Chapter 7: The Woman Who Came Back From the Dead
I stared at the photograph until the edges blurred.
My mother was standing beside a lake, wearing the blue coat I remembered from my childhood. Her hair was shorter, and there were lines around her eyes that hadn't been there in the photographs taken before her death.
But it was her.
There was no mistaking the small scar above her left eyebrow.
I had once asked her how she got it. She told me she'd fallen off a bicycle when she was young.
The photograph was dated two weeks after her official death.
I looked at Beatrix.
“Tell me this is fake.””
She took the phone from my hand and studied the image.
“I can't authenticate a photograph from a screen.””
“But that's my mother.””
“Evelyn, I believe you recognize her. That doesn't establish when the photograph was taken.””
Alistair moved closer.
“Who sent it?””
“An unknown number.””
I showed him the messages.
He read them twice.
“The old boathouse,” he murmured.
Beatrix immediately shook her head.
“No.””
I looked at her.
“Someone knows where my mother is.””
“Or someone wants you to believe that.””
“What if it's true?””
“Then we investigate properly. We don't walk into an unknown location at night because an anonymous person tells us to.””
I looked at the photograph again.
For five years, I had visited my mother's grave every November.
I had placed flowers there.
I had spoken to a stone bearing her name.
I had cried until my throat hurt.
And now someone was telling me that she might still be alive.
“I have to know,” I whispered.
Beatrix studied my face.
Then she picked up her phone.
“I'm contacting the authorities. We'll also verify the original photograph and the death records.””
Alistair nodded.
“I'll go with you.””
Beatrix looked at him.
“You will do nothing until we know what we're dealing with.””
He sat back.
For the next hour, Beatrix made calls.
She contacted a private investigator she trusted, requested a preliminary examination of the photograph, and arranged for the messages to be preserved.
Then she received another call.
She listened without speaking.
Finally, she looked at me.
“Evelyn, I need you to sit down.””
My stomach tightened.
“What?””
“The woman in the photograph may not be Grace.””
I stared at her.
“What do you mean?””
“The investigator found an archived photograph of your mother from the same period. The facial similarities are significant, but the person in this image appears to have a slightly different jawline.””
I looked at the screen.
I couldn't see it.
All I could see was my mother's face.
“Then who is she?””
Beatrix turned the phone toward me.
“Vivian Shaw.””
I went completely still.
Vivian.
The woman who had worked for Edward Mercer.
The woman who had supposedly disappeared.
The woman whose daughter might be Camille.
Alistair took the phone.
“That's impossible.””
“Why?”” I asked.
He stared at the photograph.
“Because Vivian died.””
“According to whom?””
“My father.””
I looked at him.
“Did you see a death certificate?””
He hesitated.
“No.””
“Did you attend a funeral?””
“No.””
“Then you don't know.””
Alistair lowered the phone.
Beatrix stood.
“I'm going to make a few more calls. Neither of you should contact the sender.””
She left the room.
I sat quietly, looking at the photograph.
Then Alistair spoke.
“Evelyn, I think there's something I need to tell you.””
I turned.
“What?””
“When I was sixteen, I overheard my father arguing with Margaret.””
“About Vivian?””
He nodded.
“Dad said he had made a promise to someone. Margaret told him the woman was gone and that there was nothing left to discuss.””
I waited.
“Then Dad said something I'll never forget.””
“What?””
“He said, 'You can't erase a child simply because you don't want to look at the consequences.''”
I looked at the photograph again.
“Camille.””
“Maybe.””
“And my mother?””
Alistair shook his head.
“I don't know.””
The next morning, Beatrix called me into her office.
She had a new file.
Inside were copies of hospital records, an old insurance policy, and a document from a funeral home.
She placed the documents on the table.
“Evelyn, your mother's death certificate is genuine.””
I swallowed.
“Then the photograph—”
“May have been taken before the date listed on the image. Or it may have been altered. We don't know yet.””
I felt disappointed and relieved at the same time.
Beatrix opened another document.
“But I found something unusual.””
She pointed to a hospital record.
“Your mother was admitted to St. Catherine's Hospital under her maiden name six months before her death.””
I looked down.
The admission date matched the photograph of her with Edward.
“What happened?””
“The record indicates she was treated after a fall. But there is an additional note from a private physician.””
“What note?””
Beatrix turned the page.
Patient requested that all correspondence be directed to Vivian Shaw.
I looked up.
“Why would my mother use Vivian's name?””
“That is what we need to establish.””
She turned another page.
There was a second note.
Patient expressed concern regarding an ongoing dispute involving Edward Mercer's estate.
My hands went cold.
“So my mother was involved in the inheritance dispute.””
“Apparently.””
“Why didn't she tell me?””
Beatrix looked at me gently.
“Perhaps she was trying to protect you.””
I thought about the letter hidden inside the jewelry box.
My mother had written that Edward was weak.
She had written that Margaret had threatened her.
But she had never mentioned Vivian.
I turned to Beatrix.
“Can we find Vivian?””
“We're trying.””
Then Beatrix's phone rang.
She answered.
“Collins.””
Her expression changed.
She stood.
“Are you certain?””
A pause.
“Send me the address.””
She ended the call.
I looked at her.
“What happened?””
“Our investigator located someone using the name Vivian Shaw.””
“Where?””
“An assisted-living residence outside Hartford.””
I stood.
“Let's go.””
We arrived shortly after noon.
The residence was a quiet brick building surrounded by oak trees. A nurse met us near reception.
“Are you here to see Mrs. Shaw?””
Beatrix nodded.
“Is she available?””
The nurse checked a tablet.
“She has a visitor already.””
I frowned.
“Who?””
The nurse looked uncomfortable.
“A woman named Camille Whitmore.””
My stomach dropped.
“Camille is here?””
“Yes. She arrived about twenty minutes ago.””
Alistair swore under his breath.
We hurried down the corridor.
A door near the end stood slightly open.
I heard Camille's voice.
“Please, Vivian. You have to tell me what you know.””
Then an older woman's voice answered.
“I have already told you everything.””
“You haven't told me why Margaret gave me away.””
I stopped.
Alistair looked at me.
Inside the room, a woman sat beside the window.
Her hair was white.
Her hands were thin.
But when she turned her head, I recognized the face from the photograph.
Vivian Shaw.
Camille was standing beside her bed, clutching a handbag.
“You told me I was Edward's granddaughter,” Camille said.
“You told me I would inherit something.””
Vivian looked exhausted.
“I told you that Edward was your father. I never promised you money.””
“Margaret did.””
“Margaret has been promising people things for decades.””
Camille's voice rose.
“And what about Evelyn?””
Vivian looked toward the door.
Then she saw me.
Her face changed.
For several seconds, she simply stared.
Finally, she whispered:
“Grace's little girl.””
I stepped inside.
“Do you know my mother?””
Vivian's eyes filled.
“Yes.””
“Was she alive after the date on her death certificate?””
Vivian lowered her head.
“No, darling.””
I felt my chest tighten.
“Then why did someone send me that photograph?””
Vivian looked at Camille.
Camille shook her head.
“I didn't send it.””
Vivian closed her eyes.
“Margaret.””
I felt a chill.
“Why would Margaret do that?””
Vivian looked at me.
“Because she wants you to come looking for me.””
“Why?””
“Because she knows what I have.””
Alistair stepped forward.
“What do you have?””
Vivian reached beneath her pillow.
She removed a small envelope.
Inside was an old photograph.
It showed three people standing outside a hospital.
My mother.
Edward Mercer.
And Vivian.
But there was something different about this photograph.
A little girl stood between them.
She was holding my mother's hand.
I looked closer.
The child was perhaps four years old.
She had dark hair and a small birthmark near her chin.
I looked at Vivian.
“Who is she?””
Vivian's voice trembled.
“Your sister.””
I stared.
“My sister?””
Vivian nodded.
“Her name is Clara.””
Camille suddenly stepped backward.
“No.””
I turned.
“What?””
Camille's face had gone pale.
Vivian looked at her.
“Camille, you need to hear this too.””
The older woman took a breath.
“Clara was born before you. She was Edward's first daughter.””
I looked between them.
“But Camille is your daughter.””
Vivian nodded.
“Yes.””
“Then who is Clara?””
Vivian's eyes filled.
“She was Grace's daughter.””
The room went silent.
I felt the floor disappear beneath me.
My mother had another child.
A daughter.
My sister.
And nobody had told me.
“Where is she?”” I whispered.
Vivian looked at me.
“She's been closer than you think.””
Before I could ask another question, Camille spoke.
“That's not possible.””
Vivian turned toward her.
“You've met her.””
Camille shook her head.
“No.””
“You have.””
Vivian's voice became firm.
“She's the woman who raised you.””
I stared at Camille.
Camille's lips parted.
“Who?””
Vivian closed her eyes.
Then she said:
“Clara Bennett.””
My heart stopped.
Clara Bennett.
My mother's younger sister.
The woman who had attended my graduation.
The woman who had brought soup when I was sick.
The woman I had called Aunt Clara my entire life.
She wasn't my aunt.
May you like
She was my sister.
And Camille had just discovered that the person who raised her was the same woman who had helped raise me.
