The Woman Who Wasn't Spoken Of
The door was locked, but the screen hiding it told me more than the lock did — someone had wanted this door forgotten, not just closed. I asked Sebastian about the name at breakfast, watching his face instead of his words.
His fork paused over his plate. "That was Harlan's first wife. My father's first wife," he said. "Before my mother. She died young. It's not really talked about."
"How young? What happened?"
"An accident. I don't know details, Naomi, it was decades before I was born." He said it too smoothly, a line he'd clearly been handed rather than one he'd dug up himself. "Why does it matter?"
I didn't have a good answer that wouldn't make me sound insane, so I let it go — out loud.
But I went back to that hallway after he left for the office, and this time I found the screen had been moved another two inches, like someone had checked on the door after I had. Behind it, tucked into a gap where the baseboard had warped away from the wall, I found a shoebox of photographs someone had hidden and someone else had never quite managed to throw away.
Harlan Thorne, younger, unsmiling even in what should have been happy pictures. A woman beside him in most of them — dark-eyed, thin, clutching a baby wrapped in white in nearly every photo like she was afraid someone would take it from her hands. On the back of one, in fading pencil: Imogen & the boy, spring.
I turned the photo over and over, doing math I didn't want to do. If Imogen died young, decades before Sebastian was born, why was there a photograph of her holding a baby who — judging by the house behind them, the same fountain, the same iron gate — had clearly been born on this property?
At the very bottom of the box, beneath the photographs, was a folded letter on medical letterhead, addressed to Thorne House, dated — I checked twice, certain I was misreading it — nine years after the year Sebastian told me Imogen had died.