12. Chapter Twelve #2
Elaine's attention drifts to him each time she considers avoiding an answer.
“She found something,” Elaine says finally. “A letter. One her birth mother wrote.”
I sit forward slightly. “And those were in her adoption records?”
“No.”
I wait.
Elaine swallows. “Daniel had it.”
Lorenzo speaks for the first time.
“Why?”
Elaine turns toward him.
“He said it came with the other documents, but that we were told not to give it to Rachel unless she asked.”
“Do you know what the letter said?”
Her hands tighten together in her lap. “It wasn't mine, was it?”
“No, I suppose not,” I say, gently.
I take a moment to write things down in my notebook, but it's just an excuse. I want to give Elaine time to tell me the truth.
“He thought he was protecting her,” she says, pain crossing her face.
I set my pen down and look up. “Who did?” Though I already know.
“Daniel,” she says.
“What was he trying to protect her from, Mrs. Monroe?” I ask.
Elaine closes her eyes briefly.
“From finding out there were two of them.”
There it is.
Lorenzo and I exchange a glance.
“You knew Rachel had a twin,” I say.
“Daniel knew. I found out when Rachel did.”
“When was that?”
“Six years ago. After his funeral, when we were going through his things.”
“And Rachel found the letter.”
“Yes. It said that the babies had been separated. That Rachel had a twin sister.”
“Did it say anything about her sister?”
Elaine shakes her head. “No, I don't think she was adopted yet, so she didn't have a name. It just had a date of birth and the hospital.”
“Were they adopted through the same agency?”
“I think so.”
“You think?”
“I did not handle most of it. Daniel did.”
That may explain why the records were easier to follow in one direction than the other.
“What did Rachel do after reading it?”
“She became obsessed.”
The word comes out quiet.
“Obsessed with what, exactly?” Lorenzo asks gently.
“With finding out why they were separated. Where her sister went, whether the other family knew, or whether their mother ever tried to contact either of them.”
“Do you know if she ever located her sister?”
“I don’t know.”
I watch her.
“You’re lying.”
Elaine’s eyes fill, but she does not look away. “I don’t know for certain.”
“Elaine, please, this is important.”
“She told me last year that she found her. That her name was Genevieve, and she lived in Chicago.”
“Did she tell you if they ever met?”
Elaine shakes her head. “No, I don't know that. Honest.”
“What else did she say?”
“That Genevieve had everything.”
I keep my expression neutral. “What does that mean?”
“A good life. Friends. Work. People who cared about her.”
“Rachel didn’t have those things?”
Elaine looks offended. “She had us,” she says defensively.
“I’m asking about Rachel’s view, not yours.”
Her gaze drops to her hands. “Rachel was angry.”
“At Genevieve?”
“At everyone.”
“Why?”
“She believed Genevieve had been chosen.”
“By whom?”
“The better adoptive parents. Their birth mother. Life.” Elaine gives a small, helpless movement of one hand. “It changed depending on the day.”
“And you don't know if she ever contacted Genevieve?”
“I asked her not to.”
“That was not my question.”
“I don’t know.”
Lorenzo’s voice is quiet. “You do.”
Elaine looks at him.
“She said she watched her,” Elaine whispers.
A chill moves through me.
“Watched her how?”
“Online at first. Then in person.”
“Where?”
“Outside her work. Near her apartment. Places she went with friends. It went on for months.”
“And Genevieve never knew.”
Elaine shakes her head no. “I tried to stop her. She stopped taking my calls.”
“When did this happen exactly?”
“Last spring.”
“And then she called you again three or four months ago?”
“Yes, for the records.”
“This is important, Elaine. I need you to answer me honestly. Did you give them to her?” I ask.
Elaine hesitates. “Yes.”
“Do you have copies?”
“No.”
“Did you meet her?”
“No. I mailed them.” She seems to anticipate my next question. “To a post office box.”
“Do you still have the address?”
“I might.”
She rises, then pauses.
“Tell me, please,” she says, her voice small, “who died?”
I pause for a moment, debating if I should tell her. “Genevieve.”
Elaine’s hand flies to her mouth, and she lets out an anguished cry. “Oh God.”
She sinks back into the chair as if her legs can no longer hold her.
“I’m sorry,” I say quietly.
Elaine presses one hand over her mouth, tears spilling down her face. Lorenzo reaches for the box of tissues on the table and sets it within her reach.
“I didn’t know,” she sobs after a moment. “I swear, I didn’t know.”
“I believe you,” I tell her. “Take your time.”
She pulls a tissue free with trembling fingers and wipes at her cheeks.
“Was Rachel there?” she asks. “When it happened?”
“That’s what we’re trying to find out.”
Elaine looks at me, grief and fear tangled together. “Do you think she did it?”
“I think she knows something important,” I say. “And I need to find her before anyone else does.”