Chapter 4 - THE WOMAN IN THE PHOTOGRAPH
For twenty-five years, my mother had believed that a blue cardigan was buried somewhere with the past.
I knew exactly where it was.
In a cedar chest beneath my bed.
My adoptive mother, Naomi Lane, had kept it carefully folded throughout my childhood.
She told me it was the only thing I'd been wearing when I came into her care.
She never knew who had made it.
Until now, neither had I.
“I have the cardigan,” I whispered.
Catherine stared at me.
“You still have it?”
“Yes.”
Tears filled her eyes.
Robert reached toward me.
I stepped away.
“I'll bring it when I'm ready.”
He lowered his hand.
For once, he didn't argue.
That afternoon, Catherine and I drove to Pennsylvania.
Robert remained behind to confront Chloe about the security footage.
I had agreed to travel with Catherine for one reason.
I needed answers.
Not an apology.
Not another promise.
Answers.
The original St. Anne's building had become a community arts center.
Its old records were partly held by a local historical society.
There, we met Iris Dunn, a seventy-four-year-old woman who had volunteered at St. Anne's for thirty years.
When Catherine showed her the letter, Iris adjusted her glasses.
“I remember this case.”
My mother gripped her purse.
“You do?”
Iris nodded.
“There was a little girl brought in one winter evening. She was maybe seven or eight months old. Beautiful dark hair. Blue cardigan.”
Catherine pressed her lips together.
“Did anyone tell you who she was?”
“No. We were told her mother had surrendered her privately.”
I felt sick.
“My mother never surrendered me.”
Iris looked at Catherine's face.
Then back at me.
“Oh, sweetheart.”
Those two words carried more understanding than anything I'd heard in the Sterling mansion.
Iris led us to a collection of old newsletters and volunteer scrapbooks.
She explained that St. Anne's had handled private placements through an affiliated organization.
The process wasn't always transparent.
“Especially when wealthy donors were involved,” she added.
She opened a large scrapbook.
The pages smelled of old paper and dust.
Photographs showed Christmas parties, fundraising luncheons, and children playing in a courtyard.
Then Iris stopped.
“Here.”
A photograph had been taken outside St. Anne's during a winter fundraiser.
Several women stood beside the entrance.
One held a baby wrapped in a pale blanket.
A knitted blue sleeve showed beneath the edge.
Catherine leaned forward.
Her fingers began trembling.
“That's my sweater.”
I examined the picture.
The baby's face was turned away.
But beside the woman holding her stood another woman wearing an expensive cream coat.
A silver leaf-shaped brooch glittered near her collar.
“Who is that?” I asked.
Iris studied the photograph.
“She was one of our foundation donors. Came several times.”
Catherine went completely still.
“Vivian.”
I looked at her.
“Your sister-in-law?”
She nodded.
“Robert's older sister.”
Iris turned the photograph over.
A handwritten caption identified the event.
Then she showed us the visitor log she had saved from that same winter.
Vivian Sterling's name appeared three times.
The earliest entry was dated seventeen days after I disappeared.
Seventeen days.
My family had been searching the country.
Newspapers had printed my photograph.
My parents had offered a reward.
And my father's own sister had visited the building where I was living.
“Did Vivian ever ask about that baby?” Catherine whispered.
Iris looked troubled.
“She didn't need to.”
“What does that mean?”
“The agency director handled the child's placement personally. Vivian wasn't treated like an ordinary visitor.”
Iris paused.
“She was treated like the person who had arranged it.”
Catherine clutched my arm.
For the first time, I didn't pull away.
Iris continued searching through the scrapbook.
Then she removed a second photograph.
It showed the same cream coat.
The same silver brooch.
And the same infant.
But this time, the woman's face was clearly visible.
She was holding me.
Catherine started crying.
“That is Vivian.”
I stared at the photograph.
The woman who had hugged me when I first arrived at the Sterling mansion.
The woman who told me she'd prayed every night for my return.
The woman who had introduced Chloe and me as her two beautiful nieces.
Iris touched the photograph.
“There's something else you should understand.”
“What?”
She pointed to the date written underneath.
“This picture was taken before the agency officially recorded receiving the child.”
My mouth went dry.
“How much earlier?”
Iris looked directly at me.
“Three days.”
And in that moment, I understood.
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Vivian hadn't discovered me at St. Anne's.
She had brought me there.
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