Chapter 5 - THE TWO GIRLS IN THE YELLOW COATS
“Wrong child?”
Nora stared at the photograph.
Her mother stood in front of a small brick apartment building, holding the hand of a little girl whose face was partly hidden by a yellow hood.
Vincent read the message again.
Evelyn took the wrong child.
“Paulie,” he said slowly, “what does this mean?”
Paulie lowered himself into a chair.
For the first time since Nora had met him, he looked old.
“There were two little girls.”
Vincent's expression hardened.
“Two?”
“Anna and Eleanor.”
“Whose children?”
Paulie hesitated.
“That's where things become difficult.”
Nora felt anger rising.
“Stop saying things are difficult. Someone wrote that my mother took the wrong child. I think we deserve a straight answer.”
Paulie looked at her.
“You do.”
He folded his hands.
“Anna was Beatrice's daughter. Thomas believed he was her father.”
“And Eleanor?” Vincent asked.
Paulie looked toward the windows.
“She was the daughter of a woman named Margaret Bell.”
Vincent frowned.
“Arthur Bell's wife?”
“Yes.”
Nora leaned forward.
“Why were they together?”
“Arthur had discovered Beatrice's affair. He thought Anna was his daughter, but he couldn't prove it. He threatened to take the child away and ruin Thomas.”
Vincent's jaw tightened.
“So my father arranged to hide her.”
“He arranged to move both girls.”
“Why?”
Paulie looked miserable.
“Because Margaret Bell was trying to leave her husband. She feared he would hurt her daughter if she escaped.”
Nora stared at him.
“So two women were trying to protect their children from the same man.”
Paulie nodded.
“And Thomas promised to help.”
“What went wrong?” Vincent asked.
Paulie's eyes dropped.
“There was a storm. The women were supposed to meet at a house in New Jersey. Two cars were arranged. Two drivers. Two children.”
He swallowed.
“Arthur found out.”
Vincent understood.
“Someone betrayed the plan.”
Paulie said nothing.
“Who?”
“I don't know.”
Nora watched him carefully.
For a man who knew so many details, Paulie seemed strangely uncertain about the most important one.
“What happened to the girls?” she asked.
“One was taken away by Evelyn. The other disappeared during the confusion.”
Nora gripped the bracelet.
“Which one did my mother raise?”
Paulie looked at her.
“We believed it was Anna.”
Vincent frowned.
“Then why does the photograph say she took the wrong child?”
“Because Thomas received information later that made him doubt everything.”
“What information?”
Paulie shook his head.
“He never told me.”
Vincent stood abruptly.
“Find it.”
“Vincent—”
“Whatever he kept. Whatever he wrote. I want the truth.”
Paulie rose.
“I'll do what I can.”
Nora watched him leave.
Then she turned to Vincent.
“You don't believe him.”
Vincent stared at the closed door.
“I believe he knows more than he said.”
Later that afternoon, Camila was sitting at her dressing table when Nora entered.
The elderly woman was carefully brushing her gray hair.
“Would you like help?”
Camila smiled into the mirror.
“Evelyn always did it this way.”
Nora froze.
“My mother?”
Camila looked at her reflection.
“Such gentle hands.”
Nora stepped closer.
“Camila, do you remember Evelyn Hayes?”
“Of course.”
“Was she your friend?”
Camila nodded.
“She was the only one who told me I wasn't crazy.”
Nora felt her throat tighten.
“Crazy about what?”
“The children.”
Camila set down the hairbrush.
“Everyone wanted to make them into something else. A mistake. A problem. A bargaining chip.”
Her voice became unusually clear.
“But they were just little girls.”
Nora pulled a chair beside her.
“Do you remember their names?”
“Anna.”
Camila paused.
“And Ellie.”
Nora's breath caught.
Her mother had called her Ellie when she was small.
“Ellie?”
Camila smiled sadly.
“She had a yellow coat with a broken button.”
Nora looked down at her hands.
Somewhere deep in her memory was the sensation of stiff yellow fabric and a coat that smelled of wet wool.
She could not tell whether it was real or something she had imagined after hearing the story.
“Was Ellie Eleanor?”
Camila nodded.
“Poor little thing.”
“Why poor?”
“She wasn't supposed to be there.”
Nora went still.
“What do you mean?”
Camila looked toward the window.
“Margaret brought her without warning. She said Arthur had frightened the child again.”
Then her expression shifted.
“Thomas was angry.”
“Why?”
“He said there was only room for one.”
Nora swallowed.
“One what?”
“One child in the car.”
That evening, Vincent drove to the small neighborhood in Queens where Nora had grown up.
He did not bring armed men.
He did not arrive in a convoy.
He parked an ordinary sedan outside an aging brick building.
Nora had agreed to show him the place because the building in the photograph matched an address written on an old envelope.
She met him on the sidewalk.
“You look uncomfortable without six bodyguards.”
“I have two.”
Nora looked around.
Vincent nodded toward a delivery van parked across the street.
She rolled her eyes.
“Of course you do.”
They entered the building.
The hallway smelled of old paint and someone's cooking.
Nora pointed toward the third-floor landing.
“We lived there until I was fifteen.”
Vincent looked at the narrow staircase.
He had spent millions renovating a ballroom while Nora's mother had raised a child in a building with peeling walls and unreliable heat.
The comparison bothered him.
“Was she happy here?” he asked.
Nora considered the question.
“My mother?”
“Yes.”
“She worked too much. Worried about bills. Sometimes cried when she thought I was asleep.”
Vincent looked down.
“But she loved me,” Nora continued. “Every single day.”
They climbed the stairs.
Outside the old apartment, Nora stopped.
“I don't want you thinking of her as some woman who helped your father hide a scandal.”
“I don't.”
“She was my mother.”
“I understand.”
“No,” Nora said softly. “I don't think you do yet.”
Vincent looked at her.
Then he nodded.
“Maybe not.”
They were leaving when an elderly woman opened the apartment across the hall.
“Nora?”
Nora turned.
“Mrs. Delgado?”
The woman smiled.
“Look at you. All grown up.”
Mrs. Delgado had lived in the building for more than thirty years.
She invited them inside for coffee.
When Nora showed her the photograph, the older woman's smile faded.
“Your mother hated that picture.”
Nora frowned.
“Why?”
“Because it reminded her of the night she arrived.”
Vincent leaned forward.
“Do you remember?”
Mrs. Delgado nodded.
“Rain pouring down. That poor woman carrying a child wrapped in a blanket. She had blood on her sleeve.”
Nora felt cold.
“Blood?”
“She said she'd cut herself.”
Mrs. Delgado looked at Nora.
“But I remember something else.”
“What?”
“The child wouldn't answer when Evelyn called her Anna.”
Nora stared.
“Why not?”
“Because the little girl kept saying that wasn't her name.”
Vincent leaned closer.
“What did she say?”
Mrs. Delgado looked directly at Nora.
“She said, 'I'm Ellie. Anna's still in the car.'”
Nora pressed a hand against her chest.
Mrs. Delgado reached for her wrist.
“Your mother was terrified that night. She went back out looking for the other little girl.”
Vincent asked quietly, “Did she find her?”
Mrs. Delgado's expression darkened.
“She came home just before dawn. Alone.”
Nora closed her eyes.
Then Mrs. Delgado added something that made Vincent sit perfectly still.
“But three days later, a man came to the building. He wore a dark overcoat and carried a little girl's red shoe.”
Vincent looked up sharply.
“Thomas Russo?”
Mrs. Delgado nodded.
“He told Evelyn that Anna was alive.”
Nora could barely whisper.
“Where?”
May you like
The elderly woman looked at the photograph.
“He said Anna was living with the people who had ordered the children taken in the first place.”
