Chapter 4 - THE MAN WHO STOOD BEHIND THE GLASS
My father answered immediately when I called.
“Why were you home that afternoon?”
He didn't pretend not to understand.
“Where did you find the photograph?”
“In Grandma's things.”
A long silence.
Then he said, “Your grandmother should have burned that.”
The words wounded me more deeply than I expected.
“Not the photograph. The lie.”
“Maren, listen to me.”
“No. You listen. For twenty-one years, you've let Mother tell me I was clumsy and dramatic. You watched Sloane humiliate me. You stood there while she hit me last night.”
His voice cracked.
“I know.”
“Then tell me why you were standing inside the house.”
“I came home early.”
“Why?”
“Because Eleanor called me.”
That stopped me.
“Grandma?”
“She said something had happened. She demanded I come home immediately.”
“Was I already hurt?”
“Yes.”
My chest tightened.
“Did you see who hurt me?”
He said nothing.
“Dad?”
“I saw what happened afterward.”
“Which was?”
“Your mother holding you on the kitchen floor. Sloane standing near the back door. And someone else telling me to call an ambulance.”
“Who?”
His breathing grew ragged.
“Bernard Whitcomb.”
My grandfather.
He had died when I was six.
At least, that was what I had always believed.
I gripped the edge of the table.
“Grandpa Bernard died before I turned seven.”
“No,” my father whispered. “That's another thing your mother told you.”
I couldn't speak.
I remembered Grandpa Bernard's funeral.
Black shoes.
White lilies.
My mother's hand gripping mine too tightly.
A polished wooden coffin.
“You're telling me he wasn't dead?”
“He died three years later, in a nursing home in Vermont. The funeral you remember was for his brother, Charles. Your mother told you Bernard had died because she didn't want you asking to see him.”
“Why?”
“Because she believed he was dangerous.”
I pressed my palm against my forehead.
My headache was returning.
“Did he hurt me?”
“I don't know.”
“Were you there when it happened?”
“No. I arrived afterward.”
“Then why lie about him for twenty-one years?”
“Because the doctors said you had been badly injured, and your mother insisted Bernard caused it. She claimed he'd been drinking and lost his temper.”
“Did you believe her?”
“At first.”
“And later?”
“I found out he'd been sober for six years.”
My heart sank.
“Why didn't you do anything?”
“I was afraid of losing you and Sloane. Your mother told me she'd take both of you away if I challenged her.”
“You were our father.”
“I know.”
He began crying.
I had never heard that sound from him.
But I couldn't comfort him.
Not this time.
“I need everything you remember,” I said. “Not excuses. Not things Mother told you. What you personally saw.”
“I'll write it down.”
“You'll also speak to an investigator.”
“Yes.”
For once, he didn't argue.
Thomas Voss arrived at Ruth's home the following morning carrying a weathered briefcase.
He was tall and thin, with silver hair and kind, watchful eyes.
The first thing he did was look at my bandaged temple.
“Your grandmother was terrified something like this would happen again.”
I swallowed.
“Again?”
He sat opposite me.
“Eleanor believed the family had developed a pattern. Whenever you questioned your childhood injury, someone would frighten or humiliate you until you stopped.”
I thought of Sloane's childhood temper.
The time she shoved my homework into the fireplace.
The birthday party where she announced that I had imaginary memories.
The years Mother had repeated that my judgment couldn't be trusted.
Thomas opened his briefcase.
Inside were photographs, interviews, and a yellowed notebook.
“Your grandmother thought Bernard caused your injury initially,” he explained. “Then she found inconsistencies.”
He placed two pictures side by side.
One showed my grandfather sitting in a chair near our back porch.
The other showed a heavy brass clock on the mantel.
“This clock disappeared after your accident.”
I recognized it immediately.
A tall, ornate carriage clock shaped like a little house.
Grandma used to wind it every Sunday.
“Mother said it was stolen.”
Thomas nodded.
“That's what she told the insurance company.”
He opened another photograph.
The clock lay on a tiled kitchen floor.
Its glass face was shattered.
Something dark stained one corner.
My stomach turned.
“Was that blood?”
“The police report describes possible blood staining, but the clock wasn't preserved for testing.”
“Why not?”
“Because your mother removed it before officers arrived. A household employee photographed it beforehand.”
“Who?”
“Your housekeeper, Margaret Ellis.”
I remembered Margaret.
She made the best peach cobbler in the world.
Then she disappeared suddenly.
Mother said she'd stolen jewelry.
“Did Margaret steal from us?”
Thomas shook his head.
“I found no evidence she did. She was dismissed two days after your hospitalization.”
He showed me Margaret's written statement.
The words blurred until I forced myself to concentrate.
I heard Sloane screaming that Maren had ruined everything. Then I heard something heavy fall. When I reached the doorway, Maren was on the floor. Mrs. Caldwell was holding the brass clock.
My breath caught.
“Mother?”
Thomas held up one hand.
“Margaret didn't see the actual impact.”
“But she saw my mother holding the clock.”
“Yes.”
“And Mother blamed Grandpa.”
“Yes.”
I stared at the photograph.
For twenty-one years, I had been told I tripped over a garden hose.
Now the truth seemed much darker.
“Where is Margaret?”
“Still alive. She moved to Pennsylvania to live near her daughter. She agreed years ago that I could contact her if you ever asked questions.”
“Then I want to talk to her.”
Thomas nodded.
“But there's something else you need to understand first.”
He opened a medical transport record.
“Bernard was brought to a psychiatric facility three days after your injury. The admission form alleged violent behavior toward a child.”
“Was he charged?”
“No. There was no prosecution. But he lost the right to see you.”
“Who signed the complaint?”
“Your mother.”
I looked at the document.
There was a second signature.
Arthur Caldwell.
My father.
I felt something inside me break.
He had signed away my grandfather's reputation.
He had signed away my childhood memories.
And he had spent two decades watching me blame myself for the scars.
That afternoon, Declan called.
I hadn't expected to hear from him.
“Maren, I'm sorry,” he said.
“For what?”
“For what happened at the wedding. I should have stopped it.”
“You didn't swing the microphone.”
“No, but I saw what happened before it struck you.”
I sat straighter.
“What do you mean?”
“Sloane was furious after you mentioned your grandmother during the toast rehearsal.”
I frowned.
“I didn't give a toast.”
“No. You were standing beside the cake display. You told your mother you'd found an old picture of Eleanor.”
I closed my eyes.
I remembered now.
Earlier that evening, while arranging place cards, I'd told Genevieve that Ruth had found an old photograph album.
Mother's smile had vanished.
Then Sloane approached.
Declan continued.
“Sloane told your mother she'd handle it.”
A chill went through me.
“She said that?”
“Yes.”
Then he hesitated.
“And Maren? I found something in our suite after Sloane left for the spa this morning.”
“What?”
“The bracelet.”
My pulse quickened.
“Can you keep it somewhere safe?”
“I already put it in our hotel safe. But there's something attached to it.”
“The broken clasp?”
“No.”
His voice dropped.
“A little folded paper, tucked beneath the metal butterfly.”
May you like
He read the handwriting aloud.
IF MAREN REMEMBERS THE CLOCK, TELL HER ABOUT THE BABY FIRST.
