Chapter 6 - THE PRICE OF KEEPING A CHILD MISSING
My father had built his reputation on recognizing dishonest people.
But for twenty-five years, the most expensive lie in his life had been told by his own mother.
When Catherine and I returned to New York, Robert asked us to meet him at his office.
I almost refused.
Then he said something I hadn't expected.
“Please, Sophia. I won't ask you to forgive me. I just want you to see what I've found.”
His office occupied the top floor of a glass building overlooking Manhattan.
Photographs of business awards lined the walls.
One framed picture showed Eleanor Sterling beside Robert at the opening of their investment firm.
I couldn't look at her face anymore.
Robert had spread old corporate meeting records across his desk.
“I checked the audit Catherine mentioned.”
He pointed to the first page.
“Twenty-five years ago, my mother was overseeing several family investment accounts while I prepared to take full control.”
Catherine folded her arms.
“You suspected money was being moved.”
Robert nodded.
“Millions had been transferred through affiliated charitable organizations. I wanted an independent audit.”
I looked at him.
“What happened?”
“Four days before the audit, Sophia disappeared.”
His voice grew quiet.
“I postponed everything. Then I spent months searching. My mother convinced me the investigation would attract damaging publicity if the company became unstable.”
“And you believed her?” I asked.
“She was my mother.”
I looked directly at him.
“You believed Chloe because she was your daughter, too.”
Robert lowered his eyes.
“Yes.”
That admission mattered.
But it wasn't enough.
He showed us another record.
The audit had never been completed.
Eleanor had remained in control of the questionable accounts for seven more years.
During that period, several million dollars had been transferred to organizations connected to St. Anne's.
Catherine stared at the numbers.
“You think Eleanor took Sophia to stop you from investigating her?”
Robert shook his head slowly.
“I think my mother was capable of terrible things to protect herself. But I need to know exactly what happened.”
I did, too.
That afternoon, I returned to the small apartment where I'd lived before finding the Sterlings.
I opened the cedar chest beneath my bed.
Inside lay Naomi Lane's carefully preserved belongings.
A quilt.
A cookbook stained with flour.
Her brass sewing thimble.
And the little blue cardigan.
I lifted it gently.
One button was a pearl.
Inside the sleeve, a tiny cross had been stitched in scarlet thread.
I pressed the fabric against my face.
Naomi had never thrown it away.
She hadn't known my real parents.
But she'd understood that someday I might want to know where I came from.
Beneath the sweater was a small bundle of letters tied with string.
I'd seen them before.
Naomi had once told me they were correspondence about my adoption.
I had never opened them because she asked me to respect her privacy while she was alive.
Now she was gone.
And the truth felt like something she would have wanted me to find.
The first letter was dated seventeen years earlier.
Naomi had written to St. Anne's, explaining that I was asking questions about my birth family.
She wanted to know whether contact was possible.
The letter had been returned.
The second was written three years later.
Another request.
Another rejection.
The third made my chest tighten.
Naomi had explained that I was growing up healthy, loved books, and wanted to become a teacher.
If her birth parents are looking for her, please tell them she is safe.
I sat on the floor.
My adoptive mother had tried to help me find my family.
She had done it quietly.
Without ever making me feel unwanted.
I turned the last letter over.
A response had been attached.
It came from the Sterling Family Foundation.
The message stated that the family did not wish to reopen discussions concerning the child's placement.
At the bottom was a signature.
Vivian E. Sterling.
I read it three times.
My parents hadn't rejected me.
Vivian had answered on their behalf.
I carried the letters to Robert's office.
When he saw the signature, his expression turned gray.
“I never authorized this.”
Catherine touched the cardigan.
Then she began crying so hard she could barely breathe.
But I was staring at the dates.
Naomi's last inquiry had been sent only nine years earlier.
Long after Eleanor Sterling died.
Long after Vivian had taken over the family foundation.
I looked at Robert.
“Your sister didn't just help hide me twenty-five years ago.”
My voice trembled.
“She knew where I was when I was sixteen.”
May you like
I placed the letter in front of him.
“And she decided to keep me missing.”
