“She lives under her middle name now. Anna Claire Whitman. Works part-time at a library outside Milwaukee.”
Dad sat straighter. “Is she safe to contact?”
“I believe so. But she has gone to some trouble to remain hard to find.”
“Because of Ryan?” I asked.
Ruth looked at me carefully. “That is what we need to ask her.”
She slid a photograph across the table. It showed a woman in a green coat leaving a library, her hair tucked beneath a knit hat. She looked ordinary. Tired, maybe. Human.
Nothing like the ghost I had imagined.
“There’s something else,” Ruth said.
Dad’s jaw tightened. “What?”
“Claire has a child.”
The kitchen clock ticked once. Twice.
“A little boy,” Ruth continued. “About three.”
My vision blurred. Three years earlier. The ultrasound. Baby Carter.
Ryan’s child.
My baby’s half brother.
Dad reached for my hand, but I was already standing, one palm pressed against my belly.
