— Yes. But by then the baby had been adopted. The woman left an address and said she would return. She never did.
Mike tightened his grip on the photograph until his knuckles went white.
— Do you remember her face?
The nurse closed her eyes.
— Dark hair, sad eyes. I’ve seen someone like her recently — works in the neighborhood.
Mike put the pieces together. The woman must be Mary.
Outside, snow crunched under his shoes. Everything clicked into a new, uncomfortable order: Linda had not given birth here. Lily had been brought in from outside. Mary had come later, desperate, and then disappeared. Why had Linda hidden it? And why had Mary been kept as a household employee?
Back home, the house was quiet. Eleanor sat in the living room with a wine glass, as if she’d been waiting.
— Well? — she asked. — Find what you were looking for?
— Shut up, — Mike said sharply.
She laughed.
— So now you realize the child isn’t yours? Maybe it’s time to be practical and get rid of the problem.
