“Whitaker,” Emma whispered.
“That was your mother’s last name?” I asked.
She nodded. “It was on my earliest school forms. Emma Whitaker. Then later, the records changed after I was placed with a temporary guardian.”
Samuel looked up sharply. “Do you remember the guardian’s name?”
Emma frowned, searching old memory.
“It was brief. I was very young. Maybe six. A woman named Rose. Rose something.”
Margaret’s shoulders stiffened.
I saw it.
So did Samuel.
“Rose who?” he asked.
My mother stood abruptly. “I need air.”
“No,” I said.
She paused at the door.
“I am not a prisoner in my own son’s house,” she said.
“No,” I answered. “But you are a witness to whatever this is.”
Michael sank into a chair and muttered, “I don’t understand any of this.”
For once, I believed him.
Jennifer remained near the windows, looking increasingly trapped. Paul had disappeared sometime earlier, which surprised no one.
