Chapter 8 - THE WATCH THAT CAME BACK FROM THE GRAVE
Rebecca pressed the photograph against her chest.
“That watch was buried with my son.”
Dr. Ellis looked confused.
“Mrs. Castellano, the watch was listed among Nicholas's personal belongings when he arrived.”
Damian took the photograph.
The young man looked to be in his early twenties.
He had Rebecca's dark eyes.
A narrow face.
And an expression that made him seem older than his years.
On his wrist was a gold watch.
Its face was square.
Its leather strap dark brown.
Rebecca touched the picture.
“Nicholas.”
Her voice was barely audible.
I stood beside her.
For a woman who had spent the previous night trying to humiliate me, Rebecca now seemed terribly fragile.
But I couldn't forget what she'd done.
Not yet.
Dr. Ellis explained that Nicholas had been transferred to a supported-living residence called Briarwood House.
He was medically stable.
He could live with some independence.
But the years of illness and isolation had left him anxious around unfamiliar people.
Rebecca listened without interrupting.
Then she asked, “Does he know I'm alive?”
The doctor hesitated.
“I don't believe so.”
Her face crumpled.
Damian placed a hand on her shoulder.
“We'll find him.”
But I noticed something else.
The note beneath the photograph.
Grace knew what happened on the boat.
My mother had been connected to Adrian's death.
Not merely as a grieving woman.
As someone who knew the truth.
I turned toward Walter.
“What did she know?”
Walter stared at the floor.
“Olivia, I don't know.”
For the first time, I believed him.
That frightened me.
Because it meant the person who held the answers wasn't Walter.
It was Nicholas.
Or someone who had kept him hidden.
We arrived at Briarwood House shortly before five.
The building was modest.
A two-story residence surrounded by maple trees.
Children's drawings decorated the reception area, made by visiting families and local school groups.
It didn't resemble a place where someone would hide a criminal secret.
But secrets don't always live in frightening places.
Sometimes they live in ordinary rooms where people have been taught not to ask questions.
A social worker named Helen Morris met us.
She listened carefully while Damian explained the situation.
Then she looked at Rebecca.
“You understand that Nicholas is an adult.”
Rebecca nodded.
“And he has the right to decide whether he wants to meet you.”
“I understand.”
Helen studied her for a moment.
Then softened.
“He has talked about his mother for years.”
Rebecca's lips trembled.
“What does he say?”
“That he wishes he could remember her voice.”
Tears rolled down Rebecca's cheeks.
Helen excused herself to speak with Nicholas.
We waited in a quiet sitting room.
Nobody spoke.
Finally, Rebecca turned toward me.
“Olivia.”
I looked up.
“I owe you an apology.”
I said nothing.
She swallowed.
“What I did last night was disgusting.”
I stared at her.
She continued.
“I treated you like you were beneath me because I was afraid you would expose what I'd spent years trying to hide.”
“That doesn't make it right.”
“No.”
Her voice broke.
“It doesn't.”
I looked toward the window.
“I have a daughter, Rebecca. She's seven. I was terrified of losing my job.”
“I know.”
“No. You don't.”
She lowered her eyes.
I continued.
“When you told me to kneel, I wasn't thinking about my pride. I was thinking about Lily's hospital bills.”
Rebecca began crying.
“I didn't know.”
“You never asked.”
The words settled between us.
Then she nodded.
“You're right.”
It wasn't forgiveness.
But it was the first honest conversation we'd ever had.
Helen returned.
“Nicholas has agreed to meet you.”
Rebecca stood so quickly that her chair tipped backward.
Damian caught it.
A young man appeared in the doorway.
He was thin.
Dark-haired.
Wearing a blue sweater and jeans.
He walked carefully, but without assistance.
His eyes moved from Damian to Walter.
Then to me.
Finally, he saw Rebecca.
He stopped.
She covered her mouth.
“Nicky?”
The young man's expression changed.
Nobody had called him that in years.
“Mom?”
Rebecca began shaking.
“Yes.”
He looked toward Helen.
Then back at her.
“I thought you died.”
Rebecca took one step forward.
“I thought you did, too.”
Nicholas stared.
Then he crossed the room.
His mother wrapped her arms around him.
For several minutes, they simply held each other.
I looked away.
Some moments are too private to watch.
Damian stood beside me.
His voice was thick.
“I never knew he existed.”
I nodded.
“Now you do.”
Nicholas eventually sat with us.
He spoke quietly.
He remembered little about the hospital.
He remembered Evelyn.
He remembered being told his mother had died.
But he also remembered a man who visited him when he was younger.
“A man with a gold watch?” Damian asked.
Nicholas nodded.
“He smelled like peppermint.”
Rebecca went pale.
“Victor always carried peppermint candy.”
Nicholas looked at her.
“Do you know him?”
Rebecca held his hand.
“Yes.”
Nicholas studied Damian.
“Are you my uncle?”
Damian nodded.
“I am.”
The young man smiled faintly.
“That's good.”
Then he looked at me.
“Are you Olivia?”
My heart jumped.
“Yes.”
He reached into his sweater pocket.
“I have something for you.”
He removed a tiny silver heart charm.
It was attached to a worn blue thread.
I recognized it instantly.
The missing charm from my mother's bracelet.
The one with the repaired silver ring.
My breath caught.
“Where did you get that?”
Nicholas looked puzzled.
“A woman gave it to me.”
“What woman?”
“She wore yellow.”
My knees weakened.
“Grace?”
He nodded.
“She told me if I ever found Olivia, I should give her this.”
I couldn't speak.
Nicholas continued.
“She said Olivia would know what it meant.”
I took the charm.
Inside the tiny heart was a folded strip of paper.
It had been rolled so tightly I almost missed it.
Walter handed me his glasses.
I carefully unfolded the paper.
Three words were written in my mother's handwriting.
Look beneath Wednesday.
I stared at them.
“Wednesday?”
Nicholas leaned closer.
“She used to sing a song about the days of the week.”
I looked up.
My mother had sung that song to me.
Every Sunday evening.
Seven days.
Seven little promises.
On Wednesday, she always tapped the third button of my yellow coat.
I looked at Walter.
“Where is my childhood coat?”
He frowned.
“What?”
“The yellow coat. My mother kept it.”
His expression changed.
“The coat is in the storage room.”
Damian stood.
“We're going back.”
Nicholas suddenly grabbed his sleeve.
“Wait.”
Damian turned.
The young man looked frightened.
“Evelyn told me never to let anyone open the coat.”
Rebecca tightened her grip on his hand.
“Why?”
Nicholas looked at me.
May you like
Then whispered:
“Because that's where Grace hid the photograph of the man who killed Adrian.”
