Chapter 7 - The Red Blanket
The hospital fire was deliberate.
A storage closet had been ignited three floors below Peter’s room.
While emergency teams evacuated patients, someone entered through the surgical stairwell and attempted to reach Peter.
They failed.
Agent Sloan caught the intruder near the elevator.
He carried no weapon.
Only a syringe filled with potassium chloride.
Julian finally stopped calling Northstar a fantasy.
He sat in Victor’s kitchen late that night, staring at Elena.
“You almost got killed.”
“It wasn’t the first attempt.”
He looked ashamed.
“You mean me?”
“I mean the bank.”
Julian lowered his eyes.
Elena poured coffee.
For once, neither of them argued.
“Did Dad really think you weren’t his?”
“He knew.”
Julian looked up.
“And he still left you everything.”
Elena turned.
“That bothers you?”
“No.”
The answer surprised her.
Julian rubbed his hands together.
“It should. Yesterday it would have.”
“What changed?”
He looked toward the window.
“I spent six hours with investigators.”
Elena waited.
“Serena talked.”
“What did she say?”
“That Northstar gave her money before we were married.”
Elena stared.
“How long?”
“Seven years.”
“For what?”
Julian laughed bitterly.
“For me.”
Elena set down her mug.
“They paid her to marry you?”
“Not exactly. They paid her to stay close.”
“Why?”
“To watch Dad. To watch me. To report any mention of Keller, Bellweather, adoption records.”
Elena sat across from him.
“Did she love you?”
Julian’s eyes hardened.
“She says yes.”
“And you?”
He did not answer.
That was answer enough.
The following morning, Agent Sloan drove Elena and Samuel to Ashford.
Caroline Marsh lived in a small blue house outside town.
No guards.
No luxury.
No sign that the woman inside had once been connected to one of the wealthiest families in the state.
Elena stood at the gate.
Samuel touched her arm.
“You don’t have to do this today.”
“Yes, I do.”
She walked to the porch.
A woman opened the door before Elena knocked.
Caroline was fifty-five.
Dark hair threaded with gray.
Thin face.
Same eyes.
Elena forgot every prepared sentence.
Caroline looked at her bruise.
“Can I help you?”
Elena could not say mother.
Could not say daughter.
Could not even say her own name.
She remembered Peter.
“Do you remember a red blanket?”
Caroline’s face changed instantly.
The door began to close.
Elena caught it.
“Please.”
“Who are you?”
“Someone told me to ask.”
“Who?”
“Peter Mallory.”
Caroline turned white.
“He’s dead.”
“No.”
Caroline stared.
Then looked past Elena toward Samuel.
“Who are you people?”
“My name is Elena Vance.”
Caroline froze.
The silence lasted so long Elena heard birds in the trees.
Caroline whispered, “No.”
Elena’s throat tightened.
“I think I was born at St. Vincent’s Hospital in April 1992.”
“No.”
“Victor Vance raised me.”
Caroline stepped backward.
“No.”
“I found records.”
Caroline covered her mouth.
Elena continued.
“I found your photograph.”
Caroline began crying.
Not loudly.
Not dramatically.
Her knees simply weakened.
Elena caught her.
Caroline gripped Elena’s arms.
“They told me you died.”
Elena could not hold herself together anymore.
Caroline touched her face.
Her forehead.
Her hair.
As if checking whether she was real.
“My baby.”
Elena shut her eyes.
For thirty-four years she had believed Margaret Vance’s distance was simply the way some mothers loved.
Now a stranger was touching her face with more tenderness than Margaret had shown in a lifetime.
Caroline pulled her inside.
They sat for nearly an hour before either could ask difficult questions.
Then Elena placed the photograph on the table.
Caroline stared.
“Where did you get this?”
“Victor kept it.”
“He knew?”
“For twenty-four years.”
Caroline cried again.
“He never came.”
“He believed exposing it might put me in danger.”
“Then he was right.”
Elena looked at her.
“You know Northstar.”
Caroline’s face closed.
“Yes.”
“What was the red blanket?”
Caroline stood and walked into her bedroom.
She returned carrying a small wooden box.
Inside was a folded piece of faded red cloth.
“I wrapped you in this after you were born.”
Elena touched it.
Caroline pulled out an old Polaroid.
A newborn lay against her chest.
Wrapped in the same blanket.
On the infant’s left ankle was a hospital band.
Caroline handed Elena a magnifying glass.
The band showed a handwritten number.
A-17.
Elena remembered the ledger.
The labels.
Children without names.
“What does A-17 mean?”
Caroline shook her head.
“I didn’t know until years later.”
“What does it mean?”
Caroline took out another photograph.
This one showed two babies.
One in a red blanket.
One in white.
Both had hospital bands.
A-17.
And B-17.
Elena stared.
“Who is the other baby?”
Caroline’s voice trembled.
“That is why you cannot assume you are my daughter.”
Elena looked at her.
“What?”
May you like
Caroline pointed to the babies.
“I gave birth to twins.”
