The word trembled between them.
“What did Logan tell you about his family?” Robert asked.
She gave a short, humorless laugh. “Almost nothing. He said his mother died. He said you were strict. He said he hated hospitals.” She paused. “He said there were things nobody in his family talked about. He had nightmares. Once, he said a name in his sleep.”
Robert went very still.
“What name?”
“Elias.”
He stood up so quickly the chair scraped hard across the floor and Joanna flinched.
“I’m sorry.” His eyes had gone somewhere distant. “Three months before Logan disappeared, he came to my house. He had been drinking. He went into Elias’s old room — I had kept it locked after my wife died, I couldn’t clear it out — and he broke the lock.”
“What did he find?”
“He said he remembered something. He remembered the fair. He remembered Elias being led away by a woman in a green coat. He said Elias wasn’t crying. He looked back and smiled.”
Joanna glanced at the baby sleeping in her arms.
“Logan was three years old when his brother vanished. For twenty-five years he remembered nothing. Then suddenly the memory came back.”
“Why then?”
“Because someone sent him a photograph.”
The Envelope With One Word on the Front, and What Was Written on the Back of the Photo
Robert explained that Logan had refused to show him the photograph. Had said that if Robert saw it, he would try to stop him. Said he knew where Elias was.
“We fought,” Robert said. “I thought it was a hoax. Families like ours attract that — people claiming to be the missing child, calling for money. Every time it happened, my wife broke a little more. I couldn’t go through it again. But Logan believed it.” His eyes moved toward the baby. “Then he met you. Then he disappeared.”
A knock at the door.
Everyone went still.
Another nurse entered with a clipboard.
“Dr. Wright, there’s a man at the front desk asking for Joanna Ellis. He said he was family. He left before security could reach him.” She held out a white envelope. “He left this.”
Joanna’s arms tightened around the baby.
One word on the front, written in block letters.
JOANNA.
Robert reached for it.
“No,” she said.
He stopped.
She took it herself. Inside was a photograph — clear, recent, taken in what looked like a basement or cellar. Logan stood against a concrete wall, thinner than she remembered, his face sharpened by something that had taken weight off him, his beard grown out. His eyes were hollow with a fear she had never seen in him before. One hand was raised toward the camera as if telling the person holding it to stop.
Beside him stood another man, slightly older, with the same dark hair and the same jaw and something in the shape of his face that was immediately familiar.
Beneath his open collar, just visible at the collarbone, was the broken crescent birthmark.
Robert made a sound that was not a word.
Joanna turned the photograph over.
Logan’s handwriting on the back:
He’s not dead. Don’t trust my father. Protect the baby.
She looked up.
Robert Wright stood beside her bed with tears running silently down his face.
The lights in the room flickered once. Twice. Then held.
The baby began to cry.
