Chapter 31 - The Name at the End of the Call
Two weeks after the morning at the observatory, Claire found a second girl's handwriting in Emma's astronomy notebook.
It was a correction to a drawing, written beside an arrow and underlined twice.
That is not where the lens goes.
Beneath it, Emma had replied:
It is a diagram, Nora. Not a construction permit.
Claire smiled.
“New friend?”
Emma looked up from the kitchen table.
“Observatory club. She knows everything and occasionally admits when she doesn't.”
“A rare qualification.”
“She thinks your reading-room window seats are good.”
“Excellent judgment too.”
Emma rolled her eyes and returned to the diagram.
For several days, that was all Nora Moore was: a name in a notebook, a voice on a call about a group project, and a girl who reminded Emma to bring the correct cable to the next session.
Claire liked knowing so little because there was nothing frightening to discover.
Then Nora's mother called.
Celia Moore introduced herself, confirmed that she had obtained the number through the club's ordinary parent-contact arrangements, and asked whether Claire could speak privately.
Claire went into the sitting room.
“Is something wrong?”
“Something I should tell you before the girls spend more time together.”
Celia sounded controlled, but not comfortable. Claire recognized how much effort that could require.
“They've become friends at the club,” the woman continued. “I didn't know Emma's surname at first. Nora mentioned it yesterday, and I realized who you were.”
Claire sat down.
The room had not changed. The old anticipation had.
“What do you need me to know?”
“My daughter's father was employed by your family.”
“There were many employees.”
“Yes. This is different.”
Outside the doorway, Emma laughed at something on her phone. Claire waited for the sound to pass before answering.
“Who?”
“Garrett.”
The name entered the room with the force of a door opening in the dark.
Claire saw him in the tunnel, carrying Emma. She saw the hospital corridor where she learned that the same man had sold information about the child's movements.
Neither memory displaced the other.
“He's Nora's father,” Celia said. “We were already separated before his arrest. He's been released after serving his sentence. I am not calling to ask you for anything about him.”
“Does he know the girls are friends?”
“Not from me. Nora only told me Emma's full name yesterday. I spoke to her about what she knew, then called you.”
Claire looked toward the kitchen.
“What did she know?”
Celia took a breath.
“She recognized Emma from old reporting. She didn't join the club to approach her. But once they met, she didn't explain the connection.”
“How long?”
“Several weeks.”
Claire closed her eyes briefly.
“Thank you for telling me. I need time to speak with Emma and her father. Please don't ask Nora to contact her about this tonight.”
“I won't.”
They agreed on a way to communicate again. No promises about friendship were made over the girls' heads.
When the call ended, Claire remained seated long enough to recognize that her hands were trembling.
She had wanted a normal complication: a disagreement over a diagram, an argument about who borrowed a cable. The past had found the notebook without anyone needing to hide a memory card inside it.
Emma appeared in the doorway.
“Mom?”
Claire put the phone down.
“Nora's mother called. There's something we need to discuss.”
She explained enough for Emma to understand the relationship. Garrett had worked for Vincent, had helped people gain access to the estate, and had also helped them escape. Emma already knew parts of that history in terms appropriate to her age.
She had not known Nora belonged to it.
The girl sat beside her.
“She knew?”
“Her mother says she recognized you.”
Emma looked at her hands.
“Is that why she wanted to be friends?”
“I don't know. We'll let Nora answer for herself if and when you want that conversation.”
“She asked what Dad was like.”
Claire kept her face still.
“Friends sometimes ask that.”
“I know. Now I don't know which questions were ordinary.”
That was the injury beneath the name. Claire understood it too well.
“I feel stupid,” Emma said.
“Why?”
“Because I didn't work it out.”
“You met a girl at a club. You weren't supposed to investigate her family before liking her.”
“But you check people.”
“For particular adult responsibilities. That isn't your job every time someone sits beside you.”
Emma rubbed the edge of the notebook.
“Then how do I know when I should have known?”
“We can discuss what you noticed and what happened. We don't have to pretend every clue was obvious because we know the answer now.”
The girl looked toward the page again. She had liked Nora's jokes, her impatience with untidy labels, and the way she admitted when an experiment failed. Those memories hadn't been replaced. They had become harder to understand.
Claire stayed while she tried.
They decided not to answer messages that evening while Emma thought. Claire would speak with Vincent and follow up with Celia. Any arrangements affecting club attendance would involve the responsible adults rather than an argument in front of the children.
Emma went upstairs with her notebook.
Claire called Vincent.
He listened without interrupting until she said Garrett's name.
“Where is he?”
The question came so quickly that both heard the old reflex inside it.
Claire said nothing.
Vincent breathed out.
“That's not the first question I need to ask.”
“No.”
“How is Emma?”
“Hurt. Unsure whether the friendship was real.”
“Can I come?”
“She wants quiet tonight. We can talk now and arrange tomorrow with her.”
“All right.”
He stayed on the line.
Across the kitchen table lay the open astronomy notebook. Two sets of handwriting occupied the same page, arguing about a lens that had seemed important an hour earlier.
May you like
Claire looked at it while Vincent asked what Celia had actually said.
For once, knowing the name had not supplied the answer.
