Chapter 7 - The Letter He Stole
Harris stood slowly.
“I can explain.”
Jordan almost laughed.
“That sentence should be illegal in this family.”
Nia pointed toward the chair.
“Sit.”
Harris obeyed.
Maya’s face had become unreadable.
“You signed for my mother’s letter?”
“Yes.”
“At their house?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Harris pressed his palms together.
“Marcus and his family were in Savannah that weekend. I was checking the house.”
Mr. Mitchell frowned.
“I gave you the alarm code.”
“You also asked me to bring in the mail.”
Mrs. Mitchell whispered, “I remember that trip.”
Jordan remembered too.
A beach rental.
Rain almost every day.
Harris continued.
“The certified envelope had Renee’s return address. I recognized the name.”
“So you stole it,” Maya said.
“I intercepted it.”
“That is a thief’s word for stealing.”
“Yes.”
Nobody expected the agreement.
Maya looked shaken by it.
“What did the letter say?”
Harris stared at the table.
“Renee said she had discovered the name Mitchell in your original hospital items. She said she intended to contact the family unless I gave her a reason not to.”
“What did you do?”
“I drove to her apartment.”
Jordan stared.
“You went to Maya again.”
“Yes.”
“Without telling us.”
“Yes.”
Maya’s voice was quiet.
“What did you tell my mother?”
“That reopening the case might jeopardize the adoption.”
Claire leaned forward angrily.
“Was that true?”
“I believed it could create uncertainty.”
“Uncertainty for who?”
“For Maya.”
“No,” Claire said. “For you.”
Harris looked at her.
“For both.”
Maya stood.
“So my mother spent another ten years thinking that telling me the truth might make the state take me away.”
Harris shook his head.
“Not ten years. She stopped believing me eventually.”
“When?”
“2021.”
Jordan noticed the date.
“That’s around when she started collecting Mercer’s emails?”
“Yes.”
Maya looked toward Claire.
“Did you know?”
Claire’s face showed genuine pain.
“No.”
“Did anybody tell me anything?”
No one answered.
Maya grabbed her bag.
Jordan stood too.
“Where are you going?”
“Anywhere that doesn’t contain another adult explaining why lying to me was love.”
She walked toward the elevator.
Jordan followed.
Outside, Atlanta traffic hissed over wet pavement from an earlier shower.
Maya kept walking.
Jordan caught up but did not touch her.
“I’m sorry.”
“You didn’t do it.”
“That doesn’t make me feel better.”
She stopped.
“You know what’s awful?”
“What?”
“I like your mother.”
Jordan blinked.
Maya laughed bitterly.
“I wanted to hate her. It would be easier.”
“You don’t have to choose anything today.”
“I already had a mother.”
“I know.”
“Renee packed my lunch every morning. She slept on the floor next to me when I had pneumonia. She worked overtime so I could go to journalism camp. She taught me how to drive.”
Jordan nodded.
“She’s your mother.”
“And Mrs. Mitchell gave birth to me.”
“Yes.”
Maya looked at him.
“So what are you?”
He smiled sadly.
“Apparently the annoying part is genetically confirmed.”
A small laugh escaped her.
Then she cried.
Jordan stood beside her while she did.
He did not hug her until she leaned toward him first.
Back upstairs, Nia continued questioning Harris.
When Jordan and Maya returned, the doctor was holding his phone.
“I called my office,” he said. “I canceled everything.”
Mr. Mitchell frowned.
“Why?”
“Because if we’re doing this, I’m not going halfway.”
Nia watched him.
“What does that mean?”
“I have the external drive.”
“You said that.”
“I also have something else.”
He reached into his wallet and removed a folded slip of paper.
A storage-unit receipt.
Mrs. Mitchell stared.
“What is in there?”
“Old St. Gabriel records.”
Nia’s voice became dangerously calm.
“Original medical records?”
“Copies.”
“Patient information?”
“Yes.”
“You understand you may have created serious privacy issues.”
“I understand.”
“Why keep them?”
“Because by 2014 I knew Mercer was cleaning the electronic archive.”
Jordan frowned.
“You kept evidence for twelve years and still said nothing?”
Harris looked toward Maya.
“Cowardice can become a routine.”
Maya gave him no comfort.
Nia said, “We retrieve the materials legally. We inventory them. You do not touch anything else.”
Harris nodded.
Mr. Mitchell sat by the window.
Jordan watched his father.
Something still felt unfinished.
He walked over.
“What did the settlement pay for besides the mortgage?”
Mr. Mitchell stiffened.
“Why?”
“Because you keep saying the house.”
“It paid debt.”
“What debt?”
“Business loans.”
“And?”
Mr. Mitchell looked toward his wife.
Mrs. Mitchell noticed.
“What?”
He said nothing.
Jordan’s stomach dropped.
“Dad.”
His father finally answered.
“Some of it went into an investment account.”
Jordan knew before he heard the rest.
His father whispered, “Your college fund.”
Jordan stared.
“How much?”
“Thirty thousand initially. It grew.”
Jordan stepped backward.
The account his parents had proudly told him would make college possible had begun with money paid to silence questions about Maya.
He looked at his sister.
Maya had heard every word.
Neither spoke.
Then Jordan’s phone buzzed.
An unknown number had sent him a photograph.
It showed the Mitchell house.
Taken from across the street.
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Below it was one sentence.
STOP DIGGING INTO ST. GABRIEL.
