Chapter 13 - The Call From a Dead Woman
Grant refused to believe it at first.
“Mrs. Hargrove raised us.”
“I know.”
“She practically raised Matthew.”
“I know.”
“She protected Sophie.”
“I know.”
“Then this is wrong.”
Mara looked at him sadly.
“That is what I said about Owen.”
The sentence stopped him.
Grant looked again at the photograph.
Mrs. Hargrove appeared perhaps thirty years younger.
She stood beside his father and Victor Hale at what looked like a fundraiser.
“That proves she knew them.”
“Turn it over.”
He did.
Written on the back:
HARBOR — INITIAL TEAM, 1998
Grant looked up.
“Who wrote this?”
“Charles.”
“Did he tell you she was involved?”
“Not exactly.”
Mara walked toward the lighthouse window.
“When I met Charles before he died, he was weak. Sometimes confused. He told me Project Harbor began with four people.”
“Charles, Victor, Mrs. Hargrove…”
“And someone he called R.”
“Who?”
“He never said.”
Grant pulled out his phone.
“We need Sophie removed from that house now.”
Mara caught his wrist.
“Wait.”
“My daughter is with her.”
“Our daughter.”
Grant looked at her.
The correction carried five years.
“Our daughter,” he repeated.
Mara’s eyes softened.
“Mrs. Hargrove may not be dangerous.”
“May not?”
“She helped hide the note in Sophie’s music box.”
“She also knew about Nora.”
“And didn’t tell Owen when Nora arrived.”
Grant frowned.
“So what are you saying?”
“That we need truth before accusation.”
Grant almost laughed.
“You haven’t changed.”
“Neither have you.”
For the first time, something familiar passed between them.
Not tragedy.
Marriage.
Nora interrupted.
“I can call Sophie without mentioning anything.”
Grant nodded.
Sophie answered immediately.
“Dad?”
Grant almost cried hearing her voice.
“Hi, sweetheart.”
“Did you find Mommy?”
Mara turned away.
Grant’s throat tightened.
“I found someone I want you to talk to.”
Mara spun around.
Fear filled her face.
Grant held out the phone.
She shook her head.
“I can’t.”
“Why?”
“What if she hates me?”
Grant’s expression softened.
“She’s eight.”
“That doesn’t mean she can’t hate.”
Sophie’s voice came through.
“Dad?”
Grant put the phone against Mara’s ear.
Mara froze.
“Hello?”
Sophie stopped breathing.
Then:
“Mommy?”
Mara closed her eyes.
“Hi, baby.”
Sophie screamed.
Not in fear.
Pure emotion.
“Mommy!”
Mara collapsed to her knees.
Grant caught her.
Sophie began sobbing.
“Where are you? Why didn’t you come home? Are you coming home now? Nora said you made chocolate cake. Did you really? Mommy?”
Mara cried harder.
“Yes. Yes, I did.”
“I knew you weren’t dead.”
Grant looked away.
Mara whispered, “I’m sorry I wasn’t there.”
“When are you coming?”
“Soon.”
“Tonight?”
Mara looked at Grant.
“Yes.”
The answer decided everything.
They returned to the mansion after midnight under federal protection.
Mrs. Hargrove stood in the front hall.
Sophie had fallen asleep on a sofa refusing to go upstairs until Grant returned.
When Mara entered, Mrs. Hargrove covered her mouth.
“Oh, my God.”
Mara stared at her.
Mrs. Hargrove began crying.
“My girl.”
She stepped forward.
Mara did not.
Mrs. Hargrove stopped.
She understood.
“You know.”
“Some,” Mara said.
The older woman slowly nodded.
Grant lifted Sophie from the sofa.
She woke.
For one confused second she looked at Mara.
Then recognition came.
“Mommy!”
Grant set her down.
Sophie ran.
Mara fell to her knees.
Mother and daughter collided.
Sophie wrapped both arms around Mara’s neck.
Mara sobbed so hard she could barely breathe.
“You came back.”
“I came back.”
“You took forever.”
Everyone laughed and cried at once.
Mara buried her face in Sophie’s hair.
“I know.”
Grant stood a few feet away.
He had imagined this reunion thousands of times.
None of those fantasies contained the awkwardness.
The fear.
The visible years between them.
But none contained this much life either.
Sophie grabbed Grant’s hand.
“Come here.”
He joined them.
For the first time in five years, all three Mercers held one another.
Mrs. Hargrove quietly walked away.
Mara noticed.
Later, after Sophie slept between Grant and Mara in the master bedroom, Grant found Mrs. Hargrove downstairs.
She sat in the dark kitchen.
He placed the old photograph before her.
Mrs. Hargrove stared.
“I wondered when that would come back.”
Grant sat.
“Tell me.”
She looked tired.
“Project Harbor did begin with me.”
Grant’s jaw tightened.
“But not the way you think.”
“Everyone says that.”
She almost smiled.
“Your father and Victor created a hidden account after your kidnapping.”
“I know.”
“I handled household finances. Charles needed somebody outside the company.”
“So you helped.”
“Yes.”
“Did you know it became money laundering?”
“Not until years later.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Charles begged me not to.”
Grant exhaled sharply.
“Another promise.”
“Yes.”
Mrs. Hargrove looked toward the ceiling.
“Your father believed truth would destroy you.”
“It almost destroyed me anyway.”
“I know.”
“Who is R?”
Mrs. Hargrove looked at him.
“What?”
“Fourth person. Charles called them R.”
The older woman went completely pale.
Grant saw genuine terror.
“Who is it?”
She whispered:
“Rebecca.”
“Rebecca who?”
Mrs. Hargrove’s eyes filled with tears.
“Your mother.”
Grant stopped breathing.
His mother, Rebecca Mercer, had died when he was twelve.
At least, that was what Grant had been told.
Mrs. Hargrove continued:
“She didn’t die in that car accident.”
Grant stood so quickly the chair fell.
“No.”
“She disappeared.”
“No.”
“Your father told you she died because—”
“No.”
Mara appeared in the doorway behind him.
Grant stared at Mrs. Hargrove.
“Where is my mother?”
The older woman shook her head.
“I haven’t known for twenty-seven years.”
Then the kitchen phone rang.
A number appeared.
International.
Mrs. Hargrove stared at it.
Her face drained.
Grant answered.
“Hello?”
An elderly woman’s voice spoke.
“Grant?”
He closed his eyes.
Something about the voice reached through decades.
“Who is this?”
A pause.
Then:
May you like
“It’s your mother.”
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