“You stole my daughter.”
We arranged for the detective to be nearby by proving probable cause, and drove to Evelyn’s gated house. Stone columns, trimmed hedges, windows like mirrors—everything polished, nothing warm.
Catherine murmured, “It always felt like a stage.”
I said, “Then we stop acting.”
Evelyn opened the door in a silk robe, smiling like she owned the air. She looked Catherine up and down.
“There you are,” she said, like Catherine was a purse she’d misplaced. Her gaze landed on me and tightened. “Laura. You look tired.”
“You stole my daughter,” I said.
Evelyn’s smile stayed, but her eyes hardened. “I gave her a life.”
“I buried you. I held a funeral.”
Catherine stepped forward, voice shaking with rage. “You bought me,” she said. “Like furniture.”
Evelyn hissed, “Watch your mouth.”
A footstep sounded behind her, and a man appeared in the foyer. Older, heavier, but the same posture. Frank. The room spun. I grabbed the doorframe.
“Frank,” I said, and the name tasted like blood.
He looked at me like I was an overdue bill. “Laura.”
Catherine whispered, “Dad,” and her voice broke.
I found mine by force. “I buried you. I held a funeral. I begged God to stop.”
“I did what I had to do,” Frank said.
“Except my mother.”
“You took our child.”
