Chapter 16 - THE WOMAN IN THE PHOTOGRAPH
Claire Sutton was forty-one, a school counselor in Ohio, and nothing like the mysterious claimant Eleanor had described.
She had spent years trying to understand the guardianship dispute that shaped her infancy.
Her lawyer explained that the letter was a request for information, not a filed claim against my property.
I agreed to meet Claire in Daniel's office.
She brought her own records, a faded family album, and a photograph of Patricia holding her as a baby.
"I don't want your money," she said before sitting down.
"I want to know why Mrs. Mercer saved my mother's letters."
I felt shame at having briefly imagined her as another person waiting to demand a share.
"My wife never told me much about the case," I answered.
Claire explained that Eleanor was her aunt.
Her mother had lost custody during a severe personal crisis, and Patricia had helped ensure the child could live safely with relatives.
Eleanor resented Patricia's involvement and later invoked the story whenever she wanted leverage.
"She told me your family owed us," Claire said.
"I never believed that."
She opened her album to a page marked with an old newspaper clipping.
Patricia stood beside a group of volunteers outside a family-services office.
Beneath the picture was a caption about legal assistance for vulnerable parents.
"Your wife was kind to my mother when almost nobody else was," Claire said.
For a moment Patricia felt close enough to touch.
Claire handed me a sealed envelope.
"My mother wanted your wife to have this. It was returned unopened after Patricia died."
Inside was a thank-you note, an old receipt, and a copy of a letter Eleanor had sent long before Justin founded his company.
The letter contained no demand for inheritance.
It did, however, describe Eleanor's practice of approaching frightened families with promises to resolve financial and custody disputes for large fees.
It was relevant evidence, and Claire agreed to let counsel provide it to investigators.
After the meeting we walked to the parking lot.
"Are your children really as terrible as the newspaper says?" she asked.
I considered the question.
"They've done terrible things," I said.
"But that isn't the whole of who they are."
Claire smiled sadly.
"Good. My mother was more than the worst thing she ever did."
That evening Rachel called without asking for money.
She wanted to know whether I had eaten dinner.
We spoke for eleven minutes.
It felt strange and precious.
But at the end she said something that unsettled me.
"Dad, Justin has disappeared."
"What do you mean?"
"He left his apartment this morning and nobody has heard from him."
Then my doorbell camera showed a familiar figure standing outside.
Justin was there, holding a suitcase.
May you like
And his face was covered in bruises.
