“No,” my father said.
“She took him to St. Agnes Hospital outside the city,” Celeste continued. “He was sick. Feverish. Frightened. She left him with a nurse and disappeared.”
My mother’s voice came from behind us.
“You lying little snake.”
I turned.
My mother stood in the warehouse entrance, a pistol hidden low at her side, Mara behind her.
Celeste smiled. “Vivienne. Still elegant. Still pretending.”
My mother’s face was bloodless. “Nathaniel’s body was identified.”
“By whom?” Celeste asked softly. “A grieving mother? A father surrounded by officials? Or a coroner paid by Black Harbor?”
My father stepped back as if struck.
Something passed over his face.
A memory.
A doubt.
A wound reopening after twenty-seven years.
“No,” he whispered.
Celeste opened the leather folder.
Inside were hospital records. Faded photographs. A newspaper clipping. A bracelet with a child’s name.
Nathaniel A.
My hand flew to my mouth.
