of silence dropped over the room. Sylvia’s lips lowered at this, and her eyes darkened. But not from offense, it seemed. There was a struggle for comprehension. It was like watching the grayest of clouds encroaching on the horizon, a transformation that Lily could actually feel as her own puzzlement inched toward dread.
Had Alfred Millstone procured the children on his own accord and not shared the circumstances with his wife? How would he have explained Ruby being added to their charge?
Perhaps as a lone urchin he had found in an alley. Or an orphan inherited from a relative who had passed. In any event, why would Alfred deceive her?
A sudden crashing noise jolted Lily. A cup and saucer—Sylvia’s—had tumbled to the floor and shattered. An amber puddle spread over marble.
“Are ya all right, ma’am?” It was Claire, hurrying into the room. A broken piece crunched beneath her shoe as she attended to Sylvia, whose face had gone pale.
“I…I must…lie down.”
“Certainly, ma’am. Let me help.” Claire guided her upward and escorted her toward the foyer. In tandem, they plodded up the staircase and out of view.
Lily was scouring the encounter for rationale when her gaze circled back to the mantel. Slowly, she came to her feet and closed in on the photographs. Beside the center image of Ruby was one of her hugging a doll, and another of her in a garden. The next was a formal portrait of the family—with one thing missing from them all.
Or more aptly, one person.
The revelation slid up Lily’s spine, an icy finger, launching a shiver through her veins, and a halting question through her mind.
Where in heaven’s name was Calvin?
Part Three
“There is not a trick, there is not a swindle, there is not a vice which does not live by secrecy.”
—Joseph Pulitzer
Chapter 27
The phone rang on Saturday afternoon.
In his apartment, Ellis was throwing together a sandwich, a ball game airing on the RCA. Unlike his buddies back home, he was never a die-hard baseball fan, but he’d always be a Pennsylvanian. When the Phillies played, you listened. Especially on days like this, when they were beating the blasted Yankees. Four to two, top of the sixth.
Another ring.
Ellis made his way from the kitchen, licking a dab of mustard from his thumb, and realized the caller had to be his mother. He took an extra moment to reach for the handset.
When he sent her off at the station, he’d agreed to visit soon for supper. Soon being a conveniently vague term. But now, since his father was surely tuned in to the game, something he and Ellis used to do together—meaning they’d listen in the same room—his mother had two hours of free time to mull. And call.
It was time for Ellis to do his part, to smooth over the cracks in their family’s foundation, to continue on as they had for decades.
He picked up the phone.
Only it wasn’t her.
“Ellis,” Lily said, “I need to talk to you.”
For a split second, he was happy to hear her voice. But then he registered the greeting. Whatever came next wasn’t going to be good.
• • •
For the remainder of the weekend, Ellis racked his memory. He reviewed and reevaluated details he had accepted as fact. Though he’d never actually seen Calvin through the window, he knew he’d heard the boy’s laughter…
Unless it was part of the radio show.
But during the interview at the bank, Alfred had spoken of kids, in the plural.
Or was he referencing children in general? He never did mention that he had a boy and a girl—or any specifics about them at all.
Still, Ellis refused to believe the worst. When Lily phoned from her parents’ home, just returned from the Millstones’, he’d combed her story for a sensible explanation.
Maybe an illness had caused Sylvia to grow faint, and a fever jumbled her words. Maybe she just meant Calvin didn’t live there now, as he was off at some prestigious boarding school. With sons of the wealthy, who knew how young they started them out?
Whatever the case, Ellis convinced Lily to wait on telling Geraldine. No reason to sound an alarm until they learned more. Lily had agreed on the condition that he would act quickly.
He hadn’t planned to do otherwise. His own apprehension was churning, a slow but relentless motion, as if roasting over a spit.
The best option was to confront the one person, aside from Alfred, bound to know the truth.
• • •
Amid the Monday morning bustle, it wouldn’t be difficult to follow