Chapter 2 - The Country Woman's Son
I waited until morning before opening the suitcase properly.
Ruth found me at the kitchen table staring at it.
“You haven't slept.”
“Not much.”
She poured coffee.
“Would you like me to ask questions?”
I shook my head.
“Not yet.”
“Fair enough.”
She sat opposite me.
For several minutes, neither of us spoke.
Then Ruth pointed at the suitcase.
“That thing looks like it has seen more trouble than I have.”
I touched the brass buckle.
“My mom loved it.”
“Then let's find out what she thought was worth carrying.”
I opened it.
Clothes.
Scarf.
A pair of worn shoes.
Nothing unusual.
Then I remembered the message.
Look inside your mother's suitcase.
I ran my fingers along the lining.
Nothing.
Ruth watched.
“Feeling around for something?”
“Yes.”
“Secret compartment?”
“I don't know.”
She reached across the table.
“Old suitcases like that sometimes have stitched pockets under the lining.”
She was right.
There was a seam near the bottom.
I found a small pocket.
Empty.
My pulse quickened.
Someone had already searched it.
But then I saw a tiny metal zipper beneath the fabric.
I pulled.
Inside was a folded piece of paper.
One line.
23 Willow Lane.
My father's handwriting.
I knew it immediately.
“What is it?”
Ruth asked.
“I don't know.”
I turned the paper over.
Nothing.
My phone rang.
Dad.
I stared at the screen.
Ruth noticed.
“Do you want to answer?”
“No.”
I let it ring.
Then I listened to his voicemail.
“Nora.”
His voice was different.
Tired.
“This is not what you think.”
I almost deleted it.
Then he said:
“Please don't go to Willow Lane.”
I froze.
Ruth looked at me.
“Well.”
I stood.
“Now I have to.”
She sighed.
“I thought you might say that.”
“I could put you in danger.”
“You showed up with a suitcase and rainwater in your shoes.”
She grabbed her keys.
“I'm already involved.”
We drove toward Willow Lane.
The address was forty minutes away.
It belonged to an old house surrounded by overgrown trees.
The place looked abandoned.
I knocked.
No answer.
The door wasn't locked.
Inside was dust.
Furniture covered in white sheets.
Old photographs.
And an empty safe.
I found my father's company's logo burned into a box.
Ruth searched the room.
“There's a basement.”
We went downstairs.
The basement had shelves filled with paperwork.
I began opening folders.
Most contained old business records.
Then I found one with my name on it.
NORA HAYES.
I opened it.
Inside were documents dating back twenty years.
My adoption records.
My hospital records.
My mother's medical records.
And a DNA test.
I stared at the page.
Probability of biological relationship between Dean Hayes and Nora Hayes: 0.00%.
My knees nearly gave out.
“I'm not his daughter.”
Ruth stepped closer.
“I don't think that's what it means.”
I turned the page.
A second DNA test.
Eleanor Hayes and Nora Hayes.
99.98%.
My mother's name.
Of course.
She was my biological mother.
But Dean wasn't my biological father.
I sat on the floor.
Everything I'd ever known suddenly felt like a lie.
Ruth knelt beside me.
“Who is your father?”
“I don't know.”
There was another document.
This one was unsigned.
A photograph had been attached.
A young man.
I knew him immediately.
Ethan.
No.
Impossible.
I looked at the date.
Twenty-nine years ago.
Three years before Ethan was born.
The man in the photograph wasn't Ethan.
It was his father.
John Carter.
Ruth's late husband.
I stared at Ruth.
She went pale.
“That isn't possible.”
“What?”
She reached for the photograph.
Her hand trembled.
“John and Eleanor knew each other.”
“Who was Eleanor?”
“My mother?”
Ruth swallowed.
“No.”
She looked at the paperwork.
Then at me.
“The woman you called Mom."
The room seemed to grow smaller.
Ruth sat down.
“My husband once told me he had made a mistake before we married.”
“What mistake?”
“He said he'd fallen in love with someone else.”
She looked at me.
“I never knew her name.”
A noise upstairs made both of us freeze.
Footsteps.
Ruth stood.
“Someone is here.”
We turned off the basement light.
The footsteps creaked across the floor.
A man's voice called from above.
“Nora?”
My blood froze.
Dad.
He had followed us.
I started toward the stairs.
Ruth stopped me.
“Wait.”
Dad entered the basement.
He looked exhausted.
He saw me.
Then he saw Ruth.
His face changed completely.
“Ruth Carter.”
Ruth stared at him.
“Dean Hayes.”
Silence.
Then Dad whispered:
“You don't know what you've walked into.”
Ruth crossed her arms.
“I think I know exactly what I walked into.”
Dad's eyes moved toward the folder in my hand.
“Nora.”
“Was John Carter my biological father?”
He closed his eyes.
No denial.
That answer destroyed me.
“You lied to me for twenty-eight years.”
“I was trying to protect you.”
“From what?”
“From the people who killed your mother.”
I stared.
“My mother died of cancer.”
Dad's face twisted.
“That wasn't the whole truth.”
Ruth stepped forward.
“Tell her.”
He looked at Ruth.
“They're watching.”
“Who?”
He whispered.
“Melissa.”
I felt a chill.
“Melissa knows?”
“She knows some of it.”
“Paige?”
He said nothing.
I understood.
“You all knew.”
Dad shook his head.
“Paige doesn't know everything.”
I laughed bitterly.
“Neither did I.”
Then footsteps sounded again.
Dad's expression changed.
“They found us.”
The basement window shattered.
A bullet struck the wall.
Ruth grabbed my arm.
“Move!”
We ran through the back exit.
Dad shouted behind us.
“Nora! Take the documents!”
I grabbed the folder.
We reached the truck.
Ruth started the engine.
Another shot.
The rear window exploded.
I ducked.
We sped away.
For several miles, neither of us spoke.
Then my phone rang.
This time, the caller ID displayed a name.
Ethan Carter.
I stared.
Ruth looked at me.
“You don't have to answer.”
I did.
“Hello?”
A man's voice came through.
Deep.
Calm.
“Nora Hayes?”
“Yes.”
“This is Ethan.”
“I know.”
Silence.
Then he asked:
“Are you the woman my mother brought home?”
“Yes.”
He exhaled.
“I need you to listen carefully.”
“Why?”
“Because my mother just sent me a copy of a letter.”
My stomach dropped.
“What letter?”
“One written by a woman named Eleanor Hayes.”
I looked at Ruth.
Ethan continued.
“It says John Carter had another child.”
May you like
My hand tightened around the phone.
“And it says that child was you.”
