Free The Wrong Girl by Hank Phillippi Ryan Page B

notebook, pen poised over a page.
    “Ella Gavin is her assistant’s name. And no, she’s not usually late.” Back at Jake. “Detectives? Is there something wrong?”
    “Ah, there is, Mr. Brannigan. I’m sorry to have to tell you. Lillian Finch is dead.”

18
    “Why don’t I think she’s my birth mother?” Tuck spun her coffee cup between her thumb and forefinger, seemed fascinated by the sound of it scraping on the plastic tabletop. The coffee shop’s morning crush and bustle had dwindled, and the three women were the only customers still at a table. The place smelled of fresh coffee and something cinnamon. A TV, mounted in the corner above the cash register, flickered a muted CNN. Jane read the screen crawl: “Severe weather on the way for New England. Officials warn residents may have to…”
    “Well, here’s why.” Tuck stopped her cup-spinning, took a sip, then grimaced.
    Remembering something? Jane wondered. Or maybe Tuck’s coffee was cold. They’d been here a good hour, maybe more, looking at documents and listening to Ella explain how foolproof the Brannigan’s system was. That alone was enough to make Jane skeptical. Nothing was foolproof, any reporter could tell you that.
    Tuck propped her chin on her intertwined fingers, elbows on the table, seemed to weigh what she was about to say.
    “Listen. There were two things from my—birth mother. One, a handwritten note from her that was tucked into my blanket when the Brannigan took me in.”
    “A note?” Ella tilted her head, frowning. She opened the manila folder, flipping documents, one by one, quickly, shaking her head as the pages rustled by. “No. That can’t be. If there was a note, it would be in here, definitely, a copy of it at least. I mean, I know I copied the whole file. What’s more, I know History and Records is required to keep any and all…”
    Her voice trailed off, one hand still turning pages as she stared at them. “I mean…”
    “A note?” Jane couldn’t resist interrupting. Why hadn’t Tuck told her that right off the bat? She’d certainly buried the lede of this story. “What did it say?”
    “Exactly.” Tuck pointed a finger at Ella. “And Carlyn Beerman, lovely a person as she was when we met, did not say a word about a note. I gave her every opportunity. Since you say there’s also no copy of the note in your file, that means your infallible Ms. Finch got it wrong this time.”
    “Ms. Cameron, that’s not—”
    “But Tuck, how’d you know there was a note?” Jane had to interrupt again. This didn’t make sense. Tuck had explained she’d been left at the Brannigan in a closed adoption, which meant all the papers are sealed until the child is an adult, and opened only if both parties ask to see them. The whole point was to keep everything secret and private. Had a remorseful birth mother tried to leave Tuck a clue about her first identity? “Forgive me, but are you sure it’s real? Do you have it? What does it say?”
    “How do I know it’s real? My adoptive mother told me. And my adoptive father.” Tuck said. She peeled back the plastic lid of her coffee cup, then tore the lid into pieces, dropping each shard, one by one, into the dregs left in the cup.
    “Told me about it from the moment I could remember. I’ve seen the note, of course, a million times, but Mom has it. It was my birth mother’s way of saying good-bye, but it’s also my way to prove … well, I know it by heart. ‘We each travel our own road,’ it says. ‘Always choose the future over the past.’”
    Jane stared at her, trying to comprehend. To get a message like that from your mother? The message she left as she was walking out of your life? This one pretty much implied— don’t try to find me. Poor Tuck. The two little kids from Callaberry Street, too. There hadn’t been a note for them, of course, when their mom left. How could they possibly learn to accept the story they’d hear, someday?
    “Of course we could