Chapter 3 - THE FRIEND WHO LIED
I stood before Daniel could stop me.
“Olivia!”
She froze near the entrance.
Every head in the restaurant turned.
I didn't care.
For six years, Olivia had been my closest friend.
She knew my favorite coffee order.
She knew I cried during old Christmas movies.
She had held my hand after Jason left me.
And now she was walking away from a secret involving my dead mother.
I crossed the dining room.
“Don't you dare leave.”
Olivia turned slowly.
Her face was pale.
“Emily, please.”
“Why did you send me here?”
Vanessa and Claire stood behind her.
Neither would meet my eyes.
Olivia glanced toward Daniel.
“Can we talk somewhere private?”
“No.”
Her mouth tightened.
“Emily—”
“You told me this was a joke.”
“It was supposed to be.”
“Then why did you warn me about my necklace?”
Olivia's eyes filled.
“I didn't know he'd recognize it.”
I stared.
“So you knew?”
She said nothing.
Daniel approached, stopping several feet away.
“Ms. Bennett,” he said.
Olivia flinched.
“You know my name?”
“I know your father.”
The color drained from her face.
My stomach tightened.
“Your father?” I repeated.
Olivia shook her head.
“Emily, don't listen to him.”
Daniel looked at me.
“Her father is Martin Bennett.”
The name meant nothing.
Then Daniel continued.
“He was the director of Harbor House.”
I looked at Olivia.
She began crying.
“You told me your father worked in insurance.”
“He does now.”
“And before?”
She couldn't answer.
I stepped backward.
Harbor House.
The name from Daniel's letter.
The place where his sister disappeared.
And somehow my mother was connected to it.
“Olivia,” I whispered, “what did you do?”
She covered her face.
“I was supposed to find the locket.”
The words landed like stones.
“What?”
“My father told me it belonged to his family.”
“You've been my friend for six years.”
“I know.”
“Six years?”
Her silence was answer enough.
I felt sick.
Every birthday.
Every late-night conversation.
Every time I'd trusted her with something personal.
Had any of it been real?
Daniel stepped closer.
“Emily, let's go somewhere quiet.”
I looked at him.
For the first time, the dangerous stranger seemed safer than the woman I'd called my best friend.
***
We moved to a private dining room.
Olivia came with us.
Vanessa and Claire remained outside.
Daniel sat opposite her.
I sat beside him.
“Start talking,” I said.
Olivia twisted her hands.
“My father asked me to get close to you.”
“When?”
“Six years ago.”
I stared.
“He knew you worked at Maple Street Books. He said your mother had something important.”
“The locket?”
“Yes.”
“Why didn't he just ask me?”
Olivia looked toward Daniel.
“Because he didn't know what was inside.”
Daniel leaned forward.
“What happened at Harbor House?”
Olivia shook her head.
“I don't know everything.”
“Then tell us what you do know.”
She swallowed.
“Harbor House wasn't just a shelter.”
Daniel became still.
“What was it?”
“My father said it was a place where children were moved.”
“Moved where?” I asked.
Olivia began crying.
“To families who paid.”
The room went silent.
I stared at her.
“You mean adoption?”
“Not always legal adoption.”
Daniel's jaw tightened.
“My sister disappeared from that place.”
Olivia nodded.
“I know.”
“Was she sold?”
Olivia covered her mouth.
“I don't know.”
I felt cold.
My mother had worked at Harbor House as a volunteer.
She had told me stories about children who needed homes.
She had never mentioned anything like this.
Daniel looked at Olivia.
“Why tonight?”
“My father said Emily had started asking questions.”
I frowned.
“I haven't.”
Olivia looked at me.
“You went to the city archives last week.”
I stared.
I had.
But only because I was researching the history of Maple Street Books for an anniversary display.
I'd requested old neighborhood photographs.
And among them was a picture of Harbor House.
I remembered something else.
The woman in the photograph.
Standing near the entrance.
Holding a little girl's hand.
She looked like my mother.
I swallowed.
“I found a photograph.”
Olivia nodded.
“My father knew.”
“How?”
“He has someone watching the archive requests.”
Daniel stood.
His expression had changed.
“Emily,” he said, “we need to find that photograph.”
“Why?”
“Because my sister disappeared twenty-two years ago.”
He looked at the locket in my hand.
“And your mother may have left us the only evidence of what happened.”
***
When I returned to my apartment that night, the front door was open.
The lock had been broken.
Books lay scattered across the floor.
Drawers hung open.
My mother's photographs were gone.
And someone had written a message across my kitchen wall.
May you like
STOP LOOKING FOR HANNAH.
---
