Chapter 12 #2
She’s blissfully unaware that all those years without her sister are my fault—because I trusted the wrong person. I gave Meghan my heart and lost all common sense.
If I had asked more questions, done more research, hired someone to find Dani… it would’ve taken five minutes to learn she was in the group home all along.
My family trusted me. And I trusted Meghan.
In the end, two sisters lived apart for ten years.
Yeah, Elle’s right. I am a monster.
"Hi, Bethy," I say, pulling her into a hug. "How did it go?"
"It went incredibly well," she says, unable to contain her happiness.
"What did you two talk about?" I ask, wondering if any of the truth had come out.
"We talked about me," she says. "She wanted to know everything from beginning to end. Of course, I don’t remember all the way back to when I was four, but I do have glimpses of things.
Mom reading to me at bedtime and me crying for Dani.
How she held me until the tears stopped.
How you stopped wearing your uniform whenever you visited because seeing you triggered the memory of the day Dani and I got separated. "
"How did she react to that?" I ask, wanting to know more.
"She didn’t comment on it," she says, pursing her lips. "I think she’s still a little mad at you."
"A little?" I say, raising an eyebrow. "I think a lot is more like it."
"Yeah," she agrees. "She’s not very happy with you. So we didn't talk about you."
"Of course," I say.
"She’ll come around," she says, trying to make me feel better about it.
"Did you talk about her time in the group home?"
"I tried to ask about it, but she said it was more important to focus on me. That there’d be plenty of time to talk about the sad stuff later, and today should be about the happy things."
"That was smart," I say.
"She asked me what my favorite things were," she says. "It was weird… because she didn’t seem to know."
"What do you mean?"
"She didn’t know my favorite color is purple, or that I love butterflies.
She didn’t know I got five dollars from the tooth fairy, or that I got a bike for my fifth birthday.
She should've had a picture of me riding it, training wheels and all. It’s like…
she didn’t know anything about me. But those are all things I told her.
In the letters. There were pictures. The ones Mom and I sent. "
I feel the breath leave my lungs. "That’s because she never got them," I murmur.
Beth pulls back, confusion knitting her brow. "What do you mean, she never got them?"
I look at her. Really look at her, and realize how much she’s lost without ever knowing it. And how much of that is on me.
It’s at this moment I decide—I have to speak to Meghan.
I need the truth. And this time, I won’t be so trusting.
***
After I drop off Beth at home and arrange for Mom to pick up Hannah from school, I drive to Hanover—unwilling to wait for Meghan to have time to see me. Her car isn't in the driveway, but I decide I’ll wait as long as it takes.
Sitting in the car, I begin to wonder how the hell I let myself be taken for a fool by her. So much for my instincts, as a cop, as a man. Why did I allow myself to be manipulated? She was beautiful, intelligent, passionate about her job. She loved the kids she was in charge of.
Or so I thought.
I should’ve seen the warning signs.
"What are you going to do with your life?" she used to ask me. "Are you going to climb the ladder in the police department until you make captain? You could run for mayor someday."
If the red flags had been any more crimson, they would’ve been floating in blood.
But I was captivated—hooked from the start by her beauty, the way she looked at me. Her smile. Those blue eyes. The way she laughed.
At first, I was mesmerized.
And then, I fell in love.
We were happy at first. But the second she realized she couldn’t mold me, couldn’t bend my goals to match her ambitions, it all went downhill from there.
"Mr. Callahan." A husky voice pulls me from my unwelcome memories and self-condemnation. "Are you here to see Ms. Fletcher? She's out of town this week. Attending a conference in Indianapolis."
I look up to see the group home's janitor and long-time employee, Cedric. He’s worked here almost as long as I’ve been alive. I’m sure he’s seen and heard plenty—the stories he could tell. When the light bulb goes on in my brain, I realize my cop instincts aren’t completely shot.
“No,” I say, my tone friendly. “I’m here to talk to you, actually.”
“Me?” he exclaims, placing a hand on his chest.
“Yes, sir. Do you have a minute?”
“I was just about to go to lunch,” he says, lifting a lunch bag as proof.
“Let me take you to lunch,” I suggest. “You can have whatever’s in that bag tomorrow.”
“I’m not one to turn down a free meal,” he says with a chuckle. “Let me walk back inside and put this in the fridge. I’ll be right back.”
Ten minutes later, he's sitting across from me at a burger joint down the street, sipping a cold lemonade while we wait for the healthiest thing on the menu—pastrami sandwiches and fries.
"So, what can I do you for, Mr. Callahan?"
"Call me Cal, Cedric," I say. "We've known each other long enough to be on a first-name basis, don't you think?"
"I’ve known your wife for almost fifteen years, and the only name she'll allow me to call her is Ms. Fletcher."
"Ex-wife," I correct.
"That's right," he says. "I heard about your divorce. I'm sorry about that."
"No worries," I say. "Listen, Cedric, I need to talk to you about a resident from ten years ago."
"Phew! Ten years ago?" he replies. "That's a lot of kids between then and now."
"Elle is unforgettable."
"Elle?" he says, rubbing his chin with his thumb and forefinger. "I don’t recall the name."
"How about Dani Hartman?"
The shift in his demeanor is instantaneous, and very telling. He remembers her.
"Is this off the record?"
"I'm not a cop anymore, if that’s what you mean."
"Neither was the last person who came by asking questions," he says.
My gaze snaps to his.
"Someone’s been asking about Dani?"
He nods. "Yes."
I spot our waitress approaching with our orders. She sets the plates down, and I thank her with a quick nod. Cedric’s already taken a massive bite of his sandwich.
"Sorry," he says pausing before taking another bite. "I only get an hour for lunch."
I let him eat, pushing the conversation to pause.
But me? I’ve completely lost my appetite.
After the last bite and the final sip of his drink, Cedric wipes his mouth with a napkin and sucks on his teeth a few times. Then he leans back, full and content.
"Someone came by the home a few weeks ago," he says. "Said he was a private investigator—former cop. He was looking for a girl who’d been separated from her sister. Said the older one ended up in the group home."
He glances at me, measuring his words.
"Asked me a few questions. Promised he wouldn’t share my name with anyone if I helped him out. Tried to give me a hundred bucks for information."
Cedric shakes his head. "I turned him down. Figured sharing a few memories is one thing. Getting paid for it? That didn’t sit right with me."
“So, you do remember Dani?”
“How could I forget her?” Cedric says, shaking his head slowly. “She was a good kid. In a lot of pain after losing her sister. I swear, that child landed square in Ms. Fletcher’s crosshairs… and the poor thing didn’t even realize it.”
I sit up straighter, every muscle tense. “What do you mean?”
“Ms. Fletcher disliked Dani from the moment she arrived,” he says. “And after you came along asking questions and showing interest, her dislike grew into pure disdain.”
“Did you share all this with the investigator?”
He shakes his head and fiddles with his napkin. “No, sir. It was clear he wasn’t looking for my opinion. He wanted facts.”
I adjust my approach—realizing now my questions need to be clear and specific. “Cedric, what exactly did he ask? And what information, other than your opinion, were you able to provide?”
“Well,” he says, lowering his voice, “I gave him half an hour with Dani’s file. Waited until everyone in the office had gone home for the night. Overnight staff doesn’t go near the admin area—they stay on the residential side. So I slipped him in and out without anyone noticing.”
"Any cameras?"
"The security guard was on break at the time."
I exhale slowly. "Okay. Thank you—for your honesty, and for trusting me.”
He hesitates. There's a shift in his posture, a ripple of unease. "There’s one more thing... I didn’t tell the investigator."
My attention sharpens. "What is it?"
"There’s a box in the attic," he says, his voice low. "It’s labeled with Dani’s name. Ms. Fletcher had me stash it up there years ago after Dani left. I always wondered why she didn’t take it with her... if it was really hers."