The Address(100)

Manvel was right; the news of actually being a Camden was bittersweet, considering the awful legacy of the family. She addressed Fred, avoiding her father’s eyes. “How are Melinda and Manvel not part of the family? I figured if I was related, we’d all be able to share the trust. Who are they, then?” The photo of Sara and the children took on new significance with these revelations.

“As I said to her, it’s one of those mysteries we may never solve.”

It pained Bailey to think that they might never know the full story. What exactly had happened between Theodore Camden and Sara Smythe? Bailey imagined the woman had been sent over the edge by her love to a married man, and that after her release from Blackwell’s, she’d bided her time before killing the man she considered responsible. But no doubt, there was more to the story.

“I think the Met should have the sheath,” she said. Jack nodded in agreement but didn’t say anything. Learning the truth seemed to have alienated the one family member she had left. What had she done?

Fred made a note on his desk. “Very well. I’ll let them know.”

“I’m sorry I lashed out at you, Dad.” Bailey’s eyes welled up with tears and she was glad Melinda was gone, so as not to see her so vulnerable. “I know I forced you into this, that you don’t want to be a part of this family, what’s left of it. But I swear I don’t care if the trust is worth two thousand or twenty thousand dollars. That’s not why I did it. I had to know the truth.”

Jack spoke slowly, carefully. “After I heard from Fred, I spent a long time sitting out on the docks, thinking. I figured I’d held you and your mom back, nursing the same grudge that had driven my father mad all those years. Watching as it affected you, too, like a poisonous birthright, passed down from generation to generation. I’m sorry I closed myself off and did nothing to help you. I didn’t know what to do, or what to say, to make it right.” He tilted his head, one eyebrow raised. “And, of course, Scotty told me I was out of my mind to pass up a potential windfall.”

She took his hand in her own. “Thanks for covering the cost of the testing. Let’s just hope the trust has enough to reimburse you.”

Fred laughed. “Oh, I don’t think you’ll find that a problem. How happy I am to spread some good news today.” His features relaxed for the first time since the meeting had begun. “You are now in charge of three million dollars.”

Bailey yelped. “Three million!”

Jack blinked a couple of times. “I’m not sure I’m capable of handling that much money.”

“Don’t worry, we’re here to help,” offered Fred. “You’ll get all the guidance and advice necessary.”

Jack turned to Bailey. “First off, I want you to consider it our money. Yours and mine. We’ll make decisions together, promise?”

She promised. “And second?”

“Let’s take care of each other better.” The words came out a hoarse whisper. “Your mother would’ve wanted that.”

Bailey buried her face in his chest and wept.





CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE



New York City, November 1885


Blackwell’s Island. The one place to which Sara vowed she’d never return. But it was the only way of reclaiming her own past. Of finding out the truth. All the strange dreams and ruminations of the past few weeks had gnawed away at her, and it was time to close out that chapter in her life for once and for all. If Daisy had been wrongly accused, Sara would make things right. Only by seeing the girl’s face would she know.

She almost didn’t recognize the asylum, if it weren’t for the familiar octagon. The land to the right of the walkway had been transformed into a garden, where dozens of women in serviceable dresses and aprons weeded and chattered away in the unexpected November warmth, clearing the flower garden for the winter to come and picking large gourds that they put onto a wheelbarrow.

Sara walked past the building, to the south end of the island, clutching the piece of paper that Nellie had sent her. Her friend had responded quickly to Sara’s request, and for that, she was grateful. Sara had informed her of her trip today, so someone knew where she was. Part of her regretted not accepting Nellie’s invitation to accompany her, as she had a not-so-irrational fear that she might once again disappear into the madhouse.

But Nellie was a journalist. Sara didn’t want to let on too much. Not yet.

In the penitentiary, Sara waited in a dingy room with scuff marks on the walls, Nellie’s referral having created an immediate response to her request. The door opened and Daisy shuffled in behind a woman guard wearing a stony expression. “You have ten minutes,” the guard said before walking out.

Daisy scowled at Sara. Her hair, once shiny with curls, was a matted, dirty nest. Two of her teeth were missing and it made her seem even younger than she was, like a seven-year-old, albeit one who was chained by hands and feet. She sat down, hard, in the chair opposite Sara.

“Daisy.” Sara leaned forward, near tears.

Daisy considered her for a moment. Then she sneered and spit on the ground.

Sara drew back, repulsed. She’d imagined the girl pouring out her heart, telling her that she was innocent, pleading for help. Anything but this cold grimace.

She didn’t know how to begin, what to say. In spite of the curl in Daisy’s lip, she recognized in her eyes a desperation to make contact. Sara had felt the same way in the asylum, the animal need to communicate with someone else, about anything. To find a measure of humanity in the rigid structure of each day.