The next morning, the police officer returned with questions. Dad stepped out when I asked him to, though I saw how hard it was for him. Priya stayed with me.
I told the story slowly.
Not all of it. Not every word Linda had used to make me feel small. Not every time Ryan had apologized and then repeated the same pattern. Not every morning I had stood in front of the mirror telling myself it wasn’t as bad as I thought.
But enough.
When I finished, Priya handed me tissues. The officer’s face remained professional, but his voice softened.
“You did the right thing telling us.”
I almost laughed. The right thing had taken me seven months.
By afternoon, Dad returned with a duffel bag of clothes, my old gray sweatshirt from college, and a phone charger. He placed the charger on the bedside table as if it were treasure.
“Your phone has been ringing,” he said.
I tensed. “Ryan?”
“Mostly his mother. I turned it off after the sixth call.”
“What did she say?”
“I didn’t answer.”
That almost made me smile. My father, who would face a room of generals without blinking, had chosen the greatest insult of all for Linda Carter: silence.
Then he hesitated.
“What?”
He reached into his coat pocket and removed one envelope from the stack he had taken from the apartment. “The officer said this one was addressed directly to you. He allowed me to bring it.”
The envelope was cream-colored, with my name written in careful blue ink.
Emily Bennett.
Not Carter.
Bennett.
My heart gave a strange little kick.
“Who’s it from?” Dad asked.
I turned it over. No return address.
“I don’t know.”
My fingers trembled as I opened it. Inside was a single folded page and a small ultrasound image.
At first, I thought it was mine.
Then I saw the date.
Three years earlier.
The letter was short.
Emily, if you are reading this, then maybe you have finally started asking questions. I should have told you sooner, but I was afraid. Ryan and Linda are not who they pretend to be. Please be careful with anything they ask you to sign. Please find me before the baby comes. There are things you deserve to know. —Claire
I read it twice.
The room seemed to narrow.
“Emily?” Dad asked.
I handed him the paper.
