Chapter 2
My mother had been dead for nine years.
I knew every photograph of her that our family owned. In this one, she looked younger than I remembered, standing outside a brick building with a woman I had never seen.
The stranger had one arm around her shoulders.
“Where did you find this?” I asked.
“In Mrs. Whitmore’s suitcase,” the investigator said.
Mr. Whitmore moved closer, but the investigator held the photograph where I could see it.
“Do you recognize the other woman?”
“No.”
“Do you know why Mrs. Whitmore would have a photograph of your mother?”
I shook my head. My mother had worked in bookkeeping. She had never mentioned Celeste Whitmore, the mansion, or anyone in the family.
At least, I had never heard her mention them.
The investigator’s name was Detective Reed. She asked if I would come to the station the next morning to speak in private. I agreed.
Mr. Whitmore offered to drive me home.
“I have my truck,” I said.
“Are you all right to drive?”
I looked at the picture again. “I’ll call my brother.”
He nodded. He didn’t press me.
Outside the gate, I dialed Noah. He answered sounding half asleep.
“Maya? Is everything okay?”
“I’m safe. I need you to pick me up from work.”
“Are you hurt?”
“No. I’ll explain when you get here.”
I sat in my truck while I waited. My cheek throbbed from Celeste’s slap. Every few minutes, I checked my phone. The video was still there. I had already sent a copy to Detective Reed, but I saved another to my personal storage.
I could hear Celeste’s voice.
You’ve ruined your life.
When Noah arrived, he got out before I could open my door. He was twenty-six, three years younger than me, and still looked at me as if it were his job to make sure I ate dinner.
He saw my cheek.
“Who did that?”
“Mr. Whitmore’s wife.”
He stared at me. “What happened?”
I told him on the drive. I started with the pitcher. When I reached the photograph, he pulled into an empty parking lot.
“Mom?” he said.
I described it. He asked if I was sure.
“I’ve stared at her face since I was twenty,” I said. “It was her.”
Noah leaned back. “Maybe she did work for them.”
“Why would Celeste keep the picture hidden?”
“I don’t know.”
Neither of us spoke for the rest of the drive.
At my apartment, Noah made tea. I called Dad. He lived two hours away and had gone to bed early. I left a message asking him to call when he woke.
Noah stayed on the couch.
In the morning, Dad called before six.
“Maya, you sounded upset.”
“Did Mom know anyone named Celeste Whitmore?”
The silence on the line lasted so long I checked whether the call had dropped.
“Why are you asking?” he said.
“She had a picture of Mom in her suitcase.”
Dad breathed in slowly.
“I need to come see you.”
“Tell me now.”
“I’ll tell you what I know when I get there. I don’t want to get it wrong over the phone.”
I hung up feeling angrier than I expected. He knew something. For nine years, he had let Noah and me think Mom’s old files were just bills and pay stubs.
Detective Reed called an hour later. Preliminary testing had raised serious concerns about the substance in the pitcher, but the full analysis would take longer. Celeste remained in custody while investigators reviewed the evidence.
“Do you think she knew who I was when she hired me?” I asked.
“We’re looking into that,” Reed said.
I thought of the interview. Celeste had barely looked at my résumé. She had asked about my last name, then offered me the job on the spot.
At the time, I thought she needed help before the spring planting.
I went to the station with Noah. Detective Reed showed us the photograph again. On the back, in Mom’s handwriting, was a date and a name: Laurel House, 2008.
“Does that mean anything to you?” she asked.
“No.”
She showed me a second page from the suitcase. It was a copy of an old payment record with Mom’s signature.
I leaned forward. “That isn’t hers.”
“How can you tell?”
“My mother wrote her first name with a loop around the M. This signature doesn’t have it.”
Reed made a note. “We’ll have it examined.”
Noah stared at the page. “What was the payment for?”
“A consulting fee,” Reed said. “The receiving company no longer exists.”
I remembered Dad’s hesitation. He might know the company.
At noon, Dad arrived. He looked older than he had at Christmas. He hugged us both, then asked if we could sit somewhere private.
Detective Reed gave us a room.
Dad held the photograph for a long time.
“Your mother was afraid of Celeste,” he said.
I felt a chill.
“Why?”
“She found something in Celeste’s business accounts. Before she could report it, Celeste accused her of taking the money herself.”
Noah gripped the edge of the table.
“Mom lost her job because of her?”
“Yes,” Dad said. “And she spent years trying to prove what happened.”
I looked down at the false signature.
“Did she ever prove it?”
May you like
Dad’s eyes filled.
“She found the records. She was going to take them to an attorney the week she died.”
