Chapter 2 - One Day as Her Son-in-Law
On Sunday morning, Ryland Savino stood in his bedroom holding two ties and wondering how his life had reached a point where the more dangerous choice appeared to be navy blue.
Dominic stood in the doorway.
“The gray one.”
“Why?”
“Less funeral.”
Ryland looked at him.
“It’s an assisted-living Family Day.”
“Exactly.”
Ryland chose navy.
Dominic sighed.
“I said gray.”
“I heard you.”
At eleven, the black car stopped outside Bay View Manor.
Ryland had brought flowers.
Dominic had objected to roses.
Too romantic.
Lilies looked like a funeral.
So Ryland carried yellow tulips and a box of pastries from Bolavia.
He felt more uncomfortable than he had at meetings involving armed men and hostile lawyers.
The common room had been rearranged.
Paper decorations hung from windows.
Folding tables held casseroles, fruit, cakes, and plastic cups of lemonade.
Families filled the room.
Grandchildren ran between chairs.
Adult sons adjusted their mothers’ sweaters.
Daughters took photographs.
At the far end, Margaret sat alone in a pale blue dress.
Bernice sat with a niece and two teenage grandsons.
Margaret kept looking at the entrance.
The moment Ryland appeared, she stood.
“My goodness.”
Her voice was almost shy.
“You wore a tie.”
Ryland crossed the room.
“I was told this was formal.”
“It isn’t.”
“I was misinformed.”
Margaret laughed.
It was the first time he had heard the sound.
She touched the tulips.
“For me?”
“Yes.”
“Emma likes yellow.”
Ryland paused.
“So does my mother.”
“Your mother has good taste.”
Margaret took his arm.
Not because she needed physical support.
Because she wanted everyone watching to understand that someone had come for her.
Ryland realized that immediately.
He let her.
Bernice’s eyebrows nearly disappeared into her hairline.
Margaret guided him to the table.
“Bernice, this is my son-in-law.”
Bernice opened her mouth.
Closed it.
Ryland extended his hand.
“Ryland.”
Bernice shook it automatically.
“You’re—”
“Yes.”
“Oh.”
Margaret sat straighter.
Ryland almost smiled.
He had not come to win a petty battle between elderly women.
But watching Margaret enjoy the victory made the morning worthwhile.
For the first half hour, she was completely present.
She told him that she once worked in a library.
That Tom hated tomatoes but ate Margaret’s tomato sauce because love made people dishonest.
That Emma could read before kindergarten and had once cut her own hair because she wanted to look like a cartoon detective.
Every time Emma’s name appeared, Margaret became younger.
Ryland listened.
He asked questions but never about the disappearance.
Diane watched from across the room.
Her expression softened slightly.
At noon, Margaret suddenly turned toward the entrance.
“There.”
Ryland followed her gaze.
Nobody stood there.
“Emma?”
Margaret nodded.
“She’s parking.”
Her hands began trembling.
“She always parks too far away because she’s afraid someone will scratch the car.”
Ryland felt the room shift beneath him.
Margaret checked the door every thirty seconds.
Five minutes.
Ten.
Twenty.
At thirty, she stopped speaking.
Ryland knew disappointment.
He had seen it turn into anger, violence, addiction and silence.
Margaret’s disappointment turned inward.
“She forgot.”
He said nothing.
“She gets busy.”
Margaret smiled too brightly.
“Work.”
“Of course.”
“She works with children.”
Ryland looked at her sharply.
That detail was new.
“What kind of work?”
Margaret stared at the lemonade in front of her.
“With children.”
Then confusion moved across her face.
“No.”
Her breathing changed.
“With families.”
“Margaret.”
“I can’t remember.”
Ryland lowered his voice.
“You don’t have to.”
“She helps people find—”
Margaret pressed two fingers against her temple.
“Don’t push.”
The voice came from behind him.
A woman stood there holding a tray of paper plates.
Mid-thirties.
Dark brown hair pulled into a loose knot.
Gray-green eyes.
Simple black pants.
Cream sweater.
No jewelry except a silver pendant.
Ryland had not heard her approach.
She set the tray down.
“When people with memory impairment reach for something and can’t catch it, pressure makes the panic worse.”
Ryland rose automatically.
“And you are?”
“Someone who has worked in geriatric social services long enough to recognize what you were doing.”
“I asked one question.”
“One question can be one too many.”
Margaret looked at the woman.
Her face went completely still.
The woman noticed.
“Are you okay?”
Margaret whispered something.
“What?”
The woman leaned closer.
Margaret reached toward the pendant at her throat.
Her fingers stopped one inch away.
“Emma.”
The woman froze.
Ryland felt every instinct in his body sharpen.
The woman slowly straightened.
“My name is Emily.”
Margaret shook her head.
“Emma.”
“I’m Emily Hart.”
Margaret stared at her.
Then smiled sadly.
“You look like my daughter.”
Emily’s expression changed.
Not recognition.
Pain.
Quickly hidden.
“I’m told I have one of those faces.”
Margaret reached for her hand.
Emily allowed it.
The silver pendant swung forward.
Ryland saw the design.
A tiny open book.
Behind it, barely visible, the engraved letter M.
“Do you work here?” he asked.
Emily glanced at him.
“I volunteer twice a month.”
“Since when?”
“Is this an interrogation?”
“No.”
“It sounds like one.”
Margaret squeezed Emily’s fingers.
“My daughter had a necklace like that.”
Emily looked down.
“This belonged to my mother.”
The words were ordinary.
The effect was not.
Ryland sat slowly.
“What was your mother’s name?”
Emily’s gaze sharpened.
“That is absolutely none of your business.”
Margaret whispered:
“Margaret.”
Emily went pale.
For three seconds, nobody moved.
Then she pulled her hand away.
“I need to take these plates to the kitchen.”
She turned.
Ryland followed.
Dominic, standing near the door, saw his expression and moved immediately.
Ryland held up one finger.
Stay.
He caught Emily in the hallway.
“Ms. Hart.”
She kept walking.
“Emily.”
She turned sharply.
“You don’t get to follow me because an elderly woman confused me with someone she knew.”
“Your mother’s name was Margaret.”
“My mother’s name was Miriam.”
“You hesitated.”
Emily’s jaw tightened.
“I don’t know who you are beyond a surname people whisper around this neighborhood, but I know exactly what men like you do when they think every closed door is an invitation to push harder.”
Ryland stopped several feet away.
“My father knew Margaret Whitmore.”
That did it.
Emily lost color again.
“Whitmore?”
“You know the name.”
“No.”
“You reacted.”
“I reacted because you are behaving like a lunatic.”
She tried to pass.
Ryland stepped aside instead of blocking her.
“My father had a photograph.”
Emily stopped.
“Of Margaret, her husband and their daughter.”
Silence.
“The girl was named Emma.”
Emily’s eyes glistened.
“I said stop.”
Ryland did.
Emily stood with her back half turned.
When she spoke, her voice was lower.
“My adoptive parents were Daniel and Miriam Hart.”
Adoptive.
Ryland did not move.
“They took me in when I was seventeen.”
“Before that?”
“I don’t discuss before that.”
“Do you remember your name?”
She laughed once.
It carried no humor.
“Do you?”
“Yes.”
“Congratulations.”
She walked away.
Ryland let her.
Dominic appeared beside him.
“That went well.”
“She was adopted at seventeen.”
“I heard.”
“Her age matches.”
“Lots of women are thirty-five.”
“She has Margaret’s eyes.”
“You saw a photograph one time at three in the morning.”
“She has Margaret’s eyes.”
Dominic studied him.
“You want me to look into her?”
“No.”
Ryland surprised himself with the answer.
“If she’s Emma, she deserves to choose what she tells us.”
“So what now?”
Ryland watched Emily disappear through the kitchen doors.
“We find out what happened to Tom.”
During lunch, Emily did not return to Margaret’s table.
But Ryland occasionally caught her watching from across the room.
Margaret forgot the moment almost completely.
By dessert, she introduced Ryland to Bernice again as though Bernice had never met him.
“This is my son-in-law.”
Bernice nodded solemnly this time.
“I know.”
“He owns a restaurant.”
“So I heard.”
“He’s very handsome.”
Ryland looked at the ceiling.
Bernice grinned.
“You picked a good one.”
Margaret leaned closer to Bernice.
“He’s not as frightening as he thinks.”
Ryland heard every word.
Dominic turned away to hide his laugh.
At two, musicians from a local college played old standards.
Margaret asked Ryland to dance.
He refused twice.
Accepted the third time.
She was light on her feet.
Halfway through the song, she said:
“Your father danced badly too.”
Ryland’s hand tightened almost imperceptibly.
“You know who I am.”
“Of course.”
“Who am I?”
Margaret looked up.
“Vincent’s boy.”
Her mind was clear.
For however long it lasted, she knew.
Ryland lowered his voice.
“What happened to Emma?”
Margaret’s smile disappeared.
“Gene.”
The word was barely audible.
“What did Gene do?”
“He came to the house.”
“When?”
“The night Tom died.”
Ryland’s heartbeat slowed.
“Margaret, look at me.”
She did.
“Gene Moretti?”
Fear entered her eyes.
“Don’t say his name.”
“What happened?”
“Tom told Vincent.”
“Told him what?”
“The money wasn’t missing.”
Ryland knew.
But he needed her memory.
“Where was Emma?”
Margaret began trembling.
“He took her.”
“Gene?”
“I heard her screaming.”
The song continued around them.
Nobody else noticed.
“Did you see him take her?”
Margaret’s face twisted.
“I saw the ring.”
Ryland thought of the black stone on Gene’s hand.
“He hit me.”
She touched the side of her head.
“Then I woke up and everyone said the car was gone.”
“What car?”
“Tom’s car.”
“Margaret—”
“He didn’t drive off that bridge.”
Her nails dug into Ryland’s hand.
“Tom was already dead.”
Then the clarity shattered.
Margaret looked around, confused by the music.
“Why are we dancing?”
Ryland steadied her.
“You asked me.”
“Oh.”
She smiled.
“You’re very nice.”
Across the room, Emily stood frozen.
She had heard enough.
Ryland saw it.
So did she.
Their eyes met.
Emily turned and walked rapidly toward the exit.
This time, Ryland did not follow.
An hour later, Family Day ended.
Margaret hugged him at the door.
“You’ll bring Emma next Sunday?”
Ryland could not make the promise.
Diane’s warning returned.
Don’t promise what you can’t deliver.
“I’ll come back.”
Margaret accepted that.
“For lunch?”
“Yes.”
“With cannoli?”
“Yes.”
She smiled.
“Good boy.”
Ryland walked outside.
Dominic stood beside the car with his phone in one hand.
“What?”
Ryland asked.
“I found something.”
Dominic turned the screen.
An archived newspaper photograph showed Point Street Bridge the morning after Tom Whitmore’s death.
A dark sedan sat crushed against a temporary barrier before being recovered.
Police lights reflected off the water.
“Look at the driver’s side,” Dominic said.
Ryland enlarged the image.
The door was open.
The window shattered.
On the pavement beside the car was a dark shape.
A shoe.
Dominic spoke quietly.
“The report says Whitmore was found inside the vehicle.”
Ryland zoomed farther.
Near the open door stood a detective.
Beside him, younger by eighteen years but unmistakable, was Gene Moretti.
He was not police.
He was not family.
There was no reason for him to be there.
Except one.
Gene had arrived before the body had even been removed.
Ryland looked back through the doors toward Margaret.
His father’s letter repeated in his mind.
Do not trust the bridge report.
He understood now.
Tom Whitmore had probably never driven off Point Street Bridge.
May you like
And if Margaret’s memory was accurate, Emma had not vanished after her father died.
She had been taken.
