Chapter 5 - THE LITTLE GIRL IN THE PHOTOGRAPH
Tamson had no idea which little girl her grandfather meant.
She sat on the floor beside the old clock, examining the inventory card beneath the light.
Samuel's handwriting was unmistakable.
Even toward the end of his life, he formed every capital letter with careful precision.
But the message made no sense.
Evelyn Lennox had no daughters.
She had Damon and his older brother, Grant.
At least, that was what everyone believed.
Tamson searched the storage box again.
Beneath the tissue paper protecting the clock, she found a thin photograph album.
The first pages held family vacations.
Samuel beside a fishing boat.
Tamson at six years old, missing her front teeth.
Her mother, Caroline, smiling beneath a yellow umbrella.
Tamson touched her mother's face.
Caroline Arden had died in a car accident when Tamson was eleven.
For years afterward, Samuel had raised her.
He had been loving but private about the past.
Tamson turned another page.
A photograph fell onto her lap.
It showed a little girl with dark curls sitting on the steps of a brick house.
She looked about five.
Beside her stood a woman Tamson recognized immediately.
Evelyn Lennox.
Much younger.
Holding the girl's hand.
On the back, Samuel had written:
Rose, age five. Philadelphia, 1989.
Tamson stared.
Who was Rose?
She photographed both sides of the picture.
Then she placed it inside her purse.
The next morning, Evelyn arrived at Arden Crest without an appointment.
She swept into the conference room wearing a cream coat, pearl earrings, and an expression of wounded dignity.
"Tamson, darling."
Tamson didn't rise.
"Hello, Evelyn."
"Richard tells me you've been making things difficult."
"I've been asking questions."
"Which is exactly what I mean."
Evelyn removed her gloves.
"Damon has been under enormous pressure."
"His mistress just gave birth to his child. I imagine he's busy."
Evelyn's eyes narrowed.
"Celeste nearly died."
"I heard."
"And the baby was premature."
Tamson looked at her steadily.
"Is he alive?"
"Yes. He's in neonatal intensive care."
Tamson felt unexpected relief.
Whatever his parents had done, the child was innocent.
"I'm glad he's receiving care."
Evelyn seemed briefly surprised.
Then she sat.
"Damon made a mistake."
"A mistake doesn't last seven months."
"Marriage is complicated."
"So is fraud."
Evelyn went still.
Tamson placed the photograph of Rose on the table.
"Who is she?"
The older woman's reaction was immediate.
Her gloved hand flew toward the picture.
"Where did you get that?"
"Grandpa's house."
Evelyn's mouth trembled.
For several seconds, she appeared unable to speak.
Then she whispered, "You have no right."
Tamson stared.
"No right to ask about a photograph?"
"That was a long time ago."
"Who was Rose?"
Evelyn looked toward the door.
"Put it away."
"Why?"
"Because some things should remain buried."
Tamson felt the first spark of real anger.
"My grandfather left instructions involving that child. You have an agreement that belongs to my company. My husband forged my signature. And your family keeps telling me not to ask questions."
She leaned forward.
"I'm finished being quiet."
Evelyn looked at her.
Then, unexpectedly, tears filled her eyes.
"Rose was my daughter."
Tamson stopped breathing.
"Your daughter?"
Evelyn nodded.
"Before I married Richard."
"What happened to her?"
The older woman's hands shook.
"She died."
Tamson glanced at the photograph.
"When?"
"Thirty-seven years ago."
"How?"
Evelyn turned away.
"A fever."
Tamson waited.
Evelyn didn't elaborate.
"Why did Grandpa know her?"
"Because Samuel knew my first husband."
Tamson's thoughts raced.
Evelyn had been married before Richard.
Damon had never mentioned it.
"Who was he?"
Evelyn stood abruptly.
"This conversation is over."
She reached for the photograph.
Tamson covered it with her hand.
"No."
Evelyn looked at her with genuine desperation.
"Tamson, please. Whatever you think of me, leave that little girl alone."
Then she hurried out.
Tamson watched her go.
For years, she had believed Evelyn incapable of showing vulnerability.
But the older woman's distress hadn't seemed rehearsed.
Something terrible had happened to Rose.
And Samuel knew what it was.
Tamson spent the afternoon reviewing public records with Arden Crest's investigator, Nora Bennett, a former financial crimes analyst.
They found Evelyn's first marriage.
Her maiden name had been Evelyn Mercer.
At twenty, she married Thomas Bell, a warehouse supervisor.
A daughter, Rosemary Bell, was born the following year.
Then came a divorce filing.
And two years later, a death certificate.
The cause was listed as complications from pneumonia.
Tamson felt her hope sink.
Perhaps Evelyn had told the truth.
But Nora kept reading.
"There's something odd."
"What?"
"The death certificate was amended twenty-four years later."
Tamson leaned closer.
"Why?"
"The amendment changed the attending physician's identification number."
"That happens?"
"Occasionally. But the original number belonged to a doctor whose medical license was suspended."
"Who?"
Nora turned the screen.
DR. VICTOR SALERNO, SR.
Tamson stared.
The same surname as the trucking executive trying to seize Monarch's waterfront properties.
"Coincidence?"
"Possibly," Nora answered. "Victor Salerno Jr. would have been a teenager then."
Tamson thought of Rafe's warning.
Some debts didn't disappear.
They changed hands.
That evening, Tamson visited a neighborhood church where Samuel had volunteered.
She remembered him mentioning a retired nun named Sister Agnes.
The woman was eighty-four and lived in a small residence attached to the parish.
When Tamson showed her the photograph, Sister Agnes covered her mouth.
"Rosemary."
"You knew her?"
"Oh, yes."
"Did she die?"
The nun closed her eyes.
"That's what they told everyone."
Tamson moved closer.
"What do you mean?"
Sister Agnes looked at the photograph for a long time.
"Your grandfather came here years afterward asking questions about her. He believed someone had used that child's disappearance to force Evelyn into a terrible agreement."
"What agreement?"
"I never knew."
"Did he find out what happened to Rose?"
Sister Agnes hesitated.
"Not completely."
Tamson's pulse quickened.
"Why not?"
"Because the records were sealed."
"By whom?"
The nun looked toward the chapel.
"People with influence."
Tamson waited while Sister Agnes opened an old wooden drawer.
Inside was a small envelope.
"Samuel asked me to keep this until someone came asking about Rosemary."
She handed Tamson a worn hospital identification bracelet.
The plastic had yellowed.
The ink was faint.
But the name remained readable.
ROSEMARY BELL.
Below it was a second notation.
TRANSFER AUTHORIZED — APRIL 14, 1989.
Tamson froze.
April 14.
The same date recorded on Samuel's inventory card, decades later.
Sister Agnes gently touched the bracelet.
"Rosemary wasn't buried after the hospital reported her death."
Tamson looked up.
"What?"
The nun's voice broke.
"She was transferred to another facility. Your grandfather eventually found proof that the child survived."
"Then where did she go?"
Sister Agnes looked at Tamson with sorrow.
"That's the question he spent the rest of his life trying to answer."
Tamson examined the bracelet again.
Then she noticed a faded handwritten marking on its reverse.
Three initials.
C. A. A.
Her breath caught.
Caroline Amelia Arden.
May you like
Her mother's full name.
And suddenly, the little girl in the photograph no longer felt like a stranger.
