Chapter 7

Margaret Doyle lived in a small apartment in Poughkeepsie, surrounded by cats and old photographs. She was seventy-three, with shaky hands and sharp eyes. When she saw Grant, she started to cry.

“You look like him,” she said. “Your father.”

Grant sat across from her. “You were the attending nurse when I was born.”

She nodded. “I was there when Nora Vale delivered. Healthy boy. Loud lungs. She held you for four hours.” She looked at me. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“You falsified the death record,” Grant said.

Margaret’s hands trembled. “Vivian Calder came to me the night her own baby died. She was mad with grief. She offered me money. Enough to pay off my house. Enough to keep my son in college. She said the mother had abandoned the baby. She said she was saving you.”

“I never abandoned him,” I said.

“I know that now.” Margaret wiped her eyes. “I told myself I was helping. I told myself Vivian would give you a better life. I was wrong.”

She went to a locked drawer and took out a copy of the original birth record, signed and dated. She also gave us a handwritten note from Vivian promising payment.

“I kept it,” she said. “In case I ever needed proof of what I did.”

Grant took the papers. His hands were steady, but his voice was not. “You’ll testify?”

“Yes,” Margaret said. “I’ll tell the truth.”

We were driving back when Grant’s phone rang. Patricia, the lawyer. She sounded tense.

“The police searched Nora’s apartment. They found Celeste Ashby’s diamond earrings in her sock drawer.”

My blood went cold. “I didn’t put them there.”

“Vivian did,” Grant said. “She planted them.”

Patricia continued, “They’ve issued another warrant. They’re going to arrest her again.”

Grant pulled the car over. He looked at me, and I saw the war in his face. Vivian was still his mother in every memory he had. But she was also a woman who had stolen him, lied to him, and was now trying to bury me.

“We can’t go to the police yet,” he said. “Not until Saturday. We need the whole room to see her.”

“Grant, I’ll be in jail.”

“No.” He started the car. “I’ll post bail again. I’ll hide you if I have to. But we are going to that announcement.”

“And if she wins?”

He clenched his jaw. “She won’t.”

But when we reached my apartment, the police were already waiting. Vivian stood across the street in her black Mercedes, watching. She had planned this. She had planted the earrings, called the police, and come to see me taken away.

Grant stepped out of the car and put himself between me and the officers.

“Don’t,” he said. “I’ll bring her in myself. But she’s not a criminal.”

Vivian’s window rolled down. “She’s a thief,” she called. “And you’re a fool.”

Grant looked at her. “I’m your son, Vivian. Or I was. Until you made me a lie.”