Chapter 7: The Woman Who Had Been Living My Life
For several seconds, I couldn't understand what Detective Morgan was telling me.
Brianna was in Boston.
I'd seen her with my own eyes. I'd watched her destroy my trophy, scream at the security officers, and accuse Thomas Reed of stealing money from her father.
Vanessa was in Boston, too.
She had called me the previous day. I'd heard her voice. I'd seen her face.
Yet Detective Morgan was telling me that a woman in Portland, Maine, had been living under Vanessa's identity for seventeen years.
And that Brianna was supposedly living with her.
"That can't be right," I whispered.
Detective Morgan remained silent for a moment.
"We're checking the records. The information came from a financial investigator who found a second identity connected to the medical clinic.""
"But I spoke to Vanessa yesterday.""
"I know.""
"She was standing in front of me.""
"I understand, Nia.""
"No, you don't."" My voice cracked.
"You're telling me there are two Vanessas?""
"We don't know that yet. We have a woman using the identity, and we have your stepmother. We need to establish who they are and how they're connected.""
I looked at the brass key on the bed.
The note beside it seemed to pulse beneath my fingers.
Your father is not the only one who survived.
For seventeen years, someone had been hiding behind another person's name.
Someone had known where my mother went.
Someone had known that my father might still be alive.
And now, somehow, Brianna was connected to all of it.
"Where is the woman in Portland?"" I asked.
"Officers are approaching the address now. You are not to travel there on your own.""
"I'm not going anywhere alone.""
"Good. Stay with Rebecca and Thomas. We'll call you when we have confirmation.""
The call ended.
I sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the crimson silk spread across the mattress.
My competition gown had saved me from Vanessa's control. It had won me a scholarship, earned me recognition, and brought me into contact with people who knew things about my family that I had never imagined.
Now it had given me a key to a mystery that seemed to grow more dangerous every time I found an answer.
I picked up the key.
There was a tiny number engraved into its head.
*317.*
I turned it over.
On the other side, someone had scratched a single letter.
*E.*
Eleanor.
My mother's name.
Or perhaps the name she had used when she disappeared.
I hurried downstairs.
Thomas and Rebecca were waiting in the lobby. Detective Morgan had returned to the station to coordinate the investigation, but she had promised to keep us informed.
When I showed Thomas the key, his face changed.
"Where did you find that?""
"In the hem of my dress.""
He stared at me.
"Your father hid something in your competition gown?""
"Someone did. I made the dress, but this section of stitching wasn't mine.""
Rebecca took the key carefully.
"Three hundred seventeen," she murmured.
"It could be a safe-deposit box, a locker, or a storage compartment.""
Thomas leaned forward.
"Do you have any idea where it belongs?""
I shook my head.
He studied the letter E.
Then he looked at me.
"Your mother once rented a workroom in a building near the old railway station. Daniel called it Eleanor's room.""
"Why?""
"Because she used it to work on clothing designs. She was a gifted seamstress before she became involved in the bookkeeping.""
I felt a strange pressure in my chest.
My mother had sewn.
My father had taught me to sew.
I'd spent my childhood believing that the sewing machine was the only thing he'd left me.
Perhaps it was more than that.
"Where is the building?"" I asked.
Thomas hesitated.
"Downtown Boston. But if the key belongs to a locker there, we shouldn't approach it until the police have checked the location.""
Rebecca nodded.
"We can give the key to Detective Morgan and let her verify it.""
I looked at the red gown draped over my arm.
"No.""
Both of them turned toward me.
"I'm not going to walk into an unknown building. But I'm not handing over the only physical clue we have without knowing where it came from.""
Rebecca considered this.
"That's reasonable. We'll photograph the key, document where you found it, and let the detective decide how to proceed.""
I nodded.
Then Thomas's phone rang.
He answered, listened for several seconds, and slowly sat down.
"What happened?"" I asked.
He didn't respond immediately.
Finally, he said, "The woman in Portland has been found.""
My heart stopped.
"Is she my mother?""
Thomas closed his eyes.
"The officers believe she is.""
I gripped the back of a chair.
"Is she alive?""
"Yes.""
The word broke something open inside me.
I covered my mouth.
For seventeen years, I'd carried a picture of my mother in a small wooden frame beside my bed. I'd spoken to it when I was lonely. I'd imagined her voice when Vanessa shouted at me. I'd wondered whether she would have understood why I loved sewing so much.
Now she was alive.
Somewhere in Maine, my mother was breathing.
And she had been living under another woman's name.
"Can I talk to her?"" I asked.
Thomas looked at his phone.
"The officers haven't approached her yet. They're trying to confirm her identity and make sure she isn't in immediate danger.""
"Tell them I want to speak to her.""
"They know.""
I turned away, fighting tears.
Then Thomas said something that made me stop.
"There's another problem.""
I looked back.
"The woman in Portland isn't the only person using a false identity. The investigator found a second passport connected to the same address.""
"Whose passport?""
Thomas swallowed.
"Yours.""
Detective Morgan called twenty minutes later.
She had confirmed that the woman in Portland was using the name Vanessa Hayes, but the identification documents were inconsistent. The woman's fingerprints had been sent for comparison, and a specialist was examining the passport.
More importantly, officers had discovered that the house contained several locked rooms.
One of them had been converted into a sewing studio.
Inside were dozens of unfinished garments, old photographs, and boxes of financial records.
There was also a photograph of my father.
Not the young man smiling beside Thomas.
Not the father in the faded family pictures.
This photograph showed him standing outside a modest house in Portland, wearing the coat with the missing silver button.
The date printed on the back was from three years earlier.
My father had been there.
Three years ago.
While I was still living under Vanessa's roof.
While I was being told that I was a burden.
While I was trying to make enough money to buy fabric for a dress.
My father had been alive.
I gripped the phone.
"Why didn't he come for me?""
Detective Morgan's voice softened.
"We don't know yet, Nia.""
"Was my mother with him?""
"We found no immediate evidence that he was inside the house. But there are signs that someone recently used the property.""
I swallowed.
"Then where is he?""
"We're looking.""
I closed my eyes.
For one terrible moment, I wanted to hate him.
It would have been easier than holding on to hope.
But I remembered the note hidden in the dress.
Your father is not the only one who survived.
Perhaps he had been trying to reach me.
Perhaps he had been waiting for the right moment.
Perhaps he had been afraid.
Or perhaps there was a truth so complicated that every explanation I imagined was wrong.
"Detective," I said, "there's something else. I found a key marked 317 in my dress. It has the letter E engraved on it.""
She asked me to describe it.
When I finished, she went quiet.
"That's interesting.""
"Why?""
"The investigators in Portland found a receipt in the sewing studio. It refers to a deposit box at a railway station.""
My heart began to pound.
"What number?""
She paused.
"Three hundred seventeen.""
I stared at Thomas.
He had gone pale.
"Is the station in Boston?"" I asked.
"No. The receipt is from a station in Portland.""
I gripped the phone.
"Can we go there?""
"Not yet. The facility is being secured, and we need to establish who rented the box. If it contains evidence, we need to preserve it properly.""
I forced myself to breathe.
"Fine.""
"There is one more thing. The woman in the house has asked to speak to you.""
I couldn't speak.
Detective Morgan continued.
"She says she knows why your father disappeared. She also says she knows who destroyed your original gown.""
My fingers went numb.
"Who?""
The detective lowered her voice.
"She won't tell us until she's certain you're safe.""
I looked at the red gown.
At the intricate embroidery.
At the stitches I'd made while crying over a secondhand sewing machine.
Someone had deliberately ruined my first dress.
Someone had stolen it.
Someone had spent years making sure I believed I was powerless.
And now my mother was telling the police that she knew who was responsible.
"Tell her I'm safe," I whispered.
"I will.""
"And tell her I want to see her.""
The detective was silent for a moment.
Then she said, "I'll arrange it.""
The call ended.
I looked at Thomas.
He was staring at the floor.
"Did you know my mother was alive?"" I asked.
"No.""
"Did you know she had a sewing studio in Portland?""
"No.""
"Then why do you look as though you already know what she'll say?""
Thomas slowly raised his eyes.
"Because I recognize the address.""
My stomach tightened.
"What?""
He took a photograph from his briefcase.
It showed a modest white house with a blue door and a narrow porch.
The same house from the photograph Detective Morgan had described.
Thomas turned it over.
On the back was a message in my father's handwriting.
If Nia ever comes looking, tell her the truth about the woman who raised her.
I stared at the photograph.
Then I looked at Thomas.
"Who raised me?""
He swallowed.
"That's the question your mother has been trying to answer for seventeen years.""
Before I could ask anything else, Rebecca's phone rang.
She listened, her expression changing with every word.
Then she looked at me.
"Nia, the police have identified the woman in Portland.""
I stood.
"Who is she?""
Rebecca hesitated.
Then she answered.
"Her real name is Eleanor Carter.""
My mother's name.
"That's good, isn't it?"" I whispered.
Rebecca nodded slowly.
"It would be, except for one thing.""
"What?""
"The fingerprints match your mother's records, but the photograph on the passport isn't hers.""
I stared at her.
"Then whose photograph is it?""
Rebecca turned the phone toward me.
The passport showed a woman with dark hair, a sharp jawline, and a tiny scar beside her left eyebrow.
I knew that face.
I'd seen it every day for eight years.
It was Vanessa Hayes.
May you like
And beneath the photograph was a different name.
*ELEANOR CARTER.*
