Chương 9
Lena leaned against the doorframe.
“Did you name me?”
“No.”
“Did Richard?”
“He never knew whether you were a boy or girl before he left.”
Lena looked at her shoes.
“Why did my parents choose Lena?”
“I don’t know.”
“But Evelyn knew.”
“Yes.”
“And she engraved it.”
“Yes.”
Martha began to leave again.
Lena said, “Why did you come on the train?”
Martha turned.
“Ethan sent me a photograph of the bracelet.”
“That’s not enough.”
“No.”
“What did he say?”
Martha looked down the hotel corridor.
“He said, ‘If you ever intend to tell Richard what happened to his daughter, be on the Silver Divide Thursday night.’”
Lena absorbed that.
“So he knew you lied.”
“He suspected.”
“How?”
“Evelyn’s notes.”
“You still could have refused.”
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t you?”
Martha’s eyes met hers.
“Because I am sixty-four years old, and I was tired of arranging my whole life around something I did when I was thirty-six.”
Lena’s anger returned.
“Good for you.”
Martha nodded.
“I deserved that.”
“No. Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Make every cruel thing I say easy by agreeing with me.”
Martha stared.
Lena continued.
“I don’t need you to perform guilt correctly.”
A small line appeared between Martha’s eyebrows.
“I don’t know how to do any of this.”
“Neither do I.”
“Good.”
Lena blinked.
Martha gave a tired shrug.
“I mean—good that you don’t know either. That sounded terrible.”
“It did.”
“I’m not usually this bad with words.”
“I have no evidence of that.”
Martha laughed.
Lena nearly did.
The moment passed.
Martha looked at the carpet.
“Richard wants a proper DNA test.”
Lena’s shoulders tightened.
“Of course he does.”
“He asked me to tell you.”
“Of course he did.”
“I told him to ask you himself.”
That surprised her.
Martha added, “He stood outside your door for twenty minutes.”
Lena stared.
“Is he still there?”
“No. I told him it was strange.”
Lena closed her eyes.
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
After Martha left, Lena finally slept.
She woke at nine that night with the bracelet still inside the pocket of her coat.
She placed it on the nightstand.
For the first time, she examined it without anyone watching.
The clasp had broken during the struggle with Ethan.
One gold link was bent.
The engraved plate had a small scratch through the final letter of her name.
She turned it over.
Nothing.
Just four letters.
LENA.
Carol had never owned expensive jewelry.
She wore a stainless-steel watch from a drugstore and one wedding ring.
When Lena graduated from college, Carol gave her a pair of pearl earrings and admitted they were imitation before Lena had even opened the box.
“I refuse to start our adult relationship with fraud,” she had said.
Lena laughed into the dark hotel room.
Then she cried.
Not hard.
Not beautifully.
Her nose clogged.
She became annoyed because the tissue box was on the other side of the bed.
She lay there for ten minutes rather than reach for it.
The next morning, Richard called once.
Lena ignored it.
He did not call again.
Ethan did not contact her.
Martha sent a message at noon.
I found an accredited relationship-testing lab that can do documented samples. I have not booked anything. Richard asked me to make that clear.
Lena read the message twice.
Then she searched the lab herself.
She checked reviews, accreditation information, privacy policy, sample procedures, turnaround times.
The absurdity of researching the reliability of a paternity test while eating vending-machine crackers in a hotel robe made her laugh.
She booked the appointment.
Not because Richard wanted proof.
Because she did.
She texted Martha the time.
Richard arrived ten minutes early.
Martha arrived twelve minutes late because she went to the wrong building.
Lena arrived exactly on time and found both of them arguing in the parking lot.
“You said north entrance,” Martha told Richard.
“There is only one entrance.”
“There are two doors.”
“That does not create two entrances.”
Lena stopped several feet away.
They both saw her.
The argument ended immediately.
“Please continue,” Lena said. “This is the first reassuring thing I’ve seen.”
Martha smiled.
Richard looked embarrassed.
The collection technician checked identification, explained chain-of-custody procedures, and obtained cheek swabs from all three.
Lena insisted Martha be tested too.
Martha looked almost relieved.
The technician said preliminary results could arrive within two business days, with the certified report after verification.
When it was done, the three of them stood outside in weak afternoon sun.
Nobody knew what to say.
Richard finally asked, “Have you eaten?”
Lena nearly refused on principle.
Then her stomach growled.
Martha looked at it.
Lena said, “If you comment, I leave.”
Martha raised both hands.
They ate at a diner two blocks away.
Richard ordered black coffee.
Martha made a face.
Lena noticed.
She did not comment.
For twenty minutes they talked about nothing useful.
Martha disliked air travel.
Richard had once accidentally bought six identical electric kettles because he thought an online order had failed.
Lena admitted she had been banned from making mashed potatoes at Thanksgiving after using vanilla almond milk in them.
Richard laughed harder than the story deserved.
The laugh made Lena uncomfortable.
Not because it sounded false.
Because it sounded familiar.
Her own laugh was quieter, but the break in rhythm was almost the same.
She set down her fork.
Richard noticed.
He immediately stopped laughing.
“I’m sorry.”
“Stop apologizing for existing near me.”
He nodded.
Three seconds later he said, “Sorry.”
Martha looked at the ceiling.
Lena laughed despite herself.
Nobody called the moment healing.
That helped.
After lunch, Richard asked whether he could give Lena copies of Evelyn’s papers.
“Yes.”
He slid a folder across the table.
She opened it.
One item was missing.
“The photograph.”
“I thought you had it.”
“Ethan did.”
Richard’s face hardened.
“I’ll get it.”
“No.”
Lena closed the folder.
“I will.”
May you like
That evening she texted Ethan.
I need the original photograph of Evelyn and my mother. Leave it with the hotel desk.
