34. Liv
Liv
Krista’s apartment smelled reassuringly of lemongrass and clove candles.
I hung my bag on the hook next to the door, kicked off my shoes, and made myself a cup of tea.
Then, mug in hand, I lit the stack of half-burned wood in the living room’s fireplace and sent Theo a quick text: You okay?
When he didn’t reply, I texted Tessa to check in and then dropped my phone onto the chair next to me, sighing.
In what universe had I thought it was a good idea to practically have sex with Theo in a taxicab—let alone actually have sex with him, which I’d been about two minutes away from doing? As awful as it had turned out to be, his mom’s arrival had saved me from myself.
But the screwed-up dynamic between me and my parents was nothing compared to the hellscape of Theo’s relationship with his mother.
If what she’d said about him was true, then he struggled with depression, just like she did.
Why would he feel like he had to hide it from me?
Sadder still, why would his mother weaponize it against him?
He’d told me she had a drinking problem, but I hadn’t realized how bad it was.
The whites of her eyes had been jaundiced, and close up, she’d reeked of alcohol.
What would she do with the knowledge that he was spending time with a Carter?
She’d been so quick to believe the worst of her son, it made my heart hurt for him.
Guilt at leaving Theo alone with her gnawed at me. But he’d been mortified, and the last thing I wanted was to make it worse. So I’d wait to hear from him and pass the time by doing some more research. Maybe I could learn some key information about Maisie MacEwan before we met with Diane tomorrow.
I grabbed my laptop, logged into my account, and typed in what little I knew about Maisie, including an estimated birth date.
A few seconds later, up she came, in the 1930 Federal Census.
Maisie MacEwan, age eighteen. Birth: Irish Free State.
Marital status: Single. Relation to head of house: Servant.
Occupation: Maid. Industry: Private family.
I scanned the rest of the census record, hungry for more information. Residence: 207 Fifth Avenue, head of household Bill Armstrong. Armstrong had been married, with two daughters and a son still living at home.
Then I looked closer and saw something that gave me pause. Beneath Maisie’s name was another one: Bella MacEwan, age three.
Hastily, I scanned the rest of the record.
There were no other MacEwans in the household, which likely meant this was Maisie’s daughter.
A little investigation into Bella’s background in the New York birth records database proved this to be true.
Under ‘father,’ though, the record simply read, ‘Unknown.’
I sat back, my mind spinning. Bella had been born within twelve months of the date James had vanished.
A birth and a death: it had been a big year for the MacEwans.
But what if Bella hadn’t been three in 1930, after all?
What if she was six, and Maisie had lied to the census-taker about her daughter’s age?
What if James had stolen Ella Carter and stashed her with his sister for safekeeping, then been killed before he could claim the ransom?
And then there Maisie was, stuck with a little girl who she’d had to pretend was her own.
A little girl she couldn’t turn in to an orphanage or the courts, because then she’d be an accessory to the kidnapping of a child from one of New York’s most prominent families?
It seemed improbable. But the names—Bella, Ella—were so similar. What if Maisie had chosen ‘Bella’ because it was so close to Ella Carter’s original name, she knew the girl would answer to it?
I stared at the screen, at that ‘Father: Unknown.’ And then I backed out of the record and went in the other direction, researching Bella MacEwan’s future rather than her origins.
Up she popped in the 1940 census, listed as thirteen.
Only now, she didn’t live on Fifth Avenue anymore.
She’d moved to Brooklyn. Here, the head of household was listed as David Adams. And beneath his name, the census-taker had scrawled: Maisie Adams, Wife.
Maisie had moved up in the world, from a rich family’s maid to a woman with a home of her own.
A smile lifted my lips, but just as quickly, it faded. Was I witnessing a criminal’s attempt to distance herself from the only people who might’ve asked questions about Ella’s sudden appearance?
I scoured the record, but there was no other useful information to be found.
Instead, I decided to trace Bella MacEwan, now Adams. The 1950 census records weren’t available yet, so I had no luck there.
I found a record of her marriage in 1952, though, to a man named Douglas Redstone.
But in the announcement, her age was listed as twenty-eight, not twenty-five.
I stared at my screen, bewildered. Was I right, and this was the acknowledgment of Bella’s true age? Or had she simply done what had been common at the time—lie about her age, to appear younger and thus more appealing to her husband?
I pressed on, checking birth and death records. Bella’s first child, Louise, had been born in 1954. Louise had married in 1976, to Gunter Hayes. Two years later, Diane was born.
Diane Hayes was a direct descendant of Bella MacEwan. Which meant if my newest theory was right—if Bella was really Ella—then Diane was the rightful heir to the Carter fortune. Not Grandma Ella. Not my parents. And certainly not me.
By following this thread to its conclusion, I was risking everything, including my own future and Chloe’s. But if the woman we were meeting tomorrow was the granddaughter of the real Ella Carter, she had a right to know.