Chapter 13 - The DaughterWe emerged from the tunnel beneath a dune near the beach.
The rain had started.
Marcus stood in the storm staring at Rebecca.
“You said Mom has a daughter.”
Rebecca nodded.
“Harold had another child.”
I shook my head.
“No.”
She looked at me.
“You were told the baby died.”
I couldn't breathe.
Twenty-nine years ago.
The pregnancy.
The hospital.
The emergency.
The nurse telling me my baby hadn't survived.
Harold had held me while I cried.
We never spoke about it again.
I had believed her dead.
Rebecca's voice was soft.
“She survived.”
I felt the world disappear.
“Where is she?”
“I don't know.”
“Who is she?”
Rebecca shook her head.
“Harold changed her name.”
“Why?”
“Because Richard knew about her.”
I sat in the sand.
My hands were shaking.
Marcus knelt beside me.
“Mom.”
I looked at him.
“My whole life…”
He took my hand.
“I know.”
Rebecca continued.
“Harold said she was the one person Richard could never find.”
“Why?”
“Because she inherited something.”
“What?”
“The original ownership record.”
I stared.
“My daughter has it?”
“Yes.”
“Then who is she?”
Rebecca looked toward the distant road.
“She works nearby.”
My heart raced.
“Where?”
“She doesn't know who she is.”
I stared at her.
“What?”
“Harold arranged for her to be raised by another family.”
The rain struck my face.
“He gave my daughter away?”
“To save her.”
I wanted to scream.
Instead I whispered:
“What is her name?”
Rebecca hesitated.
“Emma Carter.”
The name meant nothing.
Until Marcus pulled out his phone.
He opened an old photograph.
A woman stood behind a desk at a local property office.
Emma Carter.
He looked at me.
“I know her.”
I stared at the photograph.
Something about her eyes.
Something about the shape of her smile.
I didn't know her.
But my heart did.
“We have to find her.”
Rebecca shook her head.
“Not yet.”
“Why?”
“Because Richard already knows.”
A text appeared on Marcus’s phone.
Unknown number.
You found Rebecca.
Another message arrived.
Now find Emma.
Then a third.
Before I do.
Nathan appeared from the tunnel.
Blood stained his shirt.
He was alive.
Barely.
“You have to leave.”
I looked at him.
“Where?”
He shook his head.
“Not the motel.”
“Then where?”
He looked directly at me.
“Your daughter's house.”
I froze.
“How do you know where she lives?”
Nathan handed me a piece of paper.
An address.
I recognized the street.
I'd driven past it hundreds of times.
It was only fifteen minutes from our beach house.
Harold had hidden my daughter practically in my neighborhood.
I stared at the address.
Then noticed something beneath it.
A handwritten sentence.
Patricia, don't tell Emma who you are until she shows you the photograph.
“Which photograph?”
Nathan looked at me.
“The one Harold gave her.”
I swallowed.
“What does it show?”
May you like
He answered:
“You.”
