Chapter 4
Mrs. Petrova gave her a look.
“Work.”
Sloan returned to the stove with exaggerated innocence.
I carried the box to the staff sitting room.
Inside was an old book.
A collection of Serbian folk songs.
My heart began pounding.
There was no note.
Only a bookmark placed between the pages.
I opened it.
A lullaby.
The same one my mother used to sing.
At the bottom of the page, someone had written a sentence in blue ink.
You are looking in the wrong city.
I stood completely still.
Not frightened.
Something stranger.
Recognized.
As though whoever sent the book expected me to understand.
Damon found me ten minutes later.
Kirill was with him.
I showed them the message.
Kirill examined the packaging.
“No return address.”
“Could it be from whoever took the file?” I asked.
“Possibly,” Damon said.
“Then they know I’m investigating.”
“Or they knew your mother was.”
That possibility settled quietly between us.
I opened the book again.
The handwritten message looked recent.
The ink had not faded.
“Wrong city,” I murmured.
“Aurora,” Damon said.
I looked at him.
“My mother’s note.”
He nodded.
“She thought Elena was in Aurora.”
“Maybe she wasn’t.”
Kirill pulled out his phone.
“There are three St. Catherine’s institutions in northern Illinois that existed in the nineties.”
“How do you know that already?”
“I started searching after Damon told me about the note.”
Damon looked irritated.
“You were supposed to be handling the Halpern accounts.”
“I contain multitudes.”
I nearly laughed again.
Kirill continued.
“There was also a St. Catherine’s community center in Milwaukee.”
I looked at him.
“Wisconsin?”
“Yes.”
Damon’s gaze sharpened.
“Founded by Eastern European immigrant families.”
My pulse quickened.
“Could Elena have been there?”
“We can find out.”
The word we landed differently than I expected.
Not you.
Not I.
We.
That evening, I called my aunt Nadia.
She was my mother’s younger cousin, the closest thing I had left to an older relative.
She lived in Madison now with her husband and taught piano.
When she answered, I nearly lost my nerve.
“Alina?”
“Hi, Aunt Nadia.”
“Is everything all right?”
“Yes.”
A pause.
“You only say ‘yes’ that quickly when the answer is no.”
I smiled.
Family.
Some instincts survived distance.
“I need to ask you something about Mom.”
Silence.
“What?”
“Did she ever tell you she was adopted?”
The silence changed.
Longer.
Heavier.
I sat down slowly.
“You knew.”
Aunt Nadia exhaled.
“I knew she had questions.”
“That isn’t what I asked.”
“No.”
She sounded tired.
“I didn’t know for certain until after she died.”
“How?”
“Your father told me.”
My eyes closed.
Of course he had.
“How much did he tell you?”
“Not much.”
“Did he mention Elena?”
Another silence.
“Yes.”
I gripped the phone.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because your father asked me not to.”
“Everyone made that decision for me.”
“I know.”
Her voice broke slightly.
“Alina, you were seventeen when your mother died. Then your father became ill. We were all trying to keep your life from becoming one long explanation of loss.”
That angered me.
But I also understood it.
Perhaps adulthood was partly discovering that people could love you deeply and still make choices you wished they hadn’t.
“Did Mom ever go to Milwaukee?” I asked.
Aunt Nadia hesitated.
“Yes.”
“When?”
“The summer before she died.”
My heart jumped.
“Why?”
“She said she was looking into family history.”
“Did she meet someone there?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did she mention St. Catherine’s?”
This time, no hesitation.
“Yes.”
I stood.
“What did she say?”
“She said she had found someone who remembered Elena.”
“Who?”
“I don’t know.”
“Aunt Nadia.”
“I really don’t.”
Frustration tightened my throat.
Then she added, “But I have something.”
I froze.
“What?”
“A box your mother left with me.”
I could hear the faint sounds of her house through the phone.
A clock.
A chair moving.
“She asked me to keep it after that trip. I never opened it.”
“Why?”
“Because she told me not to.”
Of course.
My mother had apparently inherited my father’s talent for turning ordinary objects into future mysteries.
“What’s in it?”
“I don’t know.”
“When can I see it?”
Aunt Nadia was quiet for a moment.
“Come tomorrow.”
The next morning, snow began falling before sunrise.
Not enough to stop travel.
Just enough to soften the estate grounds into white silence.
I was supposed to work.
Mrs. Petrova refused to allow it.
“You have family business.”
“I can finish breakfast service first.”
“No.”
“But—”
“Alina.”
That tone had defeated grown men.
I surrendered.
Sloan packed sandwiches for the drive.
“I’m going to Madison,” I reminded her. “Not crossing Siberia.”
“You become unpleasant when hungry.”
“That is you.”
“It can be both.”
Kirill arranged a car.
I objected.
“I can drive myself.”
“The roads are slick.”
“I have driven in snow before.”
Damon appeared in the entry hall.
He wore a charcoal coat and carried gloves.
“I’m going with you.”
I stared.
“No.”
He stopped.
“No?”
“This is family.”
“Yes.”
“My family.”
“Yes.”
“Then why are you wearing a coat?”
“Because I’m going with you.”
Kirill looked deeply entertained.
I folded my arms.
“You are still recovering.”
“I’m fine.”
“You said that while bleeding on the floor.”
Sloan made a suspicious coughing sound that was definitely a laugh.
Damon ignored her.
“You may need help identifying documents.”
“I can photograph them.”
“You may need context.”
“I can call you.”
“You may need—”
“Damon.”
The use of his first name stopped everyone.
Including me.
His eyes met mine.
I softened my voice.
“I need to do this part myself.”
Something changed in his expression.
Understanding.
Perhaps disappointment too.
But he nodded.
“All right.”
The ease of his acceptance surprised me.
No order.
No argument.
Just respect for a boundary.
My father’s words again.
Watch what he does when he gains nothing.
I reached for my coat.
Then stopped.
“You can come as far as Madison.”
Damon raised an eyebrow.
“But you wait at a café while I speak with my aunt.”
Kirill smiled.
“Remarkable negotiation.”
Damon ignored him.
“Agreed.”
Aunt Nadia lived in a narrow brick house surrounded by bare maple trees.
She opened the door before I reached the porch.
For a moment we simply looked at each other.
Then she pulled me into her arms.
“You look like your mother.”
People had told me that my whole life.
Today it meant something different.
Inside, the house smelled of cinnamon and old books.
A piano occupied half the living room.
Family photographs covered the mantel.
My mother appeared in several.
Young.
Laughing.
Alive.
Aunt Nadia brought the box from upstairs.
It was smaller than I expected.
Brown cardboard.
A strip of faded blue tape.
My mother’s handwriting across the top.
For Alina, someday.
My eyes filled.
Aunt Nadia touched my shoulder.
“I’ll make tea.”
“You don’t have to leave.”
“I think I do.”
She went to the kitchen.
I opened the box.
Inside were photographs.
Letters.
A silver necklace.
A small cassette tape.
And an envelope.
I opened the envelope first.
Alina,
If you are reading this, I probably waited too long.
That was one of my worst habits, as your father frequently reminded me.
I smiled through tears.
I found out something about my childhood that changed how I understood my parents, but not how much I loved them.
They raised me.
They chose me.
Nothing I learned erased that.
But there was another woman.
Her name was Elena.
She gave birth to me.
For years I thought she had simply left.
I was wrong.
The letter shook slightly in my hands.
Elena was young and alone.
She believed another family could give me what she could not.
Later, she tried to contact me.
May you like
Those letters were kept from me.
I don’t know why.
