Chapter 16 - The Woman Behind the Camera
Catherine fired directly at the camera.
The monitor went black.
Mom disappeared from the screen.
So did Grace.
For half a second, nobody inside the surveillance van moved.
Then every police radio erupted at once.
“Shot fired!”
“Move!”
“Entry team, go!”
“Possible armed subject inside the nursery!”
I was already reaching for the door.
The detective caught my arm.
“No.”
“My mother is inside.”
“So is an armed woman.”
“Catherine isn't going to hurt Mom.”
“You don't know that.”
He was right.
I hated him for being right.
Rachel grabbed my other arm.
“Hannah.”
“She fired at the camera.”
“Exactly.”
“She could have shot Grace. She didn't.”
That mattered.
Catherine hadn't aimed at a person.
She had wanted privacy.
Which frightened me almost as much.
Because privacy was where this family had hidden its worst truths.
Police rushed toward the building.
Then Daniel's voice came through Rachel's phone.
“What's happening?”
“Your mom shot the camera.”
“What?”
“She didn't shoot anyone.”
“How do you know?”
“We don't.”
Daniel started moving.
I heard a car door.
“Stay with Emma.”
“Claire is with her.”
“Daniel—”
“That's my mother.”
The line disconnected.
Rachel closed her eyes.
“Apparently recklessness is genetic.”
Under different circumstances, I might have laughed.
Instead, I watched the dark monitor.
Then another feed appeared.
A second camera.
Hallway.
No sound.
Grace emerged first.
Hands visible.
Mom followed.
Then Catherine.
Gun lowered.
Police entered from both sides.
Catherine immediately placed the weapon on the floor.
She wasn't resisting.
The detective spoke into his radio.
“Hold. Subject surrendering.”
Officers moved in.
Catherine raised both hands.
Grace shouted something we couldn't hear.
Mom grabbed her arm.
Then one officer escorted Catherine outside.
Another brought Mom and Grace toward us.
I ran to Mom.
“Are you okay?”
“Yes.”
“Did she threaten you?”
“No.”
“Then why fire?”
Grace answered.
“Because Catherine knew Helen was listening.”
I stared at her.
“What?”
“Helen knows about the police operation.”
“How?”
“Because Catherine told her.”
Mom looked furious.
“Catherine said Helen contacted her after she left the station.”
“Where is Helen now?”
Grace shook her head.
“That's what Catherine was trying to tell us without the camera.”
The detective approached.
“We need Catherine's statement.”
“She'll give it.”
“Good.”
Grace laughed.
“You think this is simple now?”
“No one here thinks anything is simple.”
She looked at me.
For the first time, we stood face-to-face.
My mother's biological daughter.
The woman who believed I had replaced her.
She studied me.
“You look like Thomas.”
The words hit differently now that I knew Dad was probably my biological father.
“You knew?”
“That Thomas was your father?”
“Yes.”
“How long?”
“Since 1998.”
“Before Dad knew?”
“No. Around the same time.”
“Why didn't you tell me?”
Grace's expression hardened.
“Why would I?”
There it was.
The resentment.
“You blamed me.”
“I blamed everyone.”
“I was twelve.”
“I know.”
“You still watched me.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because I wanted to understand what was so special about you.”
Mom whispered:
“Grace.”
“No.”
Grace looked at her.
“You wanted honesty.”
Mom went silent.
Grace turned back to me.
“You had Margaret. Thomas. Rachel. Christmas. Birthdays. School photographs.”
Her voice began shaking.
“I had a family that loved me, yes. But every time I learned another piece of the truth, I discovered someone had decided my life for me before I could speak.”
I understood more than I wanted to.
“You had the Bennetts.”
“Yes.”
“They loved you?”
Grace's anger softened.
“Yes.”
“Then why wasn't that enough?”
She looked at me for a long moment.
“Was Margaret enough when you learned she wasn't your biological mother?”
That stopped me.
No.
Love had been enough to remain family.
It hadn't been enough to stop the questions.
Grace saw the answer.
“Exactly.”
The detective interrupted.
“We're returning to the station.”
Grace shook her head.
“No.”
“You're part of an active investigation.”
“I haven't committed a crime tonight.”
“You've been sending threatening messages.”
“Ask your lawyer whether those messages constitute a crime.”
Martin wasn't here to appreciate the irony.
The detective looked unimpressed.
“You can explain that downtown.”
Grace glanced at Mom.
“I'll go.”
That surprised me.
Then she looked at me.
“But you need the rest of Thomas's recording.”
“We have it.”
“No.”
“The file—”
“That's the edited version.”
My stomach tightened.
“Edited by who?”
“Helen.”
Daniel's grandmother.
“How do you know?”
“Because I saw the original.”
“When?”
“2004.”
“Before Dad died?”
“After.”
“How?”
“Helen showed it to me.”
“Why would she show you evidence that implicated her?”
Grace smiled sadly.
“Because the recording doesn't show her killing Thomas.”
“What does it show?”
“That depends on which five minutes you watch.”
Again.
Layers.
Always layers.
“What happened after the argument?”
Grace looked toward Catherine being questioned beside a police vehicle.
“Helen left the kitchen.”
“And?”
“Thomas was alive.”
“Who came next?”
“Eleanor.”
Grandma.
My pulse accelerated.
“Did Grandma kill him?”
“No.”
“How do you know?”
“She left too.”
“Then who?”
Grace looked at me.
“Thomas.”
I frowned.
“That doesn't make sense.”
“He took something.”
“What?”
“Medication.”
Mom stepped closer.
“What medication?”
Grace looked at her.
“Your medication.”
Mom's face changed.
“What?”
“Thomas swallowed pills from a bottle with your name on it.”
“I didn't have heart medication.”
“No.”
“What was it?”
“Sedatives.”
Mom shook her head.
“I wasn't taking sedatives in 2004.”
Grace stared.
“Exactly.”
Someone had put medication in a bottle labeled with Mom's name.
“Did Dad know what he was taking?”
“I don't think so.”
“What did he think it was?”
“His aspirin.”
Judith, who had remained near another police vehicle, approached.
“How many pills?”
“I couldn't see.”
“What happened?”
“Thomas became dizzy.”
“And?”
“He collapsed.”
“Who found him?”
Grace looked at Mom.
“Margaret.”
Mom covered her mouth.
“That part I remember.”
“You called the ambulance.”
“Yes.”
“But Helen returned before paramedics arrived.”
Mom stared.
“No.”
“She did.”
“I don't remember.”
“You were hysterical.”
Mom looked lost.
“I remember kneeling beside Thomas.”
“Helen came through the back door.”
“No.”
“She switched the bottle.”
Silence.
There it was.
Dad's death.
Not a gun.
Not poison slipped dramatically into a drink.
A bottle.
A label.
A substitution.
“Why?” I asked.
Grace shook her head.
“I didn't know until years later.”
“What did Helen gain from Dad's death?”
“She protected Catherine.”
Catherine heard her name.
Even from several yards away, she turned.
Grace continued.
“Thomas had discovered Catherine was Elizabeth.”
“We know.”
“He planned to tell Catherine.”
“Why would Helen kill him for that?”
“Because Catherine would ask who arranged her adoption.”
“Eleanor?”
“No.”
“Then who?”
Grace looked toward Catherine.
“Helen.”
Catherine walked closer.
The officer beside her allowed it.
“I was nineteen when Helen brought me home,” Helen had apparently told Grace years later.
No—that made no sense.
Catherine was the child.
Grace corrected herself.
“Helen was nineteen when she began working with Graybridge.”
Catherine stared.
“My mother worked there?”
“Yes.”
“She told me she never heard of it until I started asking questions.”
“She lied.”
Catherine laughed bitterly.
“Apparently everyone did.”
Grace continued.
“Helen helped Eleanor move children.”
“For money?”
“At first.”
“And later?”
“To protect some of them from Richard.”
I frowned.
“So Helen wasn't simply bad.”
Grace looked at me.
“Nobody in this story is simply anything.”
That might have been the truest sentence yet.
Catherine asked:
“Did she know Elizabeth was Thomas's daughter when she adopted me?”
Grace nodded.
“Yes.”
Catherine closed her eyes.
“So she knew who I was my entire life.”
“Yes.”
“Why didn't she tell me?”
“Because Rebecca asked her not to.”
Rebecca.
Catherine's biological mother.
The woman who had decided Catherine was safer with the Bennetts.
Catherine looked toward the station road.
“I need to talk to her.”
“You will,” Evelyn said behind us.
She and Rebecca had arrived with Martin.
Apparently nobody followed instructions anymore.
Catherine and Evelyn looked at each other.
Twins.
Separated for forty-six years.
One raised by the Bennetts.
One by the Vales.
Both finally standing beside the woman who had given birth to them.
Rebecca approached Catherine.
“I am sorry.”
Catherine stared at her.
“For which part?”
Rebecca's face crumpled.
“All of it.”
Catherine began crying.
Evelyn did too.
No dramatic embrace came this time.
Not yet.
Some relationships needed time before touch.
Martin interrupted quietly.
“Helen didn't kill Thomas.”
Grace turned.
“You weren't there.”
“No.”
“But?”
“I saw the toxicology.”
“What toxicology?”
Mom stared.
“There was no autopsy.”
“No formal autopsy.”
“You had tests done?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“I requested blood samples from the hospital.”
“Without telling me?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because Thomas had called me the day before.”
My heart accelerated.
“What did he say?”
“That if anything happened to him, I should test for benzodiazepines.”
Judith frowned.
“And?”
“Positive.”
“So he knew someone might drug him.”
“Yes.”
“Then Helen switched the bottle.”
“Possibly.”
Grace crossed her arms.
“Why are you defending her?”
“I'm not.”
“Then what?”
“The concentration wasn't fatal.”
Silence.
“What?”
“Thomas had enough sedative in his blood to impair him.”
“But not kill him.”
“No.”
Mom stared.
“Then what killed him?”
“Cardiac arrest.”
“From what?”
Martin hesitated.
“There was another substance.”
Judith stepped closer.
“What?”
“Digoxin.”
She froze.
“Therapeutic?”
“No.”
“Toxic?”
“Yes.”
Mom whispered:
“Thomas never took digoxin.”
“I know.”
“Then someone poisoned him.”
“Yes.”
“Was it in the pills?”
“I don't know.”
Grace looked shaken.
Her certainty about Helen had just cracked.
“Who had access to digoxin?”
Judith answered.
“Any hospital pharmacy.”
“Graybridge?”
“Closed by then.”
“St. Matthew's?”
“Yes.”
“Who worked there in 2004?”
Judith's face changed.
“I did.”
Everyone looked at her.
She stepped backward.
“No.”
Grace stared.
“Judith.”
“I didn't kill Thomas.”
“Did you have access?”
“Yes.”
“That isn't the same thing.”
“No.”
But suspicion had entered the space.
My biological mother.
Again.
I hated myself for wondering.
“Who else?”
Judith thought.
“Dr. Crane.”
“Your husband?”
“Yes.”
“The doctor who signed Dad's death certificate.”
“Yes.”
I remembered.
Richard Crane.
No.
Dr. Richard Crane.
We had been told Judith's husband was Dad's physician.
But Richard Vale had used aliases.
My blood went cold.
“Judith.”
She looked at me.
“Was your husband's first name really Richard?”
“Yes.”
“Was he related to Richard Voss?”
“No.”
“You're sure?”
“Yes.”
“Where is he now?”
Judith stopped.
“Dead.”
“When?”
“2012.”
“Did you see his body?”
Silence.
By now, that question had become necessary.
“Yes.”
“Open casket?”
“Yes.”
Good.
One dead person who had stayed dead.
Martin asked:
“Did Richard Crane prescribe Thomas anything?”
“No.”
“Could he have obtained digoxin?”
“Yes.”
“Did he know Thomas was investigating Graybridge?”
Judith hesitated.
“I told him.”
My stomach sank.
“Why?”
“He was my husband.”
“What did he say?”
“That I should stay out of it.”
Grace stared.
“Did he know Hannah was your daughter?”
“Yes.”
I looked at Judith.
“You told him?”
“Yes.”
“Did Dad know?”
“No.”
A new shape formed.
Judith's husband knew I was Thomas's biological daughter before Thomas knew.
He knew Graybridge.
He knew Dad was investigating.
He had access to digoxin.
And he signed Dad's death certificate.
“Did Dr. Crane know Helen?”
Judith looked away.
“Judith.”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“They grew up together.”
Of course.
Another connection.
“Were they close?”
“Very.”
“How close?”
Judith whispered:
“They were engaged once.”
Catherine stared.
“My mother was engaged to your husband?”
“Before I met him.”
“When?”
“1985.”
The year before I was born.
“Why did they separate?”
“Because Helen discovered Richard was sleeping with someone else.”
“Who?”
Judith didn't answer.
I already knew.
“You.”
“Yes.”
Catherine laughed once.
“My mother lost her fiancé to you.”
“Yes.”
“And then she helped raise your biological daughter.”
Silence.
I stared at Judith.
Helen had raised me?
No.
Catherine.
Wait.
The connections were becoming dangerous to assume.
I forced myself to slow down.
“Helen raised Catherine and Grace.”
“Yes,” Grace said.
“Judith's husband had previously been Helen's fiancé.”
“Yes.”
“And Judith later married him.”
“Yes.”
“What did Helen know about me?”
Grace looked at Judith.
Judith answered.
“Everything.”
My stomach tightened.
“Did she know I was Thomas's daughter?”
“Yes.”
“Before Dad did?”
“Yes.”
“Did she tell him?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“I don't know.”
Grace whispered:
“I do.”
We turned.
“Helen hated Thomas.”
“Why?”
“Because she believed Thomas ruined Catherine's life before Catherine was even born.”
“How?”
“By being Elizabeth's biological father.”
“That doesn't make sense.”
“It did to Helen.”
Grace looked at Catherine.
“She believed Thomas should have taken responsibility for you.”
Rebecca stepped forward.
“I told him not to.”
“Helen didn't care.”
“So she hated him for respecting my decision?”
“She hated him because everyone respected Thomas's decisions while women cleaned up the consequences.”
There was bitterness in Grace's voice.
Possibly Helen's words repeated.
“But that still doesn't prove murder,” I said.
“No.”
“Then where is Helen?”
Nobody knew.
My phone rang.
Daniel.
“Hannah.”
“What?”
“We found something on Grandma Helen's computer.”
He was back at the station with Emma and Claire.
“What?”
“Emails.”
“With who?”
“Dr. Richard Crane.”
Judith's dead husband.
“How old?”
“2004.”
The month Dad died.
Judith sat down.
“What do they say?”
Daniel read:
Thomas knows about Hannah.
My heart stopped.
Another:
If he tells Margaret, everything we protected will collapse.
Then another.
Eleanor refuses to stop him.
Helen's response:
Then we will.
Mom whispered:
“Oh God.”
Daniel continued.
“The next email is from October 15.”
Dad's death date.
“What does it say?”
Daniel's voice became quiet.
It's done. Margaret believes his heart failed.
Nobody moved.
Judith began crying.
“My husband killed him.”
Maybe.
But after everything, I had learned not to stop at the first plausible answer.
“Who sent that email?”
“Richard Crane's account.”
“Can you prove he typed it?”
“No.”
“Who had his password?”
Judith looked up.
“Me.”
Silence.
Grace stared at her.
“Hannah,” Judith whispered.
“Did you send it?”
“No.”
“Did Helen know his password?”
Judith hesitated.
“Yes.”
“Anyone else?”
“One person.”
“Who?”
She looked toward Martin.
Martin frowned.
“Not me.”
“No.”
“Then who?”
Judith's voice dropped.
“Rebecca.”
Evelyn turned toward her mother.
Rebecca's face changed.
“No.”
Judith continued.
“You stayed with us in 2004.”
“For three days.”
“You used Richard's computer.”
“To email Martin.”
“You knew the password.”
Rebecca backed away.
“I didn't kill Thomas.”
Grace looked at her.
“Then why did you disappear the day after he died?”
Rebecca couldn't answer.
Evelyn whispered:
“Mom?”
Rebecca closed her eyes.
“I didn't disappear because Thomas died.”
“Then why?”
“Because I saw who left the Mercer house that night.”
My pulse quickened.
“Who?”
Rebecca looked at Mom.
Then me.
“Helen.”
“We know Helen was there.”
“She wasn't alone.”
“Who was with her?”
Rebecca began crying.
“Grace.”
Silence.
Grace stepped backward.
“No.”
Rebecca stared at her daughter.
“You were there.”
Grace shook her head.
“No.”
“I saw you.”
“You're lying.”
“I saw you leave with Helen.”
Grace's face twisted.
“I arrived after Thomas collapsed.”
“No.”
“You're wrong.”
“I followed you.”
“STOP.”
The scream came from somewhere deeper than anger.
Mom moved toward Grace.
She backed away.
“Don't touch me.”
“Grace.”
“No.”
Rebecca continued softly.
“You were there before Margaret found him.”
Grace looked toward the police.
Then toward the woods.
I saw the decision before she moved.
She ran.
“Grace!”
Two officers went after her.
Mom followed.
I grabbed her.
“No.”
“She is my daughter!”
“She may have been involved in Dad's death.”
“That is exactly why I can't lose her again.”
Then a gunshot came from the woods.
Everyone froze.
Not police.
Another shot.
An officer shouted:
“Shooter!”
We dropped.
Grace screamed somewhere among the trees.
Then silence.
Police rushed forward.
Mom fought against me.
“Grace!”
A minute later, an officer called:
“We have a victim!”
Mom broke free.
I followed.
Grace lay beside a tree.
Blood covered her shoulder.
Alive.
Mom dropped beside her.
“Grace.”
Grace opened her eyes.
“Mother.”
It was the first time she had said the word without anger.
“Who shot you?”
Grace struggled to breathe.
“I don't know.”
“Yes, you do.”
Her fingers closed around Mom's hand.
“Helen.”
Mom went pale.
“Where is she?”
Grace whispered:
“She's been here the whole time.”
I looked around the dark trees.
Police lights.
Officers.
Vehicles.
Family.
Then Grace pointed weakly toward the unmarked surveillance van.
“The detective.”
My blood went cold.
“What?”
“The woman driving the command van.”
I turned.
The detective who had coordinated the operation wasn't alone.
A gray-haired female officer had been sitting behind the wheel most of the night.
I had barely noticed her.
She had worn a police jacket.
Badge.
Radio.
She had heard every plan.
Known every location.
Seen every message.
Grace whispered:
“That's Helen.”
The command van's engine started.
“STOP HER!”
The van accelerated.
Police shouted.
One cruiser moved to block the exit.
The van struck it and pushed through.
Then disappeared onto Graybridge Road.
The detective swore into his radio.
Mom held Grace as paramedics approached.
I stared after the van.
Helen had been inside the operation.
Inside the family