Chapter 2 - THE MAN IN THE PHOTOGRAPH
Grant arrived home at six-twelve.
Emily had spent the previous hour doing things that felt absurdly ordinary.
Calling Sacramento County.
Speaking to a social worker named Denise Holloway.
Finding a bassinet delivery service.
Sending her assistant to buy newborn diapers because Noah had only eleven left.
She did not tell Grant anything by phone.
He walked through the kitchen entrance carrying his laptop bag.
“Em?”
Emily sat at the breakfast table.
Noah was upstairs giving Clara a bottle in one of the guest rooms after Denise approved the temporary address pending a court review.
Grant saw the photograph first.
His body stopped.
Not dramatically.
One foot simply failed to complete the next step.
Emily watched.
“Who is she?”
Grant put down his bag.
“Where did you get that?”
“Who is she?”
His eyes lifted.
He knew.
That was enough.
Emily pushed the photograph across the table.
“Say her name.”
“Emily—”
“Say it.”
Grant pulled out a chair.
“Grace.”
The sound of it in his mouth made Emily’s stomach turn.
“How long?”
He rubbed his forehead.
“This isn’t how you should learn this.”
She laughed.
“There was a better version?”
“No.”
“How long have you known my daughter was alive?”
Grant looked toward the staircase.
“Is Noah here?”
“Answer me.”
“Four years.”
Emily stared at him.
The number was almost worse than thirty-six.
Thirty-six belonged to another life.
Four years belonged to breakfast.
Vacations.
Christmas mornings.
The surgery on Grant’s knee.
The night he held her while she cried after donating her old baby clothes.
“You knew for four years.”
“She contacted me.”
“Why you?”
“She didn’t contact me first.”
Emily went still.
“Who did she contact?”
“You.”
Her fingers curled against the table.
“I never heard from her.”
“I know.”
“Then what happened?”
“She mailed something to the house.”
“When?”
“March 2022.”
Emily remembered that spring.
They had been remodeling the Napa property.
Grant traveled constantly.
Emily chaired a Stanford children’s-health fundraiser.
Nothing about March had seemed capable of hiding a living daughter.
“What did the letter say?”
“She claimed she was the baby from St. Agnes.”
“Claimed.”
“I didn’t know if it was true.”
“So you opened my mail.”
“It came while you were in New York.”
“You opened my mail.”
“Your assistant put it with the household correspondence.”
“That does not make it yours.”
“I know.”
“Stop saying that.”
Grant looked down.
“I had a private investigator verify some things.”
Emily’s skin went cold.
“You investigated my daughter before telling me she existed.”
“I didn’t know she was your daughter.”
“How long did that take?”
“Two weeks.”
“And then?”
He said nothing.
Emily stood.
“And then?”
“The investigator found adoption records.”
“What records?”
“Enough to suggest she might be telling the truth.”
“Then why didn’t you tell me?”
Grant’s face tightened.
“She wanted money.”
From the staircase came a voice.
“No, she didn’t.”
Grant turned.
Noah stood halfway down.
His shoulders were rigid.
Clara slept against his chest.
Grant’s face changed.
“Noah.”
Emily looked between them.
“You know him too?”
Grant exhaled.
“I met him once.”
Noah came down.
“I was fifteen.”
“You were outside.”
“I was in the car.”
Grant turned to Emily.
“Grace asked me to meet her in Monterey.”
“And you went.”
“Yes.”
“Without telling me.”
“Yes.”
“What did she want?”
“She wanted contact.”
Noah laughed bitterly.
“Now it’s contact.”
Grant’s mouth tightened.
“She also mentioned medical bills.”
“My mom had cancer testing.”
“Noah.”
“She had a mass they were watching.”
Emily stared at him.
“You said she died from a clot.”
“She did.”
“She had cancer?”
“They thought ovarian. It wasn’t. Endometriosis and a benign tumor.”
Grant closed his eyes.
Emily pointed at him.
“You told me she wanted money.”
“She asked whether I could help with medical expenses.”
“After you found out she was my daughter.”
“Yes.”
“Did you?”
“Yes.”
“How much?”
“Twenty-five thousand.”
Noah shook his head.
“Ten.”
Grant looked at him.
“What?”
“You gave her ten.”
“Later I paid another—”
“To the hospital, not her.”
Emily pressed a hand to her temple.
“Why did you meet her instead of bringing her to me?”
Grant looked at her.
“You were barely sleeping that year.”
“What?”
“The foundation audit. Your blood pressure. Your panic attacks came back.”
Emily laughed.
“You thought a living daughter would be too stressful?”
“I thought someone arriving after thirty-two years claiming to be the baby you buried could destroy you if it wasn’t true.”
“And when you knew it was true?”
He looked away.
Noah adjusted Clara.
“My mom told me exactly what he said.”
Grant’s face hardened.
“Noah.”
“She wrote it down.”
“Your mother was angry.”
“She had reasons.”
Emily looked at Noah.
“What did he say?”
Noah’s eyes moved to Grant.
“He told her you had spent years rebuilding your life.”
Grant stood.
“That is true.”
“He told her you had a husband who loved you.”
“That was also true.”
“He told her showing up would drag you back into something you had finally survived.”
Emily felt suddenly cold.
“What else?”
Noah’s jaw tightened.
“He told her you knew she might be alive.”
Grant went still.
Emily heard the refrigerator hum.
“That’s a lie.”
Noah nodded.
“I know.”
Grant spoke quickly.
“Emily, listen to me.”
“You told her I knew?”
“I told her your mother had raised doubts.”
“My mother?”
“Yes.”
“What doubts?”
Grant rubbed his face.
“Eleanor said things near the end.”
“My mother died eight years ago.”
“I know.”
“What did she say?”
“That there were circumstances around the birth you didn’t fully understand.”
Emily’s heart thudded.
“And you didn’t tell me that either.”
“She was medicated.”
“She had pancreatic cancer. She was not delirious for fourteen months.”
Grant looked at the floor.
Noah reached into his hoodie.
He pulled out his phone.
“My mom made me keep this.”
He opened a voice memo.
Grace’s voice came through the speaker.
Emily knew it instantly.
Not because she had heard it before.
Because the cadence felt like looking into a mirror.
Grace said:
If he ever tells Emily I tried to extort him, he’s lying.
I asked him for one thing.
Tell her I’m alive.
Grant told me she already knew there was a chance and had chosen not to look for me.
I believed him for two years.
Then I found St. Agnes.
The recording ended.
Emily stared at Grant.
“What did she find at St. Agnes?”
His face drained.
Noah put his phone away.
“My mom said you’d ask that.”
He looked at Emily.
“She said to ask Grant what happened the night I was born.”
Emily barely breathed.
“Noah.”
He corrected her softly.
“The night my mother was born.”
May you like
Then he looked at Grant.
“Because according to her, you were there.”
