Chapter 6 - THE LETTER A NINE-YEAR-OLD NEVER RECEIVED
Evan opened Abigail’s letter at our dining table.
His hands shook so badly I had to slide a glass of water toward him.
The letter was simple.
That made it devastating.
Abigail wrote that Arizona was hot.
That she missed home.
That she was doing better.
She told Evan not to believe anyone who said she left because she didn’t love him.
She promised she would come back when the adults stopped being angry.
At the end:
Keep feeding Mr. Rabbit carrots for me.
Evan covered his face.
I didn’t understand.
Then he looked toward Maisie’s stuffed rabbit lying on the couch.
“Abby gave me the original.”
The toy Lenora had thrown.
Not literally the same one.
The original had fallen apart years ago.
But when Maisie was born, Evan bought a nearly identical stuffed rabbit because it reminded him of his sister.
He had never told me.
Even before he knew Abigail was alive, he had carried fragments of her through our family.
Lenora knew that too.
Maybe that was why she hated seeing Maisie clutch it.
Pendant.
Rabbit.
Blond curls.
Abigail had become visible everywhere.
Evan read the letter again.
“Dad knew.”
“Yes.”
“He let me think she was dead.”
“Yes.”
“He hugged me when I cried.”
I didn’t know what to say.
So I stopped trying.
Later that night, Lenora called.
She had learned we met Judith.
Of course she had.
“You frightened an elderly employee.”
“No,” I said. “We bought her coffee.”
“This has nothing to do with you.”
I almost laughed.
“You threw my daughter’s toy across my living room.”
“Because you’re letting Evan drag a sick woman back into his life.”
“Abigail works full time and lives independently.”
“She has always been manipulative.”
“Did she forge the transfer authorization?”
Silence.
I waited.
Lenora changed subjects.
“Has she told you how much money she wants?”
“Interesting question.”
“She wants the house.”
“Has she said that?”
“She will.”
I heard fear beneath the contempt.
Not hatred.
Fear.
That interested me.
“What house?”
Another silence.
We lived in a restored 1920s home outside Greenwich.
Evan inherited it after Martin died.
At least, that was what I believed.
Lenora said nothing.
My stomach tightened.
“Lenora.”
She hung up.
I walked into Evan’s office.
“Who owned this house before your father?”
He stared at me.
“Granddad.”
“And after?”
“My parents.”
“Both?”
“I think.”
“Think?”
Evan opened the old estate portal Martin’s attorney had provided.
The deed history took fifteen minutes to find.
Walter Hawthorne had transferred the property into a family holding trust forty years earlier.
The beneficiaries were Martin’s two children.
Abigail.
And Evan.
Not Lenora.
Not Martin.
Evan stared at the screen.
“This house wasn’t Dad’s to leave entirely to me.”
The home where we were raising Maisie might contain the same problem as his college money.
May you like
Abigail had not only been erased from photographs.
She had been erased from property.
