Phần I
Nora took the paper.
It was a photocopy of a photocopy, the type gone soft and gray at the edges. A Montgomery County Children Services intake form, dated March 3, 1999.
Reporting party: neighbor (anonymous). Infant female, approx. 6 months, heard crying continuously for 3+ hours in Apt. 2B. Mother (HOLLOWAY, Grace, 25) at work. Father (KESSLER, Daniel, 27) present in unit, found intoxicated and unresponsive by responding officer.
Status: OPEN — Home study pending. Removal hearing scheduled.
At the bottom of the page, in a different typeface, someone had added one final line:
Case closed 08/21/1999. Reason: Child no longer in home.
Nora read that line three times. Child no longer in home. As if Emily had simply moved out.
"She was about to lose her," Caleb said quietly. "Read between the lines. The state was going to take her baby that summer. And then a rich woman shows up on her porch with fifty thousand dollars." He spread his hands. "I'm not saying she's a monster. I'm saying do the math."
"She told me she threw the woman off her porch."
"Of course she did."
"She told me the woman's name too."
Caleb waited.
"Mrs. Callaway."
It lasted a second. Less than that. But Nora had spent five years reading faces at three in the morning, faces that were working very hard not to show her something, and she saw it: a tiny freeze at the corner of her brother's mouth. His eyes went, for a fraction of an instant, to the door.
Then the lawyer came back.
"Callaway's not exactly a rare name, Nor."
"Isn't it?"
"Go to bed." He reached for his carry-on. "There's a flight at noon. We'll be home for dinner, and you can forget you ever—"
"You can be home for dinner," Nora said. "I have a meeting at nine."