Chapter 3 - THE FIRST EXPLANATION
For ten minutes, I thought I understood.
Not everything.
But enough.
My aunt had given birth thirty-one years ago.
The baby had died.
The grief destroyed her relationship with my mother.
She disappeared.
Charles Mercer somehow knew the story.
Maybe he had helped the hospital.
Maybe he funded St. Agnes.
Maybe Lillian had become one of those people who spent decades chasing the possibility that a dead child had lived.
Pain could do that.
So could guilt.
It was a tragic explanation.
It even made sense.
Until Megan destroyed it.
She approached me near the ballroom service entrance holding her tablet.
“I checked the original guest file.”
“And?”
“The eight people at Table 8 weren’t added today.”
I frowned.
“What do you mean?”
“They were all on the guest list three weeks ago.”
Noah looked up sharply.
“Where were they seated?”
“Different tables.”
She turned the screen toward us.
Arthur Pike had been at Table 3.
Lillian at Table 14.
Monica Sloan at Table 11.
Dr. Weber at Table 6.
Reverend Peter Cole at Table 17.
Hazel Dunn at Table 4.
The remaining two at Tables 9 and 12.
Diane had not created eight seats this morning.
She had gathered eight specific people into one place.
“Why?” I asked.
Megan lowered her voice.
“There’s more.”
She opened another document.
“Someone tagged all eight names with the same internal note.”
A.P. PRIORITY.
Noah’s jaw tightened.
“Arthur Pike.”
“You know him?” I asked.
“He was my father’s attorney.”
A thin man with silver glasses rose from Table 8 at that exact moment.
I recognized him from the place card.
Arthur Pike.
He looked to be in his early sixties, expensive suit, calm face, narrow mouth.
Noah stared at him.
“Not just his attorney,” he said. “Executor of Dad’s estate.”
Arthur saw us looking.
Then turned away.
That was the first suspicious thing he did.
The second came thirty seconds later.
He walked directly to Diane.
She didn’t look surprised to see him.
They spoke quietly beside the ballroom wall.
Arthur leaned close.
Diane answered without moving her lips much.
Then both of them looked at Lillian.
My mother saw it too.
“Emma.”
She gripped my forearm.
“Don’t go near Arthur.”
“Why?”
“Because he’ll tell you whatever version protects the Mercer family.”
I stared at her.
“How do you know what he does?”
She released me.
“Mom.”
Nothing.
I turned toward Lillian.
She had moved closer to Table 8 again and was standing behind her chair with both hands resting on the back.
I walked toward her.
Noah came with me.
Arthur stepped into our path.
“Emma,” he said with a professional smile. “I think everyone would benefit from lowering the temperature.”
“I think I’d benefit from people answering questions.”
“This is your wedding.”
“Then stop controlling it.”
His smile thinned.
Noah stepped beside me.
“Arthur. Why were these eight people grouped together?”
Arthur looked at him.
“Your father wanted certain witnesses present.”
The word hit me.
“Witnesses?”
Arthur glanced around the ballroom.
“Poor choice of words.”
“No,” Noah said. “Sounded pretty specific.”
Arthur sighed.
“Charles had unresolved personal matters. He wanted some people invited.”
“Why Table 8?”
“Ask your mother.”
Diane had heard enough.
She came toward us.
“We are not having this discussion here.”
Lillian laughed once.
Low.
Bitter.
“You’ve been deciding where discussions are allowed for thirty years.”
Diane’s face changed.
Just a fraction.
But I saw it.
So did Noah.
“You know each other,” he said.
Diane looked at him.
“Noah—”
“How long?”
Lillian answered.
“Long enough for her to know exactly who I am.”
My mother appeared behind us.
She looked more frightened than before.
“Lillian, stop.”
Lillian turned.
“You promised me.”
“Please.”
“You promised me that if this day ever came, you would not help them bury it again.”
My stomach tightened.
“What day?”
Nobody answered.
I looked at Mom.
“Tell me.”
She shook her head.
“I was trying to protect you.”
“From what?”
Lillian’s eyes moved to Noah.
Then back to me.
“From finding out what happened at St. Agnes.”
Arthur stepped forward.
“That is enough.”
He lifted a leather folio off the nearby cocktail table.
As he did, something slid halfway out.
A photocopied page.
Hospital letterhead.
I saw the words before he pushed it back inside.
ST. AGNES MATERNITY CENTER.
Below that were two names.
Lillian Vale.
Diane Mercer.
Two births.
Thirty-six minutes apart.
Noah saw them too.
He grabbed the page before Arthur could close the folio.
May you like
Across the bottom, someone had handwritten one line in blue ink:
One of these infants left under the wrong name.
