Chapter 7
I woke Friday morning to bright light beaming through my bedroom window. Looking outside, I saw it was going to be another clear day. As I walked to the kitchen to brew some coffee, my doorbell rang.
I peered out the window and saw Estelle at the door with a loaf of bread in hand.
When I opened the front door, she said, “I hope you like sourdough.”
“I love it.”
“I made two loaves this morning, and I thought I’d bring one to you.”
I stepped aside. “Come in.”
The smell of warm bread filled the kitchen as she set it on the counter.
“I swear,” I said, “if you keep bringing me baked goods, I’m going to have to start buying larger clothes.”
“Nonsense,” she said, looking me over. “You’re gorgeous. You couldn’t gain enough weight to make a bit of difference.”
I poured us each a cup of coffee, and we settled in at the dining room table.
For a while we talked about nothing in particular.
The weather.
A new restaurant opening downtown.
The flowers beginning to bloom along the hill.
The conversation had settled into an easy familiarity, and with every passing minute, the guilt of keeping my identity from her weighed more on me.
“Estelle, there’s something I should have told you the day we met,” I said.
She looked up from her coffee, a knowing smile spreading across her face. “I wondered how long it would take. When I knew you, you were Olivia Caraway.”
“You knew, and you didn’t say anything?”
She nodded. “The moment I first saw you.”
I stared at her. “How?”
“You look so much like your father.”
Her answer surprised me. “I always thought I looked more like my mother.”
“You have Naomi’s smile. But your eyes … those are Julian’s.”
I looked down at my coffee. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you from the start.”
“It’s fine, dear. You don’t owe me an apology.”
“I felt strange bringing it up. I wasn’t trying to deceive you.”
“I never thought you were.” She reached across the table and patted my hand. “I figured you’d tell me when you were ready.”
We sat for a moment, and then she asked the question I’d been expecting. “What brought you back after all these years?”
“I never wanted to leave. This place has always felt like home to me. When my mother died and I was forced to decide whether to stay where I’d built my life or begin again somewhere else, my thoughts kept leading me back here.”
It was one reason, but there was another.
Part of me wanted to keep my mother’s final words to myself.
But if there was anyone I could trust, I suspected it was Estelle.
I had a good feeling about her.
“The last thing my mother ever said to me before she died ...”
I stopped.
Even now, saying the words aloud wasn’t easy.
Estelle waited.
“She told me my father didn’t die in an accident.” I looked into Estelle’s eyes. “She said he was murdered.”
For several seconds, Estelle said nothing.
She just sat there, studying me.
Then she let out a slow breath. “So that’s why you’re here, or one of the reasons, at least.”
“What I don’t understand is why my mother told me that. I always believed my father died in a hit-and-run. My mother believed it too, didn’t she?”
Estelle shook her head. “I suppose you’re old enough now, and besides, if I don’t tell you, I expect you’ll figure it out on your own soon enough. No, your mother never believed it was a hit-and-run.”
My heart felt like it had skipped a beat. “Then why did she tell me it was an accident?”
Estelle looked out the window. “She was trying to protect you.”
“From what?”
“Everything that happened afterward.”
I stared at her. “I don't understand.”
“I know.” She folded her hands together on the table.
“When your father died, Naomi was terrified. I tried to get her to talk about it, but she wouldn’t.
She only said the less I knew, the better, and that she believed moving you far away from here was the best decision she could make for both of you. ”
I couldn’t make sense of what I was hearing. “I never questioned anything my mother told me about that night. I believed it had been a tragic accident, and I never felt compelled to dig any deeper. Until now, I saw no reason to revisit one of the most painful chapters in our family’s history.”
I felt foolish admitting it.
“I can’t believe I just accepted what I’d been told,” I said.
“You were twelve. You had no reason to question your mother.”
“Not then. But now, as an adult, I’m surprised I didn’t want to know more.”
The realization settled over me like a weight.
Estelle nodded. “Perhaps part of you knew that digging deeper would only reopen a wound you weren’t ready to relive.”
I leaned forward. “If my father wasn’t killed in a hit-and-run, what happened to him?”
Estelle went quiet for a moment.
Then she took a deep breath. “Your father was hit by a car several blocks from here.”
“I know.”
“The police believed the driver fled the scene, and that’s why it was deemed a hit-and-run. But that night, a man named Gordon Hawkins claimed he saw what happened. He said he knew who hit your father.”
Every muscle in my body tensed. “Who?”
Estelle glanced toward the front window, then the hallway. We were alone in the house. Even so, she lowered her voice as she said a name I didn’t expect.
“Preston Sinclair.”
Just twelve hours earlier, I’d agreed to have dinner with the man living next door. Now, for the first time since moving back to Forgotten Hill, I was afraid of what might happen if I stepped inside his house.