Chapter 2: The Name They Buried
The detective set a folder on the table in front of me.
"We pulled records going back thirty years," he said.
"There's no death certificate for a Nora with your parents listed.
No hospital record.
No burial permit.
Nothing."
I couldn't breathe.
Marcus put his hand on my arm.
"What does that mean?"
The detective looked at me, not Marcus.
"It means as far as the state is concerned — Nora never d*ed."
I stood up.
Sat back down.
My hands were shaking so badly I had to press them flat against my knees.
All those years.
All those times I had asked my mother about Nora and she had looked at me with that soft, practiced sadness.
*She's at peace, sweetheart.
Let her rest.*
Let her rest.
I called my mother from the hospital hallway.
She picked up on the second ring.
"Where is Nora?" I said.
No greeting.
No softness.
Silence.
"Sweetheart—"
"Don't.
Where is she?"
Another silence.
Longer this time.
Then, very quietly, she said: "You were never supposed to remember her name."
The call dr0pped.
When I turned around, Marcus was standing in the doorway holding his phone out toward me.
Someone had sent him a photograph.
A woman.
Maybe late thirties.
Standing outside a house I didn't recognize.
She had my mother's eyes.
She had my nose.
And she was holding a little girl wearing a yellow dress.
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What my family hid for thirty years is worse than anything I imagined.
Click the link below to read the full story — and find out what happened to Nora.
