Chapter 12 - Brielle's Mother
Brielle's mother had not died that night.
She had died six years earlier.
That was the first lie.
The second was that it had been an accident.
I met Brielle in a church on the Upper East Side because she refused to meet anywhere with cameras.
She looked wrecked.
No makeup.
Hair tied badly.
I had never seen her look more human.
“My mother worked at St. Vincent's,” she said.
“As what?”
“Hospital counsel.”
Mara sat beside me.
Brielle avoided looking at her.
“She handled the legal paperwork after Maya's birth.”
Mara's jaw tightened.
“What paperwork?”
“Transfer records.”
“To where?”
“I don't know.”
“Brielle.”
“I was nineteen!”
Her voice echoed through the empty church.
She lowered it.
“I found my mother's journal after she died.”
She handed Mara a small leather notebook.
Inside were dates.
Initials.
Payments.
One entry was underlined.
E.W. AGREED. C.W. INSISTED. BABY E MOVED BEFORE DAWN.
E.W.
Evelyn Whitaker.
C.W.
Charles Whitaker? Charles Cartwright?
My hands went cold.
Brielle continued.
“My mother died three weeks later.”
“How?”
“Car accident.”
Mara and I exchanged a look.
Brielle laughed bitterly.
“Yes. I know how that sounds now.”
She turned pages.
Near the back was a name.
CELESTE — NOT SAFE.
Then another.
GERALD HAS COPY.
I stood.
“Locker 814.”
Brielle looked confused.
We went to Grand Central, where the key fit a private storage box rented under my father's name.
Inside were documents and an old flip phone.
The phone still had one saved voicemail.
My father's voice.
“Gerald, if Charles finds out Maya is with Celeste, he'll use the child to control Adrian. Move her again. Do not tell Evelyn.”
Mara gripped the counter.
“So your mother didn't know where Maya went.”
“Maybe.”
“Maybe?”
“She lied before.”
“So did you.”
I looked at her.
She regretted it.
Not enough to take it back.
The flip phone rang.
All three of us jumped.
Unknown number.
I answered.
A girl's voice whispered, “Is this Adrian?”
My throat closed.
“Yes.”
“My aunt says you're a bad man.”
Mara covered her mouth.
I forced my voice steady.
“What's your name?”
A pause.
“Maeve.”
Behind her, a woman shouted.
The girl rushed her next words.
“I found a picture. It says Maya on the back.”
The call ended.
Mara started sobbing.
Then a text arrived from the same number.
A photograph.
Maeve holding a newspaper.
Behind her was a window.
Outside the window stood a sign.
May you like
WELCOME TO MONTREAL.
