Chapter 6 - THE WIFE I BURIED
Hope can be more dangerous than grief.
Grief settles eventually.
It becomes a room you learn to live inside.
Hope breaks the walls.
By sunrise, I had every investigator I trusted pulling Claire’s death apart from the beginning.
Dental records.
Crash reports.
Emergency response.
Bridge cameras.
Insurance filings.
The body recovery.
The coroner.
Everything.
At seven-fifteen, Vincent entered my study.
“Dental identification was signed by Mercer.”
Of course.
“And the coroner?”
“Retired. Living in Nevada.”
“Contact him.”
“Already done.”
“What did he say?”
Vincent’s face hardened.
“He remembers pressure from your father to close identification quickly.”
My father again.
“Did he personally compare the records?”
“No.”
“So Claire may not have been in the car.”
“Possibly.”
I walked to the window.
Rain streaked the glass.
For eight years, I had dreamed about one impossible thing.
Another chance.
One conversation.
One morning.
One moment where Claire walked through a door and I did not lose her.
Now the possibility existed.
And I hated it.
Because if she was alive, she had stayed away from Nova.
From me.
By choice or force.
Either answer hurt.
A small knock came at the door.
Nova.
“Can I come in?”
“Always.”
She rolled inside.
Sky followed.
Both girls looked exhausted.
Nova stopped near my desk.
“Are you finding Mommy?”
“I’m trying.”
“Do you think she’s alive?”
“I don’t know.”
She nodded.
Then looked at the old framed picture on my shelf.
Claire laughing at a beach.
Pregnant.
“What was she like?”
I had told Nova stories for years.
But today the question sounded different.
“Brave.”
“You always say that.”
“Because it’s true.”
“What else?”
I thought.
“Impatient.”
Nova smiled.
“Like me?”
“Worse.”
Sky sat on the carpet.
“Was she nice?”
“Yes.”
“To everybody?”
I almost answered yes.
Then stopped.
Claire hated fake answers.
“No. She was kind. That’s different.”
Sky frowned.
“How?”
“Nice is sometimes pretending everything is okay. Kind means doing the right thing even when it’s uncomfortable.”
Nova looked toward the security screen.
“Like inviting someone nobody else invited?”
Sky smiled.
“Like coming to a party when everybody else is rude.”
Nova grinned.
I looked at them.
Eight years of secrets had somehow produced this friendship.
Maybe not everything broken stayed broken.
A nurse arrived to draw blood.
Not for DNA.
For medical comparison.
I had told both girls exactly why.
“Doctors found records from when you were babies,” I explained. “Some may be wrong. They want to make sure your health information is accurate.”
Nova held out her arm.
Sky did not.
“No needles.”
Vincent entered behind the nurse.
Sky looked at him.
He stopped.
“I hate them too.”
“You don’t look like you hate anything.”
“I hate raisins.”
Sky blinked.
“That’s weird.”
“They ruin cookies.”
She considered this.
“True.”
He sat beside her.
“If you want, I’ll do mine first.”
Vincent had no medical reason to draw blood.
He did it anyway.
Sky watched the needle go in.
“You didn’t cry.”
“Almost.”
“No you didn’t.”
“Internally.”
That made her laugh.
Then she offered her arm.
I watched Vincent look away.
He wanted the DNA answer.
We all did.
But he respected the line.
Medical testing first.
Parentage later.
Choice mattered.
At ten, Lena arrived under guard.
Sky ran to her.
The reunion hurt to watch.
Lena dropped to her knees and hugged the girl so tightly they nearly fell over.
“I’m sorry.”
Sky cried.
“You left.”
“I know.”
“You always leave.”
“I know.”
“I hate it.”
“I know.”
That was what children needed sometimes.
Not excuses.
Acknowledgment.
Sky pulled back.
“Are you my real mom?”
Lena closed her eyes.
“I’m your mom.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
Another child who understood language too well.
Lena glanced at me.
I nodded.
Tell her truth.
“I didn’t give birth to you.”
Sky’s face crumpled.
“But I have loved you since you were three days old.”
“Did you steal me?”
“No.”
“Did somebody?”
“I don’t know.”
Sky started crying again.
Lena held her.
Nova rolled close and put her hand on Sky’s shoulder.
Three people.
No shared blood we could prove.
Still family.
Then the lab called.
Medical records revealed something important.
Nova’s blood type did not match the Hawthorne infant record.
Sky’s did not match Lena’s records either.
But the more shocking finding was genetic markers tied to a rare metabolic condition.
Both girls carried the same unusual marker.
That meant they were biologically related.
Not necessarily sisters.
Could be cousins.
Half-sisters.
But related.
Vincent stared at the report.
“How rare?”
The doctor on speaker said, “Very.”
“How likely by coincidence?”
“Very low.”
I looked at Lena.
She went pale.
“What aren’t you telling me?”
“Nothing.”
“Lena.”
“I swear.”
Vincent said, “If Sky is mine and Nova is Grant’s, why would they share the marker?”
The doctor answered.
“They could share maternal ancestry.”
Silence.
Three mothers.
Claire.
Hannah.
Rebecca.
Maybe connected.
Evelyn arrived holding an old photograph album.
“My mother knew Rebecca Crane’s mother.”
I turned.
“What?”
She opened the album.
A charity gala from thirty years ago.
Our mother, Margaret Hawthorne, stood beside Senator Crane’s wife.
And a third woman.
Vincent stared.
“My mother.”
Three women.
Friends.
“My mother never mentioned knowing yours,” Vincent said.
“Neither did mine,” Evelyn replied.
On the back of the photograph, our mother had written:
Margaret, Elise, Celia — sisters in everything but blood.
Below that:
Our children will never inherit their fathers’ war.
I looked up.
“What war?”
Evelyn shook her head.
“No idea.”
Vincent’s phone rang.
He answered.
The retired coroner from Nevada.
We listened on speaker.
He confirmed what we feared.
The body from Claire’s crash was never conclusively identified.
He had objected.
Malcolm Hawthorne threatened his career.
Dr. Mercer produced dental records.
Case closed.
“Did you see the body?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“Could it have been Claire?”
“Possibly.”
“Could it have been Rebecca Crane?”
A long silence.
“I don’t know.”
Evelyn whispered, “Rebecca was reported dead three months later.”
Two dead women.
One unidentified body.
One living red-haired woman claiming Claire was alive.
Nothing fit.
Then the house intercom chimed.
Security.
“Mr. Hawthorne, package at the gate.”
“From?”
“No courier. Left on the road.”
“Scan it.”
“Already done. No explosives.”
“Bring it to the secure room.”
The package was a white archival box.
Inside was a wedding ring.
Claire’s.
I knew every scratch.
Every edge.
I had placed it on her finger.
Beneath it was a phone.
It rang.
I answered.
No distortion this time.
A woman’s voice.
Older.
Trembling.
But unmistakable.
“Grant.”
My knees nearly failed.
Claire.
I had heard that voice in dreams.
For eight years.
“Where are you?”
Silence.
Then crying.
“Grant, I’m sorry.”
“Where are you?”
“I can’t come home.”
“Why?”
“Because the person who tried to kill me is still protecting Nova.”
My mind stalled.
“What?”
“If I come near her, they’ll finish what they started.”
“Who?”
“I need you to listen.”
“No. You need to tell me where you are.”
“You always do that.”
“Do what?”
“Turn fear into orders.”
I closed my eyes.
That was Claire.
Nobody else would say it exactly like that.
“Please.”
The word nearly broke me.
“Where are you?”
“I’m safe for now.”
“Nova wants you.”
Claire made a sound like pain.
“I know.”
“She thinks you’re dead.”
“I know.”
“She has needed you every day.”
“I know!”
Silence.
Nova stood outside the study.
She had heard.
Her face was white.
I held out my hand.
She rolled closer.
“Is that Mommy?”
Claire heard.
Her breathing stopped.
“Nova?”
Nova’s eyes filled.
“Mommy?”
Eight years disappeared.
Claire sobbed.
“Oh, my baby.”
Nova began crying too.
I sat on the floor beside her.
For one minute, nobody cared about secrets.
They talked.
Awkwardly.
Beautifully.
Claire asked about school.
Nova asked if she still liked yellow flowers.
Claire remembered Nova’s stuffed whale from infancy.
That was proof no forged record could provide.
Then Claire became serious.
“Grant, listen to me. The girls cannot be tested for paternity yet.”
“Why?”
“Because Senator Crane has access to the state lab network. Any result will reach him.”
“He’s dying.”
“That makes him more dangerous.”
“Was he behind your crash?”
“No.”
“Who?”
Silence.
“Claire.”
“Your father ordered it.”
I closed my eyes.
Of course.
“But Malcolm is dead,” I said.
“Yes.”
“Then why are you still hiding?”
“Because he didn’t act alone.”
“Crane?”
“No.”
“Mercer?”
“No.”
“Who?”
Claire inhaled.
Then the line crackled.
A shout in the background.
“Claire?”
She whispered urgently.
“Grant, the third baby is alive.”
“Who is she?”
“You know her.”
A door slammed wherever she was.
“Claire!”
Then she said the words that turned my blood to ice.
“She has been living in your house for eight years.”
The line went dead.
I looked toward the hallway.
My house.
My staff.
My family.
My daughter’s caregivers.
Employees.
Security.
One of them was the third baby?
Impossible.
The child would be eight.
Then I remembered.
There was exactly one other eight-year-old who spent nearly every day in my home.
Elise’s daughter, Mia.
Nova’s caregiver brought her child after school several times a week.
Mia had slept over.
Played in the garden.
Sat at our dinner table.
I called security.
“Find Elise and Mia now.”
A pause.
Then:
“Sir, Elise’s room is empty.”
My chest tightened.
“When did they leave?”
“Seven minutes ago.”
“Gate?”
“They didn’t use one.”
I stared at Vincent.
Then at Nova and Sky.
Three babies.
May you like
Three girls.
And now the third had vanished.
