I screamed.
Not because I knew her.
Because nobody called me Ellie.
Nobody except my mother.
And Harlan.
The woman covered her mouth.
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”
“Who are you?”
“My name is Beatrice.”
“How do you know me?”
“Harlan sent me a letter three weeks ago.”
My chest tightened.
“He knew he was dying?”
“He knew he might not have much time.”
She stepped aside.
“Please come in.”
I didn’t move.
“Tell me what he lied about.”
Beatrice looked tired.
“Some of it will make more sense if you see something.”
Against every instinct, I followed her.
She led me into a small kitchen.
On the table sat an old photograph.
A man in his thirties stood beside a little girl with reddish-brown hair.
The man was Harlan.
The girl looked around five.
In front of them was a plate of apple pancakes cut into tiny moons.
I stared at the photograph.
My knees weakened.
“Who is she?”
Beatrice pulled out a chair.
“Her name was Tessa.”
“Was?”
“She was Harlan’s daughter.”
The room became very quiet.
“His daughter?”
Beatrice nodded.
