom closet.
Its leather cover had cracked with age, and several pages were loose. My mother had kept it wrapped in a faded blue cloth alongside her marriage certificate and a bundle of old photographs.
I carried everything to the kitchen table.
Bidu lay on his blanket nearby, watching me with tired eyes.
I opened the Bible to the family-record pages.
My grandparents' names were written in my mother's careful handwriting.
Underneath them were two entries.
Evelyn Carter.
Daniel Carter.
Both dates were clear.
Both names were real.
But a third entry had been added in different ink, in handwriting that wasn't my mother's.
A baby's name.
The date matched the photograph.
And beside it, someone had written a single word.
Brenda.
I turned the page.
A folded sheet of paper slipped from between the leaves and landed on the table.
It was a letter addressed to my mother.
The handwriting was unmistakably Daniel's.
My hands shook as I unfolded it.
Evelyn,
If you are reading this, then you have decided to keep the promise you made before the baby was born.
I have waited long enough.
Brenda believes she can bury the truth, but she cannot bury what happened to our family.
You know who the child's father really was.
You know why I had to leave.
And you know what will happen if the wrong person discovers that the baby survived.
Please, Evelyn. Tell Maya before someone else does.
Daniel.
I read it twice.
Then a third time.
My name was there.
Maya.
The letter had been written decades before I was old enough to read.
I looked at the photograph of my mother above the sink.
“Who was I, Mom?”” I whispered.
My phone rang.
The number was unfamiliar.
I answered cautiously.
“Hello?””
A man's voice came through, low and strained.
“Maya Carter?””
“Yes. Who is this?””
“My name is Daniel.””
My heart stopped.
“Daniel who?””
“Daniel Carter.””
I gripped the edge of the table.
“That's impossible.””
“I know what Brenda told the police.””
“Are you my uncle?””
A long silence followed.
Then he said, “No, Maya. That's the first lie your mother told you.””
I could barely breathe.
“Then who are you?””
His voice broke.
“I'm your father.””
The call ended.
For several seconds, I stared at the phone, unable to move.
Then a message appeared on the screen.
It contained an address and a photograph of a small brick house.
Beneath it were seven words.
Come alone if you want the truth.
I looked toward Bidu.
He raised his head and let out a low, uneasy whine.
Outside, a car slowed near my driveway.
Its headlights swept across the kitchen window.
And through the glass, I saw Brenda Whitmore sitting behind the wheel, staring directly at my house.
She held a second photograph against the steering wheel.
Even from across the street, I could see the tiny silver bracelet around the baby's wrist.
The same bracelet from the photograph.
The same bracelet my mother had kept hidden for nearly thirty years.
Brenda lowered the photograph.
Then she lifted her phone and began recording my front door.
I stepped away from the window.
My phone buzzed again.
May you like
A final message from the man claiming to be my father appeared on the screen.
Ask Brenda what she did to your real mother.
