Chapter 3: What the Photograph Could Not Explain
Eleanor reached for the photograph.
I pulled it back.
"That's my father," I said.
"That's Thomas Mercer.
And that baby—"
"Give it to me." Her voice was quiet but her hand was shaking.
"Mrs.
Hale." The manager stepped between us.
"Perhaps we should move somewhere private."
Eleanor didn't look at him.
She kept her eyes on me.
On the photograph.
On the music box still in my other hand.
"How old are you?" she asked.
"Thirty."
Something moved across her face.
Not quite grief.
Not quite relief.
Something caught between the two that had nowhere to go.
"The fire was thirty years ago," she said.
"October."
"I know.
My father told me he found me in October.
He always said that was why October was his favorite month."
Eleanor closed her eyes.
The manager touched her elbow gently.
"Mrs.
Hale—"
"I'm fine, Robert." She opened her eyes.
"Take us to the archive room."
The archive room was small and smelled of old paper and cedar.
A single window looked out onto the alley behind the hotel.
Robert set the photograph on the table between us and left without being asked.
Eleanor sat across from me.
She folded her hands.
She looked like a woman who had rehearsed this moment and found that rehearsal meant nothing.
"Before I say anything else," she said, "I need to know one thing.
Did Thomas ever tell you anything about this hotel?
About us?
About Catherine?"
"Nothing.
He told me he was a firefighter.
He told me he found me outside after a fire.
He said my mother had d\*ed and there was no family to take me in." I set the music box on the table between us.
"He never mentioned a name.
He never mentioned Boston specifically.
He just said — a hotel fire.
A baby with no one left."
Eleanor looked at the music box for a long time.
"Catherine made that for you," she said finally.
"She had it made when she was seven months along.
She was so certain you would be a girl.
She picked the lullaby herself.
Had the crest engraved because she wanted you to always know where you came from." She paused.
"She gave it to Thomas the night of the fire.
She was trapped on the fourth floor.
He was the one who reached her.
She gave him the baby and the music box and she told him—" Eleanor stopped.
"What did she tell him?"
"She told him to run.
The ceiling was coming down.
She told him to get the baby out and not to stop for anything."
I couldn't speak.
"He got out," Eleanor said.
"We saw him from the street.
Standing there with the baby.
My husband started toward him.
And then—" She pressed her lips together.
"Thomas turned.
He walked away from the crowd.
Quickly.
And by the time my husband reached the spot where he had been standing, he was g\*ne."
"He walked away."
"He disappeared.
Within minutes.
And when the fire marshal found him two hours later and asked about the baby, Thomas said she hadn't made it.
Said he had tried but she was already g\*ne when he got to her." Eleanor's voice didn't waver.
"We had no reason not to believe him.
He was a firefighter.
He had gone into a burning building.
He was covered in ash and his hands were b\*rned.
Why would we question him?"
I looked down at the photograph.
My father's face.
Young.
Thirty years younger.
Holding a baby against his chest with both arms.
"He looks like he's protecting her," I said.
"Yes," Eleanor said.
"He does."
The silence that followed was the kind that asks a question neither person wants to answer first.
I asked it anyway.
"Did my father have a family?
Before me?"
Eleanor looked up.
"What do you mean?"
"A wife.
Children.
Anyone who might have wanted a baby and couldn't—"
"I don't know," she said.
"We never investigated him.
We mourned our daughter.
We buried an empty casket for our granddaughter.
We moved on because there was nothing else to do." She paused.
"Until now."
I turned the photograph over.
Read the four words again.
*Don't let them find her.*
"Who wrote this?" I asked.
Eleanor reached across the table and touched the edge of the photograph.
May you like
Just the edge.
"That," she said quietly, "is Catherine's handwriting."
