Chapter 7 - A Funeral Without a Body
Marianne Sorrell was Blythe's mother.
I learned that from a public obituary.
She had supposedly died in 2004 after a lengthy illness.
Blythe would have been fourteen.
The obituary described Marianne as a beloved teacher, devoted mother, and talented pianist.
There was no mention of St. Agnes House.
No mention of psychiatric treatment.
No explanation for why my mother had kept her photograph inside a locked tower.
I stared at the obituary.
Then called Naomi.
"Do you think Blythe knows?"
"About her mother?"
"About St. Agnes."
"We don't know."
"But she asked Clara about our mother's trust."
"That suggests she was looking for something."
I looked toward the portrait in the tower.
My mother had spent her life preserving buildings.
But perhaps the thing she truly wanted to preserve was evidence.
---
The deeper we examined St. Agnes House, the stranger the records became.
It had operated under several corporate names.
Patients were often admitted through private referrals.
Some were accompanied by legal guardians.
Others had signed documents relinquishing control over finances.
Many owned property.
Several had substantial inheritances.
And a surprising number of their estates had later been acquired by companies connected to the Kincaid family.
I read the findings in disbelief.
"These women were being robbed."
Naomi chose her words carefully.
"The records raise serious concerns about financial exploitation and potentially unlawful confinement. Investigators will need to determine what occurred."
I looked at the names.
Not numbers.
Not transactions.
Women.
Mothers.
Daughters.
People whose lives had been reduced to signatures on forms.
Then I found Marianne Sorrell.
Her admission date was May 12, 2001.
Her discharge status read:
DECEASED.
But the attached death certificate had no physician's signature.
I looked at Naomi.
"Is that normal?"
"No."
There was another document.
A transportation record dated two weeks after the reported death.
Marianne Sorrell had supposedly been moved to a private residence in Wisconsin.
Alive.
My hands trembled.
"She didn't die."
Naomi examined the page.
"We can't conclude that solely from this, but the discrepancy warrants investigation."
I thought of Clara's stolen years.
My mother's hidden letters.
The lies Dorian had told.
Then I looked at Marianne's photograph again.
If she had survived, someone had buried her identity.
And Blythe might have been searching for her all along.
---
Blythe came to see me three days later.
She arrived at Naomi's office without Dorian.
Her pregnancy was visibly advanced.
She wore a beige maternity dress and carried a small handbag.
For a moment, seeing her brought back everything.
The bedroom.
The champagne glasses.
My mother's necklace against her skin.
The nursery.
I stood.
"What do you want?"
Blythe looked exhausted.
"I need to talk."
"Then talk."
She glanced toward Naomi.
"Privately."
I shook my head.
"Naomi stays."
Blythe hesitated.
Then sat.
For several seconds, she said nothing.
Finally, she whispered, "I know about St. Agnes."
My heart accelerated.
"How?"
Blythe looked down.
"My mother was there."
"I know."
Her head lifted sharply.
"You found her records?"
"Some."
Blythe's eyes filled.
"Then you know she wasn't mentally ill."
I stared.
"What?"
She wiped her cheeks.
"My mother discovered that my father was moving money through a medical charity. She threatened to report him. Two weeks later, she was admitted to St. Agnes."
My stomach tightened.
"Who was your father?"
Blythe swallowed.
"Malcolm Kincaid's business partner."
Dorian's father.
I felt cold.
Blythe continued.
"My father told me Mom had died. But when I turned thirty, an anonymous letter arrived saying she was alive."
I leaned forward.
"Who sent it?"
"I don't know."
"What did it say?"
"That St. Agnes still held the answers."
I stared at her.
"So you got close to Dorian."
Blythe nodded.
"At first."
My chest tightened.
"At first?"
She began crying.
"I wanted access to the family archives. Dorian was suspicious of everyone except people who admired him."
I laughed bitterly.
"And you admired him."
"I pretended to."
I stared.
"Then you slept with my husband for ten months and got pregnant."
Blythe flinched.
"Yes."
"You took my necklace."
"I know."
"You replaced my baby's nursery."
Her face crumpled.
"I know."
I leaned forward.
"Don't sit there and pretend you were forced into every cruel thing you did."
She lowered her head.
"I'm not."
Silence settled.
Then Blythe whispered, "I was wrong. I hurt you. And I can't undo it."
I stared at her.
The apology did not heal anything.
But it was the first time she'd offered one without a qualification.
Finally, I asked, "Why are you here now?"
Blythe looked up.
"Because Dorian found out I was searching the archives."
My stomach tightened.
"And?"
"He told me my mother was dead."
I waited.
"Then he showed me a photograph."
"What photograph?"
Blythe's hands trembled.
"My mother."
My heart accelerated.
"Alive?"
She nodded.
"Standing outside a nursing facility."
"When?"
"Last year."
I felt the room tilt.
Blythe began crying harder.
"He said if I left him or told anyone about St. Agnes, I'd never learn where she was."
Naomi leaned forward.
"Do you have the photograph?"
Blythe nodded.
She took out her phone.
The woman on the screen was older.
Thin.
Gray-haired.
But unmistakably Marianne Sorrell.
Behind her stood a sign.
WILLOW CREEK RESIDENTIAL CARE.
I looked at Naomi.
She was already reaching for her notebook.
May you like
Then Blythe whispered something that changed everything again.
"Audra, I think Dorian has been using both of us."
