Chapter 14 - The First Bluebird
I did not sleep.
The word Bluebird repeated in my head until it stopped sounding like a word.
Aaron had called Zia his bluebird.
Celia had known the nickname.
A photograph of Melissa Bennett’s infant carried the same word.
That meant Bluebird existed before Zia.
The question was why.
Joan arrived the next morning.
She looked terrified.
I had loved Aaron’s mother for years.
She had held me at his funeral.
She had helped with Zia after he died.
She had sent birthday cards.
Christmas gifts.
School clothes.
Now she sat in my kitchen carrying another secret.
“Start at the beginning.”
Joan twisted a tissue.
“My sister Kathleen adopted Melissa.”
“Through St. Agnes.”
“Yes.”
“Did Kathleen know the adoption was illegal?”
“No.”
“You?”
“No.”
“When did Melissa learn Naomi was her biological mother?”
“She was twenty.”
“How?”
“She found an old document after Kathleen died.”
“Then what?”
“She searched for Naomi.”
“Yes.”
“Did she find her?”
“I think so.”
“You think?”
“She stopped telling us things.”
Of course.
Another family member responding to danger by going silent.
“Did Aaron help her?”
“Yes.”
“How much?”
“A lot.”
“Did that begin his investigation?”
“Yes.”
Joan cried.
“He thought he could fix it.”
I closed my eyes.
That sounded painfully like Aaron.
“What happened when Melissa got pregnant?”
“She was frightened.”
“Why?”
“She wouldn’t name the father.”
“Did Aaron know?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did she want the baby?”
“Yes.”
“Then why was there an adoption?”
“She thought she was in danger.”
The pattern again.
Children moved in secret.
Adults choosing for them.
“What happened after the birth?”
“Melissa asked Aaron to bring the baby to me.”
“Why?”
“She said somebody was following her.”
“Celia?”
“Maybe.”
“How long did you have the baby?”
“Three days.”
“And then Celia came.”
“I did not know it was Celia.”
“Did she identify herself?”
“She had documents.”
“From where?”
“St. Agnes.”
“The illegal agency.”
“I didn’t know.”
“Joan.”
“I didn’t.”
I believed her.
That was the worst part.
So many people had been used because they knew only the piece placed in front of them.
“What did Aaron argue about?”
“He said Melissa had changed her mind.”
“About the adoption?”
“Yes.”
“He wanted to keep the baby in the family?”
“Yes.”
“What did Celia say?”
“That Aaron had no legal authority.”
“Did she take the child?”
“Yes.”
“And then?”
“We never saw her again.”
“What about Melissa?”
“She died three weeks later.”
“Car accident.”
Joan nodded.
“Was Celia involved?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did Aaron think so?”
“Yes.”
That explained why he began digging.
Melissa died.
Her baby vanished.
Aaron investigated.
He found Naomi.
Then Victor.
Then the foundation.
Then Celia.
And eventually, he died too.
“What does Bluebird mean?”
Joan looked confused.
“Melissa used that word.”
My heart pounded.
“For what?”
“Her baby.”
“Why?”
“She painted bluebirds in the nursery.”
I closed my eyes.
Aaron had inherited the nickname from Melissa.
Then given it to Zia.
Not because Zia was that baby.
Because the lost child had become a symbol of every child he wanted to protect.
I felt grief and relief at once.
Zia was still simply Zia.
My daughter.
Aaron’s daughter.
Not secretly someone else.
But somewhere there might be another girl.
Melissa’s daughter.
Naomi’s granddaughter.
Lorraine’s great-granddaughter.
A child around eight years old.
Missing.
“Where is she?” I asked.
Joan shook her head.
“No one knew.”
Detective Alvarez did.
Or at least she had a lead.
Judge Vane’s records contained an address linked to an amended placement order.
The child had been placed with foster parents under another name.
Then records ended.
No adoption finalization.
No clear transfer.
“Could she still be in the system?” I asked.
“Possibly.”
“Could Celia have taken her?”
“Possibly.”
I hated that word.
Alvarez contacted state child services.
Old files were reopened.
A case number surfaced.
A girl called Lily Hart.
Birth date matching Melissa’s child.
Placed at four months.
Removed at eighteen months.
Reason.
Kinship petition.
Petitioner name sealed.
Alvarez obtained an emergency court order.
The petitioner was Celia Grant.
My stomach turned.
“She raised her?”
“Temporarily.”
“For how long?”
“Two years.”
“Then what?”
“Guardianship transferred.”
“To who?”
“Naomi Brooks.”
Lorraine nearly collapsed when she heard.
Her missing daughter had raised her own granddaughter.
For three years.
Then Naomi disappeared again.
“Where is Lily now?”
Alvarez continued.
“Guardianship changed once more.”
“To?”
She hesitated.
“Thomas Mercer.”
Travis stood.
“Uncle Tom?”
“Yes.”
“Thomas has a child?”
“Not officially.”
“What does that mean?”
“The petition was withdrawn before finalization.”
“Then where did Lily go?”
“That is the question.”
We tried Thomas.
No answer.
Still missing.
Naomi claimed she had not seen Lily in two years.
“When did you last see her?” Alvarez asked.
“After Celia found us.”
“You and Lily?”
“Yes.”
“You had her with you.”
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t you tell us?”
Naomi looked ashamed.
“Because if Celia knew Lily mattered to me, she would use her.”
“She already knew.”
“Yes.”
“Where did you send Lily?”
“To Thomas.”
“And?”
“He promised to hide her.”
“Where?”
“He never told me.”
“Why would you trust Thomas after what he did to Aaron?”
Naomi closed her eyes.
“Because guilt makes people useful.”
That was a terrible sentence.
Also sometimes true.
Thomas had watched Aaron die.
Years later, perhaps he tried to protect the child connected to Melissa.
Not redemption.
But maybe one decent act.
“Did Celia know Thomas had Lily?”
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
“No.”
Again.
Nothing was certain.
Then Travis remembered something.
“Uncle Tom has a cabin.”
Lorraine looked up.
“Lake Briar.”
“He sold it.”
“When?”
“Five years ago.”
“No.”
Travis shook his head.
“He transferred it to an LLC.”
Alvarez checked.
The LLC existed.
Property still active.
Utilities minimal.
Taxes paid.
Police drove there.
We waited.
An hour.
Two.
Then Alvarez called.
“We found signs someone lived here recently.”
“A child?”
“Yes.”
My heart jumped.
“Is she there?”
“No.”
“Anything else?”
“Drawings.”
“What kind?”
“Birds.”
Bluebirds.
Lorraine began crying.
“Lily.”
They also found medicine prescribed to an eight-year-old girl under the name Lily Thomas.
Fake surname.
One photograph.
Thomas with a smiling girl on a dock.
Alive.
Recent.
On the back, Thomas had written:
FOR NAOMI.
SHE IS SAFE.
That should have been good news.
Then police found blood in the cabin.
Fresh.
Not much.
And a broken phone.
Forensics recovered one unsent message.
TO TRAVIS.
CELIA FOUND US.
TAKING LILY TO THE ONLY PLACE SHE WILL NEVER EXPECT.
No location.
No further clue.
Until Zia came home from school.
She saw the photograph on our kitchen table.
The one of Lily.
Zia stopped.
“Who is that?”
I turned the photograph face down too late.
“Nobody you need to worry about.”
Zia frowned.
“I know her.”
Every adult in the room froze.
“What?”
“She came to my school.”
My blood turned to ice.
“When?”
“Before Christmas.”
“What did she say?”
Zia thought.
“She asked if I was Zia.”
Travis crouched.
“What else?”
“She said she was looking for her uncle.”
“Which uncle?”
“She didn’t know his real name.”
My heart pounded.
“Did she tell you her name?”
Zia nodded.
“Birdie.”
I stared at her.
“Birdie?”
“Yes.”
Then Zia added the sentence that made Naomi start sobbing.
“She gave me a bracelet.”
“What bracelet?”
“The blue one.”
Zia ran upstairs.
She returned with a small woven bracelet.
Blue thread.
A silver bird charm.
On the back of the charm was engraved one letter.
Naomi covered her face.
“I gave that to Lily.”
Zia looked frightened.
“Did I do something bad?”
“No.”
I hugged her.
“No.”
“When did Lily give this to you?”
“The last day before break.”
“Did she say anything else?”
Zia nodded.
“She said if a scary lady came, I should tell Dad the red house isn’t empty.”
Travis and I looked at each other.
“What red house?”
Zia shrugged.
“She said Dad would know.”
Travis went pale.
“I do.”
“Where?”
He looked at Lorraine.
“My grandfather’s hunting cottage.”
Lorraine stared.
“That place burned down.”
“No.”
Travis shook his head.
“The barn burned.”
“The cottage was red.”
He turned to Alvarez.
“It’s been abandoned for twenty years.”
“Where?”
“Near Lake Briar.”
Police moved immediately.
The red cottage sat nine miles from Thomas’s cabin.
When officers arrived, they found a vehicle hidden behind the trees.
Thomas’s.
Inside the cottage, a fire burned in the stove.
Food sat on the table.
A child’s coat hung beside the door.
No Thomas.
No Lily.
Then an officer heard movement beneath the floor.
A trapdoor.
A root cellar.
They opened it.
Lily was inside.
Alive.
Alone.
Terrified.
She clutched a note.
Thomas’s handwriting.
TRAVIS.
IF YOU FOUND HER, I DID ONE THING RIGHT.
DO NOT LOOK FOR ME.
CELIA WILL FOLLOW.
Lily was safe.
Thomas was gone.
And Celia was still free.
But that night, when Lily finally spoke to Naomi by video call, she whispered something no one expected.
“Aunt Celia isn’t the one who took Uncle Thomas.”
Naomi’s face went still.
“Who did?”
Lily looked toward the detective.
Then at us.
“A man.”
“What man?”
She swallowed.
“The one Grandma Lorraine calls Dad.”
Travis went white.
May you like
Lorraine stopped breathing.
Her father had been dead for twenty-nine years.
