Chapter 19 - Rebecca's Escape
Rebecca Vale had the original Graybridge registry.
And in less than two hours, she intended to leave the country with it.
The photograph on my phone showed everything clearly.
The leather-bound registry.
A passport.
A plane ticket.
Providence to New York.
New York to Geneva.
Departure: 6:10 a.m.
Below it, Rebecca had written:
THOMAS WAS RIGHT TO TRUST ME.
BUT HE WAS WRONG TO THINK I WOULD GIVE IT BACK.
For several seconds, nobody spoke.
Then Martin whispered:
“She can't take that registry out of the country.”
I looked at him.
“Why?”
“It may be the only complete record of what happened at Graybridge.”
“Then call the police.”
The detective was already doing exactly that.
Airport police.
State police.
Federal authorities.
For once, we weren't chasing anyone ourselves.
But I had learned enough during the previous twenty-four hours to know that Rebecca wouldn't send a photograph of her escape unless she wanted us to react.
“Something's wrong.”
Martin looked at me.
“What?”
“She told us exactly when she's leaving.”
“She may be confident we can't stop her.”
“No.”
I enlarged the ticket.
Rebecca was too careful.
She had hidden for decades.
Protected Evelyn.
Helped conceal Catherine.
Kept Graybridge secrets from Richard.
A woman like that didn't announce her flight before boarding it.
“This is another message.”
“To who?”
“Me.”
Mom frowned.
“Why you?”
“Because of the lullaby.”
Rebecca had the registry.
Dad's music box had pointed toward Rebecca.
But why encode her name rather than simply tell me?
Because Dad hadn't merely been telling me who possessed it.
He had been telling me whom to find.
I called Rebecca.
She answered immediately.
That confirmed it.
“You're not at the airport.”
Silence.
Martin looked at me.
Rebecca finally said:
“You always were Thomas's daughter.”
“Where are you?”
“Does it matter?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because Evelyn spent forty-six years looking for you.”
Her voice changed.
“Don't use her.”
“I'm not.”
“You barely know her.”
“And you barely know me.”
A pause.
Fair.
“Why Geneva?” I asked.
“Because that's where Richard kept money.”
“The adoption money?”
“Some of it.”
“So this isn't about escaping.”
“No.”
“What is it about?”
“Returning something.”
“To who?”
“The families.”
Martin leaned closer.
“Rebecca, the registry belongs with investigators.”
She heard him.
“No, Martin. The registry belongs to the people whose lives are written inside it.”
“If you disappear with it, they may never learn the truth.”
“If I give it to the state, hundreds of names become evidence.”
“They are evidence.”
“They are people.”
There it was.
The same argument Dad and Grace had apparently had twenty-two years earlier.
Truth versus protection.
Records versus lives.
“Dad trusted you,” I said.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because I understood something he learned too late.”
“What?”
“Truth can save someone and destroy them in the same sentence.”
I looked at Mom.
Rachel.
Martin.
Charlotte on the monitor.
She wasn't wrong.
But secrecy had destroyed plenty too.
“So what are you going to do?”
“I made copies.”
“Where?”
“Several places.”
“Who has them?”
“I won't tell you.”
“Then why send me the photograph?”
“Because I need you to understand what happens next.”
My stomach tightened.
“What happens next?”
“Helen and Victoria will try to exchange Emma for the registry.”
Everyone froze.
“How do you know?”
“Because Victoria contacted me.”
“When?”
“Ten minutes ago.”
“What did she say?”
“Bring the original registry to Graybridge.”
“For Emma.”
“Yes.”
My hand tightened around the phone.
“Then we're bringing it.”
“No.”
“Rebecca.”
“The registry is their escape route.”
“I don't care.”
“I know.”
“That's my daughter.”
“I know.”
“Then don't tell me about historical evidence while she's sitting beside two women who have already lied, kidnapped people, and covered up murder.”
Rebecca went silent.
Then:
“Thomas said you would choose Emma.”
“Of course I would.”
“He hoped you would.”
That stopped me.
“What?”
“The registry isn't the leverage.”
“Then what is?”
“You are.”
I felt cold.
“Explain.”
“Victoria doesn't need the registry to escape prosecution.”
“What does she need?”
“A witness to disappear.”
“Who?”
“You.”
“Why me?”
“Because you are the only living person who can connect Jonathan Bell to Charlotte, Thomas, and the registry.”
“I was a baby.”
“But Jonathan left records in your name.”
“What records?”
“Trust documents.”
Martin's head snapped up.
“My son created a trust?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“Before he died.”
“He was eighteen.”
“He knew he might not survive.”
Martin looked devastated.
“What did he leave?”
“Everything he had.”
“He had nothing.”
“Not money.”
“Then what?”
“Ownership.”
“Of what?”
Rebecca took a breath.
“Graybridge.”
Nobody spoke.
Martin stared.
“That isn't possible.”
“Jonathan discovered Victoria had been using shell companies to purchase shares of the property.”
“Why would she put them in Jonathan's name?”
“She didn't.”
“Then how did he own it?”
“George Mercer transferred his interest to him.”
Mom whispered:
“My father?”
“The man you believed was your father, yes.”
“Why Jonathan?”
“Because Jonathan was Martin's son. George trusted Martin more than Richard.”
Martin laughed bitterly.
“That was a mistake.”
“Perhaps.”
“What did Jonathan do with the ownership?”
“Transferred it to his unborn child.”
Me.
My stomach dropped.
“Graybridge belongs to me?”
“Partly.”
“How much?”
“Forty-nine percent.”
“And the rest?”
“Eleanor's trust.”
The one Claire might inherit.
I understood.
Claire and I together could control Graybridge.
Which meant Helen and Victoria needed both of us.
“Claire.”
I looked around.
She was still at the station.
Good.
“Do they know Claire is Helen's daughter?”
“Yes.”
“Does Helen know Claire could inherit Eleanor's share?”
“Yes.”
“Then why take Emma instead of Claire?”
Rebecca answered quietly:
“Because Helen still loves Claire.”
That complicated everything.
“She doesn't want to hurt her own daughter.”
“No.”
“So she took mine.”
“Yes.”
I closed my eyes.
“And Victoria?”
“She wants your forty-nine percent.”
“How?”
“You sign it over.”
“Then Emma walks free?”
“That is what she claims.”
“Would you trust her?”
“No.”
“Neither would I.”
Rebecca continued.
“That is why Thomas created another safeguard.”
“Of course he did.”
Despite everything, Dad had planned like a man who expected the future to become a courtroom.
“What safeguard?”
“The ownership cannot be transferred without the registry.”
“So they need both.”
“Yes.”
“And you have the registry.”
“Yes.”
“Where are you?”
A pause.
“Look outside.”
I turned.
A black car had stopped across from St. Matthew's.
Rebecca stepped out.
No airport.
No Geneva.
She crossed the street carrying a leather bag.
The detective moved toward her.
She raised both hands.
“I am unarmed.”
Evelyn would have been furious that her mother had disappeared and returned without explanation.
But there was no time.
Rebecca placed the bag on the table.
Inside was the original registry.
The real one.
Older than the ledger.
Names.
Births.
Transfers.
Payments.
Signatures.
Lives reduced to ink.
Martin touched the cover.
“My God.”
Rebecca looked at me.
“Thomas wanted you to have this only when you were ready.”
“I don't feel ready.”
“Nobody ever is.”
Police photographed everything.
Then Rebecca opened the registry to 1986.
My entry.
HANNAH.
Mother: Charlotte Mercer.
Father: Jonathan Bell.
For the first time, both names appeared together.
No correction.
No crossed-out line.
No alias.
I touched the page.
My parents.
Two teenagers.
One of whom I had finally seen tonight.
The other dead before I could remember him.
Martin stood beside me.
His grandson's daughter.
His granddaughter.
Neither of us knew what to say.
Then Rebecca turned pages.
1974.
Grace.
Mother: Margaret Mercer.
Mom touched the name.
Proof.
1980.
Evelyn.
Mother: Rebecca Vale.
Father: George Mercer.
Evelyn had been right to question Richard.
Then Elizabeth.
Mother: Rebecca Vale.
Father: Thomas Voss/Mercer.
Catherine.
Then 1975.
Rachel.
Mother: Victoria Bell.
Father: Martin Bell.
Martin sat down.
This time, there was no ambiguity.
No altered report.
Rachel was his biological daughter.
Mom looked at him.
The man she'd later had an affair with.
Neither of them had known.
“I'm sorry,” Martin whispered.
Mom shook her head.
“For what?”
“All of it.”
“That could take several years.”
He almost smiled.
Then Rebecca turned to another page.
CLAIRE BENNETT / CAROLINE.
Mother: Helen Bennett.
Father: George Mercer.
The truth.
At last.
Six girls.
Six identities.
All mapped.
But there was another entry beneath Claire's.
A seventh.
I frowned.
“Who's that?”
Rebecca immediately closed the registry.
Too late.
I had seen the date.
1987.
“Open it.”
“No.”
“Rebecca.”
“This isn't relevant to Emma.”
“Everything has been relevant eventually.”
Martin looked at her.
“Open it.”
She refused.
I grabbed the book.
She held it.
For several seconds, neither of us moved.
Then she released it.
I opened the page.
Female infant.
Born March 3, 1987.
Mother:
Victoria Bell.
Father:
Richard Voss.
My stomach tightened.
“Victoria had another daughter?”
“Yes.”
“Where is she?”
Rebecca didn't answer.
“What name?”
The original had been crossed out.
Replacement:
Emily Voss.
I stared.
Emily.
Emma?
No.
Different birth year.
“Who is Emily?”
Rebecca whispered:
“Michael's sister.”
My ex-husband had a sister.
I knew that.
Emily Voss.
She had supposedly died as a teenager before Michael and I met.
Photographs of her had been in his parents' home.
“What does she have to do with this?”
Rebecca looked at me.
“She didn't die.”
Of course.
At this point, death certificates seemed more fictional than our memories.
“Where is she?”
“I don't know.”
“Why does it matter?”
“Because Emily is Victoria's daughter.”
“And Richard's.”
“Yes.”
“So?”
“She is the only person besides Victoria who knows exactly what happened to Jonathan.”
Martin stiffened.
“My son.”
“Yes.”
“Did Emily see it?”
“She was a baby.”
“No.”
“Then how?”
“Victoria confessed to her.”
“When?”
“Years later.”
“Why?”
“Because Emily discovered the registry.”
“Where?”
“In Michael's father's house.”
My ex-husband's family had been sitting on Graybridge evidence.
I felt sick.
“Did Michael know?”
Rebecca hesitated.
“I don't know.”
That answer frightened me more than yes.
My phone rang.
Michael.
My ex-husband.
The father of my daughter.
A man who had been almost entirely absent from the night's chaos.
Until now.
I answered.
“Michael.”
“Hannah.”
His voice sounded wrong.
“Where are you?”
“Don't worry about me.”
“Where is Emma?”
“I know who has her.”
“Helen and Victoria.”
“No.”
I froze.
“What?”
“Helen isn't controlling this.”
“Then who is?”
A pause.
“My sister.”
Emily.
Alive.
My blood ran cold.
“Where is she?”
“With Emma.”
“Why?”
“Because Victoria told Emily the truth about Jonathan.”
“What truth?”
Michael began crying.
“Hannah, Jonathan didn't die in 1987.”
Martin grabbed my arm.
“What?”
I put the call on speaker.
Michael continued.
“His suicide was staged.”
“Where did he go?”
“I don't know.”
“Why would he leave Charlotte and me?”
“He didn't.”
My chest tightened.
“What does that mean?”
“Jonathan believed you both had died.”
Silence.
“Who told him?”
“Victoria.”
Martin whispered:
“My son may be alive.”
Michael continued.
“He disappeared under another identity.”
“Which?”
“I don't know.”
“Emily does?”
“Yes.”
“Then put her on.”
“I can't.”
“Why?”
“Because she isn't with me.”
“Where?”
“Graybridge.”
“With Emma.”
“Yes.”
“What does she want?”
“You.”
“Everyone wants me tonight.”
“This is different.”
“How?”
Michael took a breath.
“Emily believes Jonathan is still alive.”
Martin sat down hard.
“And?”
“She thinks you've already met him.”
I stared.
“Who?”
“That's what she wants you to discover.”
“This isn't a game.”
“I know.”
“Tell me.”
“I don't know.”
“Michael.”
“She said Jonathan has been close to you for years.”
My mind raced.
Men in my life.
Teachers.
Neighbors.
Colleagues.
Friends.
Dad's acquaintances.
Then Michael said:
“She told me to ask you one question.”
“What?”
“Who introduced us?”
I stopped breathing.
Laura.
The friend who had insisted I attend the birthday dinner where I met Michael.
But Laura wasn't simply a friend.
Charlotte had used the name Laura.
My biological mother.
Had Charlotte introduced me to Michael?
No.
Different Laura?
I couldn't remember.
The memories blurred.
Michael continued.
“The woman who introduced us wasn't named Laura.”
“What?”
“You called her Laura.”
“That was her name.”
“No.”
“How would you know?”
“Because she was my sister.”
My stomach dropped.
“Emily?”
“Yes.”
I sat down.
Emily Voss had introduced me to Michael under a false name.
She had deliberately brought together Jonathan Bell's daughter and Richard Voss's grandson.
Me and Michael.
The two bloodlines.
Emma.
None of it had been accidental.
“Why?”
“I don't know.”
“Where is Emily now?”
Michael whispered:
“She says she'll release Emma when you bring Jonathan.”
“I don't know where he is.”
“She says you do.”
“I don't.”
“She says Thomas told you.”
“When?”
“You were a child.”
My head hurt.
Dad.
The lullaby.
The music box.
Rebecca.
Names hidden inside songs.
Maybe Dad had been leaving more than one clue.
Michael continued:
“Emily gave me another message for you.”
“What?”
“Remember the man who taught you the song.”
I froze.
Dad hadn't taught me the melody.
Not originally.
Someone else had.
A memory surfaced.
A park.
I was perhaps six.
A man sitting beside me while Mom spoke to someone nearby.
He had shown me how to turn the key on the music box.
I couldn't see his face clearly in the memory.
But I remembered what I called him.
Not Dad.
Uncle John.
My heart stopped.
“Martin.”
He looked at me.
“Did Jonathan ever use John?”
His eyes widened.
“As a child. Yes.”
“Did he have a scar?”
“Where?”
“Left hand.”
Martin stood.
“Yes.”
The memory sharpened.
Uncle John.
He had visited twice.
Maybe three times.
Then disappeared.
Dad had told me he moved away.
“What surname did he use?”
Mom stared at me.
“Hannah, what are you remembering?”
I closed my eyes.
Christmas card.
Blue ink.
Uncle John.
A surname.
“Bennett.”
Everyone went still.
John Bennett.
Daniel's adoptive family.
Claire's family.
Grace's family.
Martin whispered:
“My son lived with the Bennetts?”
Rebecca covered her mouth.
She knew.
“You knew.”
She began crying.
“I promised him.”
Martin's face twisted with rage.
“WHERE IS MY SON?”
Rebecca whispered:
“He was the one who helped Grace survive the crash.”
Claire's adoptive family had hidden him.
“Is he alive?”
Rebecca nodded.
“Yes.”
“Where?”
Before she could answer, the hospital-room door opened.
An older man stood there.
Early sixties.
Gray hair.
A thin scar across his left hand.
My childhood returned all at once.
The music box.
The park.
The song.
Uncle John.
He looked at Martin first.
“Hello, Dad.”
Martin stopped breathing.
Then Jonathan Bell looked at me.
His eyes filled with tears.
“And hello, Hannah.”
My biological father was alive.
But before I could move toward him, Jonathan said:
“Don't hug me yet.”
I froze.
“Why?”
He looked at Rebecca.
Then Charlotte on the monitor.
Finally at me.
“Because before you decide whether you want me in your life, you need to know why Emily has Emma.”
My blood went cold.
“Tell me.”
Jonathan's face crumpled.
“Because I asked her to take her.”