The knocking came again.
Three taps.
Then two.
Then three.
Mr. Hale’s shoulders relaxed.
“That’s the signal.”
“What signal?” I whispered.
He crossed the room and unlocked the door.
A woman stood in the hallway.
Late fifties.
Gray-blond hair cut to her shoulders.
Dark sunglasses.
A long raincoat.
For one strange second, I felt nothing.
Then she removed the glasses.
My knees nearly gave out.
Her eyes.
My mother’s eyes.
My eyes.
“Carol.”
That voice.
Older.
Rougher.
But underneath it, I heard a twenty-five-year-old girl laughing in our childhood bedroom.
I whispered, “Rebecca.”
She began to cry.
So did I.
Then I slapped her.
Hard.
The sound cracked through the office.
Daniel froze.
Rebecca touched her cheek.
“I deserved that.”
I slapped her again.
Then I grabbed her and held her so tightly I could barely breathe.
For twenty-seven years I had imagined her cold in a river.
For twenty-seven years I had carried guilt because our last conversation had been an argument.
For twenty-seven years I had wished I could apologize.
And now she was in my arms.
Alive.
Warm.
Real.
“You let me think you were dead,” I sobbed.
“I know.”
“You let Dad die without telling me.”
“He knew.”
“You let me bury you.”
“I know.”
“Why?”
Rebecca pulled away.
Her face hardened.
“Because of Mark.”
The room became silent.
Daniel whispered, “My father?”
Rebecca nodded.
I shook my head immediately.
“No. You disappeared before Mark and I had been married five years.”
“Yes.”
She looked at me with terrible sadness.
“And
by then, Carol, he was already stealing from your father.”
