Chapter 11 - The Daughter Named CatherineIsaac drove to Salem with Megan beside him and a storm of questions pounding through his mind.
He had called his mother before leaving Boston. Catherine had answered on the second ring, her voice thin but steady.
"Are you safe?" he'd asked.
"I am at home, Isaac. Where else would I be?"
"Has Charles contacted you?"
A pause.
"Not today."
"Mother, I need you to stay with someone. Don't answer the door unless you know who's there."
"Isaac—"
"Please."
He had heard her sigh.
"Very well. But don't make the mistake of thinking I'm helpless just because I'm ill."
"I know you're not."
"Then remember it."
He had promised to call again and hung up with the uncomfortable feeling that he was asking his mother to do what she had spent decades doing already: wait while the men in her family decided what she was allowed to know.
Megan sat in the passenger seat, scrolling through the information she'd gathered.
"Evelyn Shaw bought the bookstore eleven years ago," she said. "Before that, she worked as a nurse. Her daughter, Catherine Shaw, is twenty-seven and works in Boston."
"Doing what?"
"She's a civil attorney. Mostly housing and family cases."
Isaac glanced at her.
"She helps people who can't afford to fight?"
"Yes."
He looked back at the road.
Somehow, that hurt more than he expected.
His sister had grown up without the Mercer fortune, without the mansion, without the family name that opened doors and poisoned every room it entered. And she'd chosen to spend her life helping people who had been pushed aside.
He wondered what kind of man he might have become if he'd grown up beside her.
"Isaac," Megan said softly, "you don't have to figure out your entire relationship with your sister before you meet her."
"I know."
"Do you?"
He gave her a weary look.
"You're very good at asking questions you already know the answer to."
"It's a gift."
He reached for her hand.
She let him hold it.
For a few miles, neither spoke.
Then Isaac said, "I'm afraid she'll look at me and see everything she lost."
Megan turned toward him.
"Maybe she will. Maybe she'll be angry. She has every right to be. But you're not responsible for the choices Charles made, and you can't repair the past by punishing yourself for it."
"What if she doesn't want to know me?"
"Then you respect that."
He tightened his fingers around hers.
"You make everything sound simple."
"No," Megan said. "I make it sound possible."
They reached Salem shortly before noon.
Harbor Light Books occupied a narrow brick building on a quiet street near the water. A small bell rang when they stepped inside. The place smelled of paper, coffee, and cedar. Shelves climbed to the ceiling, and handwritten recommendations were pinned beside the books.
A woman stood behind the counter, helping an elderly customer choose a mystery novel.
She had dark hair threaded with silver, warm brown eyes, and a faint scar near her left temple.
Isaac recognized her immediately.
Not because she looked like the little girl in the photograph.
Because she looked like Catherine.
The shape of her face was the same. So was the way she tilted her head when listening.
Evelyn finished helping the customer, then turned toward them.
"Can I help you?"
Isaac had rehearsed a dozen introductions on the drive.
Every one disappeared.
"My name is Isaac Mercer."
The woman's expression changed so subtly that someone else might have missed it.
Her fingers tightened around the receipt she was holding.
"That's an unusual name."
"I know who you are."
Evelyn looked at Megan, then back at Isaac.
"Do you?"
He took the photograph from his coat pocket and placed it on the counter.
For a moment, she seemed unable to move.
Then she turned the picture toward herself.
Her face went pale.
"Where did you get this?"
"Harbor House. It belonged to our father."
Evelyn looked up sharply.
"Our father?"
"Robert Mercer."
She stepped away from the counter.
"No."
"I'm sorry."
"No." Her voice rose. "You don't get to walk into my store and tell me that."
"I know this is a lot to—"
"You know nothing about what this is."
The elderly customer quietly left through the front door. Megan moved closer to Isaac but didn't interfere.
Evelyn stared at him with an anger so raw that it left him defenseless.
"Do you have any idea how many times I asked who my parents were? How many times I was told that asking questions would only hurt the people who raised me?"
Isaac swallowed.
"No. I don't."
"I was adopted. That's what I was told. My parents died before I was old enough to remember them. My adoptive family loved me, but they had no answers. I spent years searching for a birth certificate that seemed to have vanished from the world."
She pointed at the photograph.
"And now you tell me this man was my father?"
"Yes."
"Why should I believe you?"
He had no answer that could erase her pain.
So he gave her the truth he had.
"Because I didn't know you existed until two days ago. My mother believed you were dead. My father hid your identity. My uncle may have arranged it all."
Evelyn's eyes glistened.
"Your uncle?"
"Charles Mercer."
At the name, something flickered across her face.
Fear.
Isaac noticed.
"You know him."
She turned toward the shop's front windows, checking the street.
"I know that name."
"How?"
"When I was nineteen, a man came into the bookstore where I worked before this one. He asked me questions about my childhood. He knew things he shouldn't have known."
She lowered her voice.
"He said my birth family had money and power, and that I would be better off forgetting they existed."
"Did he give you his name?"
"Charles."
Isaac felt a cold certainty settle over him.
"Did he threaten you?"
"He told me that some families would destroy themselves rather than admit what they'd done."
She looked at him again.
"I thought he was a lunatic. Then, two weeks later, someone broke into my apartment. Nothing was stolen. But every photograph I'd collected during my search was gone."
Megan covered her mouth.
Isaac felt rage rise, but he forced himself to remain still.
"I am sorry," he said.
Evelyn laughed once, bitterly.
"That's what people say when they have no idea what to do."
"You're right."
His willingness to agree seemed to unsettle her more than an argument would have.
He continued.
"I can't give you back your childhood. I can't explain why my father let you grow up without knowing us. I can't ask you to forgive anyone. But I can tell you that I'm going to find out what happened, and I won't hide the truth from you."
Evelyn stared at him.
"Why now?"
"Because someone sent me a photograph of you and told me to stop looking."
Her expression hardened.
"Who?"
"I don't know."
"Then you should leave."
Isaac felt the words like a physical blow.
"Evelyn—"
"Please leave my store."
He wanted to protest. To tell her that he had spent his entire life believing he was an only child, that he had dreamed of finding someone who shared his memories, even if those memories had been built on lies.
But she wasn't obligated to comfort him.
She was the one who had been stolen.
Isaac nodded.
"All right."
He turned toward the door.
Then a young woman appeared from the back room carrying a box of books.
"Mom? Did the delivery—"
She stopped when she saw Isaac.
Her gaze moved from his face to the photograph on the counter.
Something about her eyes made him pause.
They were Catherine's eyes.
Not similar.
Identical.
The young woman set the box down slowly.
"What's going on?"
Evelyn looked at her daughter.
"Nothing, sweetheart."
But the young woman wasn't looking at her mother anymore.
She was studying Isaac with a strange, unsettled expression.
"Have we met?" she asked.
"No," Isaac replied.
She frowned.
"I know this sounds ridiculous, but I've seen your face before."
Megan exchanged a glance with him.
"Where?" Isaac asked.
The young woman thought for a moment.
Then she walked to a desk, opened a drawer, and removed a small envelope.
"I've had this since I was a child. My grandmother gave it to me before she died. She told me to keep it until I was old enough to understand."
Evelyn stared at her.
"Catherine, what are you doing?"
The young woman opened the envelope.
Inside was an old photograph of a man standing beside a woman holding a baby.
The man was Robert Mercer.
The woman was Catherine Mercer.
And the baby wore a silver bracelet engraved with a single letter.
E.
Catherine Shaw looked from the photograph to Isaac.
Then she whispered, "Why does my grandmother have a picture of your parents?"
Isaac could barely speak.
"Because," he said, "I think we're family."
Evelyn reached for the counter to steady herself.
Outside, a black sedan pulled slowly to the curb.
A man inside raised a phone and took a photograph through the window.
May you like
Then he sent a message.
Found them.
Related Stories
