Chapter 18 - CELESTECeleste had been a singer.
Not famous.
Not polished.
Just a woman with a voice that made people stop talking in crowded rooms.
Grace told them she had performed at a hotel bar where Thomas often met union lawyers and journalists investigating Charles Whitmore’s business dealings.
“Thomas trusted her,” Grace said. “Maybe too much. Maybe exactly enough.”
Victoria held the photograph like it might burn her.
“Was she pregnant?”
Grace looked at her gently.
“I don’t know.”
The room was quiet except for the ocean wind against the windows.
Eleanor looked at the photograph and turned pale.
“I saw her once,” she whispered. “At Charles’s office.”
Grace’s eyes narrowed.
“When?”
“After Thomas died. I was nearly due with Clara. Charles said she was a secretary who had been dismissed for stealing.”
Victoria laughed weakly.
“Everyone who threatened him became a thief.”
Andrew leaned forward.
“What was her full name?”
Grace answered, “Celeste Vale.”
Detective Morales, looped in by phone, ran the name. Hours later, she called back.
Celeste Vale had no death certificate.
No current address.
No tax records after 1999.
But there was one sealed file connected to a private clinic in New Jersey.
The same clinic tied to Henry Graves.
Victoria sat in silence for a long time after hearing it.
Clara stayed beside her on the porch.
Neither sister spoke at first.
Then Victoria said, “When I slapped you, I thought you were coming to steal my life.”
Clara looked at the sea.
“I know.”
“But the truth is, my life was never mine.”
Clara did not answer.
Victoria’s voice broke.
“I don’t know how to apologize enough.”
“You don’t.”
Victoria turned.
Clara continued, “You apologize once honestly. Then you spend the rest of your life not becoming the person who did it.”
Victoria absorbed that.
“That sounds exhausting.”
“It is.”
“Are you doing it too?”
Clara nodded.
“With Nora?”
“With everyone.”
Victoria looked back at the photograph of Celeste.
“What if she doesn’t want me?”
Clara thought of Eleanor kneeling in wine and broken glass.
“She might.”
“What if she’s dead?”
“Then we find out who she was.”
Victoria’s eyes filled.
“And if she was awful?”
Clara gave a small tired smile.
“Then you and I start a club.”
Victoria laughed.
It hurt her wound.
She laughed anyway.
Two weeks later, Morales found Celeste.
Not through bank records.
Through music.
A retired pianist recognized the photograph and said Celeste had changed her name to Livia Cross after “a rich man ruined her life.”
Livia Cross was alive.
She lived in Savannah, Georgia, in a yellow house with blue shutters.
Victoria stared at the address for a full minute.
Eleanor stood nearby, careful not to crowd her.
Clara said, “You don’t have to go.”
Victoria swallowed.
“Yes, I do.”
This time, Clara went with her.
No cameras.
No lawyers.
No emerald gown.
Victoria wore jeans, a white blouse, and fear.
When the yellow door opened, an older woman with silver-streaked dark hair looked out.
Her eyes landed on Victoria.
The color drained from her face.
Then she whispered,
“They told me you died.”
Victoria’s knees nearly gave out.
May you like
Clara caught her.
And for the second time in one family, a stolen daughter came home.
