The Stillwater Girls(69)

Evie turns to me after a quiet moment, lip quivering. “She’s dead?”

“Yes, sweetheart. I’m so sorry.”

My daughter begins to cry over the only mother she ever knew, and I can’t help myself. I climb into the bed beside her and hold her in my arms, letting her cry against my blouse, her head tucked beneath my chin.

As I look to Brant, he gives me a reassuring nod.

Thinking about all the times we missed, all those milestones and firsts, fills my marrow with weighted sadness as I breathe her in, but looking toward the future and thinking about all the memories we’re going to make fills me with the kind of joy only a mother could know.





CHAPTER 49

WREN

“Wren,” Brant calls for me from the kitchen. “Can you come in here for a second?”

I place my book aside and gently push Evie from my lap, where she’s been lounging all day in pink pajamas covered in unicorns, watching cartoons about talking mice. Brant calls this “lounging.” Nicolette says it’s what people do on weekends and there’s no shame in relaxing.

I think I could get used to this.

Evie’s been a Gideon for almost a full week now, and so far, she seems to be settling in as expected. I overheard Dr. Pettigrew say younger children are more resilient and better able to handle change. She then called Evie a “poster child,” though I’m unsure what that means.

Several reluctant steps bring me to the kitchen, where I find Brant holding his phone. He places it down, screen-side up, on the table.

“We’ve been contacted by someone,” he says. “A family member of yours. And we just received confirmation that she’s legitimate.”

My palm flattens against my chest before my fingers inch up my neck. I rub my thumb along my collarbone, trying to imagine who it could be and trying not to get my hopes up.

“She’d like to talk to you,” he says, his eyes glinting as he points to his phone. “I’ve got her number programmed into my phone. You can call her now, or you can call her another time, when you’re ready.”

Taking his warm phone in my hand, I take a seat at the table.

“I want to call her now,” I say in spite of the hammering in my chest and the dampness filling my palms. I’m not sure if I can go another night with a hundred unanswered questions keeping me awake.

“Are you sure?” he asks.

I nod, and he reaches over, tapping his phone until a name—Katrina—and phone number appear against a white background.

“All ready for you. Just press the ‘call’ button,” he says.

I clear my throat, take two breaths, and press the button before bringing the phone to my right ear.

Three long tones play, and then nothing.

“Hello?” a woman asks.

“Hello,” I say. My heart whooshes in my ears.

“Wren.” The woman’s voice on the other end is so loud, I have to pull the phone away for a second. “Oh, my gawd!”

“I’m sorry. Who is this?” I ask.

Brant smiles, arms folded as he watches. He must be able to hear her.

“I’m your Aunt Trina,” she says. She talks funny, each syllable exaggerated and drawn out. “I just knew this day would come. Oh. My. Gawd. I’m sorry. I don’t mean to fuss and carry on, but you have no idea how long I’ve been prayin’ for this moment. You know, I knew there was a reason the good Lord wanted me to do one of those Family Tree DNA tests.”

She laughs in a way that makes me wonder if she’s crying, too.

“Brant tells me you’re looking for your momma and daddy,” she says with a sigh that tells me not to get my hopes up. “Darlin’, I don’t know how to tell you this, but they perished, oh, about seventeen or so years back.”

My eyes brim, and I turn so Brant can’t see me.

“There was a car accident. Single car. Your daddy was driving. There were no witnesses, and by the time anyone came across them, they’d already passed away,” she says, her voice stifled and broken. “But your car seat . . . your car seat was empty at the scene. The police think someone came along and took you for themselves. There are some real sick people out there.” She clucks her tongue. “You might be able to Google the story. The media called you Baby Felicity. It was this big thing on the national news for quite some time.”

“Felicity?” I ask. Suddenly hearing my given name provides a temporary distraction from the bad news.

“Oh, yes. That was your name. Is your name, rather. Felicity Hollingsworth,” she says. “Anyway, it was impossible to find you, what with no witnesses, no evidence, no leads. But we never forgot you. Not for one minute. Still have your baby picture in a frame on my dresser. Taken it to every house I’ve ever lived in.”

My Aunt Trina sounds sweet and full of life, a warm soul much like the blonde woman I remember.

“I’d love to meet you, Wren,” she says. “Sooner the better. I’m down here in Dallas, Texas, but I could hop on the next flight to New York if you’d like me to?”

“I’d love you to,” I say, tears drying as I wear a smile too strong to fight.

“Say, you ever seen a picture of your folks?” she asks.

“No.”

“Soon as we hang up, I’m going to text one to this number. How about that? And then I’ll bring a bunch of albums when I come visit.”