Chapter 8: The Drive to Millhaven
Patricia filed the emergency placement petition the following morning.
By noon, she had spoken directly to the regional supervisor, a woman named Director Harmon, who had asked three questions, listened to the answers, and then said, "I'll need to send a caseworker for a home visit.
Can you do Friday?"
It was Wednesday.
Patricia said yes.
She called Ryan immediately after.
"Friday at ten.
Keep the house calm.
Make sure Lily knows what's happening and that she's not in trouble.
The caseworker's name is Sandra Ellison — she's handled Marsh-related cases before.
She's thorough but fair."
Ryan thanked her and hung up.
He found Lily in the backyard with Danny.
They had set up an elaborate system involving sticks, string, and the upturned lid of a storage bin that Ryan chose not to ask about.
Lily was directing.
Danny was following instructions with complete seriousness.
Ryan watched them for a moment from the doorway.
Then he went inside and called the number attached to the Millhaven property record.
It rang four times.
He was preparing for voicemail when someone picked up.
"Yeah." A man's voice.
Careful.
Not unfriendly.
"Is this Thomas Vare?"
A pause.
"Who's asking?"
"My name is Ryan Callahan.
I don't know you, and I want to be straightforward with you — this is going to be a strange phone call."
Another pause.
Longer.
"Go ahead," Thomas said.
Ryan told him about Diane.
About her passing.
About the letter.
He didn't tell him about Lily being in the crawl space.
He said only that a child had come to them in crisis, that she was safe, and that her mother had written Thomas's name in a letter as someone Lily should find.
The line was silent for so long that Ryan checked the screen to see if the call had dropped.
"Diane," Thomas finally said.
The word came out low.
Like something surfacing.
"You knew her."
"Years ago.
A long time." Another pause.
"She d*ed?"
"Fourteen months ago.
I'm sorry."
Thomas didn't say anything to that.
"She had a daughter," Ryan said.
"Lily.
She's eight."
The silence this time was different.
Heavier.
"How old?" Thomas said.
"Eight."
Ryan heard him exhale slowly.
A long, controlled breath.
"I didn't know," Thomas said.
"I believe you.
So did Diane's letter."
"She said that?"
"She said it was her choice.
Not yours.
She said she believed you were a good man."
The line was quiet again.
Ryan waited.
"Can I—" Thomas stopped.
Started again.
"Can I see her?"
"That's why I called," Ryan said.
They agreed on Saturday morning.
Thomas said he'd drive down.
Ryan gave him the address and his cell number and told him to call if anything changed.
He hung up and stood in the kitchen for a moment.
Through the window, Lily had abandoned the stick-and-string construction and was now sitting cross-legged on the grass, showing Danny something in her palm.
He leaned in close to look.
Ryan couldn't see what it was from where he stood.
He thought about Saturday.
About a man driving forty minutes south to meet a daughter he didn't know he had.
About an eight-year-old girl who had asked, quietly, with no drama, whether her father was going to want her.
He thought about Diane, writing a letter in stages, folding it, tucking it into a coat lining, hoping it would never be needed.
He went back outside.
"What've you got?" he asked, crouching beside them.
Lily opened her hand.
A smooth gray stone, slightly oval, with a faint white line running through the middle.
"Danny says it's a wishing stone," she said.
"He's right," Ryan said.
"You're supposed to hold it and make a wish."
Lily looked at the stone.
Her thumb moved across the white line, once.
May you like
She didn't say what she wished for.
She didn't have to.
