Chapters 2
The living room looked nothing like I remembered.
The gray sofa Daniel and I had bought after our wedding was gone. The framed wedding photo that used to hang above the fireplace had been replaced by a large portrait of Patricia holding a baby boy in a white christening gown. The walls were painted a deep green, expensive and cold. My bookshelves had disappeared. My grandmother’s quilt, the one Daniel had once said looked “too old-fashioned,” was folded neatly across an armchair as if Patricia had always owned it.
But that was not what stopped me.
On the mantel, between two silver candlesticks, stood a row of framed photographs.
Daniel.
Patricia.
A little boy with Daniel’s blue eyes.
And Clara.
My daughter.
A photograph of Clara, taken in Switzerland, sat in their house.
I moved closer, my hands trembling. The picture showed Clara in a yellow raincoat near Lake Geneva, laughing with her mouth open, one hand reaching toward the water. I had taken that photo myself and sent it only to Elise and my grandmother.
On the back of the frame was a sticker from a private investigation agency in Seattle.
My stomach tightened.
Before I could think clearly, I heard footsteps upstairs.
“Who’s there?” a woman’s voice called.
It was not Patricia’s voice.
A young woman came down the staircase carrying a laundry basket. She froze when she saw me. She looked about twenty-five, with tired eyes and a bruise-yellow exhaustion under them. She wore an apron over leggings, and her hair was tied in a messy knot.
“Who are you?” she asked.
“I could ask the same thing,” I said.
She looked toward the hallway, nervous. “I’m Megan. I help Mrs. Whitmore.”
Mrs. Whitmore.
Not Patricia. Not Daniel’s mother. Mrs. Whitmore, like the lady of the house.
I looked at the laundry basket. Inside were tiny socks, men’s shirts, and Patricia’s silk nightgowns.
“You’re the housekeeper?”
Megan gave a bitter little laugh. “That’s what she calls it.”
Something in her voice sounded painfully familiar.
Before I could answer, a child ran into the room. He was small, maybe two years old, with golden curls and a toy fire truck in his hand. He stopped at Megan’s leg and stared at me.
“Is this Patricia’s son?” I asked.
Megan nodded. “Elliot.”
The boy looked healthy, dressed in a neat navy sweater. But his eyes followed every movement in the room as if he had learned early how to avoid trouble.
Then Daniel walked in through the front door.
For one second, he looked exactly as he had in my nightmares: tall, handsome, controlled. Then his face drained of color.
“Marissa,” he said.
My name sounded wrong in his mouth after two years.
I lifted the framed photograph of Clara. “Why do you have this?”
Daniel’s eyes flicked to Megan, then to the stairs.
“Where is she?” he asked.
“Far from you.”
His jaw tightened. “She’s my daughter.”
“She is the daughter you tried to use against me before she was born.”
He stepped forward, lowering his voice. “You don’t understand what happened after you left.”
At that moment, Patricia appeared at the top of the stairs.
May you like
She wore a silk robe and diamond earrings at three in the afternoon. Her face was thinner than before, sharper, but her smile was the same.
“Well,” she said softly. “The runaway maid finally came home.”
