— And she signs them, — Mary answered.
— She signs? But she can’t speak.
Mary gave a small, rueful smile.
— She can write. She’s much smarter than people assume. Fear took her voice.
Mike flipped through the pages: stick figures, houses, flowers. Nearly every picture was signed, “Lily.” At the back of the notebook a child’s uneven handwriting read: “She knows more than she says.”
A chill ran down Mike’s spine.
— Who is she? — he asked.
Mary looked away. There was a secret behind her eyes she’d kept for a long time. Before Mike could press, the door creaked and Eleanor entered, wrapped in a costly robe, irritation written all over her face.
— What are you doing up at this hour? — she said coldly. — Again with this circus around the child?
— That’s enough, Eleanor, — Mike snapped. — Don’t talk about my daughter like that.
Eleanor raised an eyebrow, then smirked.
— Your daughter? Are you sure?
The words hit like a blow. Mike felt the ground tilt.
— What do you mean?
Eleanor’s smile turned sharp.
— Linda hid a lot from you. Maybe Lily isn’t even your child.
Silence fell. Mike felt something fracture inside him.
— Get out, — he said quietly. — Tomorrow. Leave.
Eleanor shrugged and left the room with a slam. Mike sat back down, dizzy and disoriented.
— This is insane, — he whispered. — But I’ll find out.
Mary put a hand on his shoulder.
— Be careful, Mike. Some truths can ruin more than they fix.
He looked at the sleeping girl. Lily seemed to hold not just the edge of Mary’s dress, but the answers he needed. Mike clutched the photograph. In the morning he would go to the hospital stamp on the back and get the facts.
By dawn he was behind the wheel. He hadn’t slept, but he had a plan. He drove to the old pediatric hospital whose stamp was faint on the photo. Snow fell in slushy flakes. The drive felt endless, thoughts looping: If Eleanor’s right—if Lily wasn’t his biological child—then who was she? Why had Linda kept anything from him?
