Chapter 13 - The Woman Who Remembered the Night of the Fire
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Ruth Alvarez agreed to meet me at the shelter where I'd first met Renee.
She was still working there.
Her hair had turned almost completely gray, but her expression was as kind and serious as I remembered.
When she saw me enter, she smiled.
“Michael.”
“Ruth.”
“How's our girl?”
I paused.
“She's safe.”
Ruth's smile faded.
“That doesn't sound like everything is okay.”
I explained what we'd discovered.
The letter.
The hospital discrepancy.
The second child.
The trust payments.
By the time I finished, Ruth was gripping the edge of her desk.
“I wondered if this day would come.”
I stared at her.
“What do you mean?”
She looked toward the window.
“When Renee first arrived, she was frightened of women who wore strong perfume.”
My chest tightened.
“Carmen wears perfume every day.”
Ruth nodded.
“I noticed that during one of the early family introductions.”
“Why didn't you tell me?”
“Because children's reactions have many possible explanations. I couldn't accuse anyone based on that alone.”
She opened a drawer and removed an old notebook.
“I kept contemporaneous notes about some of the placement concerns. The agency also has official records, but I wanted to preserve what I personally observed.”
Charlotte had arranged for Ruth to share relevant information through the proper channels.
Ruth turned several pages.
“Renee talked about a blue door.”
I sat upright.
“What?”
“She said her mother told her to wait near a blue door if she ever became frightened.”
I remembered Renee's Christmas drawing.
“Did she say where it was?”
“No.”
Ruth continued.
“She also mentioned a brother.”
My breath caught.
“Lucas?”
Ruth looked at me sharply.
“You found his name?”
“Yes.”
Her eyes filled.
“I asked about him at the time. The referring office said the children's cases had been separated for legal reasons.”
“Did you believe that?”
“I believed the paperwork had gone through an authorized process. But I never received a satisfactory explanation.”
I leaned forward.
“What else do you remember?”
Ruth looked down at the notebook.
“On the night before Renee was transferred to the shelter, someone brought a small bag containing her belongings.”
“What belongings?”
“Clothes, a stuffed rabbit, and a folded note.”
“Button?”
She smiled sadly.
“Yes.”
My heart pounded.
“What did the note say?”
Ruth's voice became quiet.
“It said, 'Please tell Renee her mother never stopped loving her.'”
I closed my eyes.
For four years, I'd believed Renee's mother had died without the chance to leave a farewell.
Now someone had delivered a message intended for her.
“Who brought the bag?”
Ruth hesitated.
“A woman wearing a dark coat. She wouldn't give her name.”
“Can you describe her?”
Ruth nodded.
“Blonde hair. Around fifty or sixty. Very expensive perfume.”
My hands tightened.
Carmen.
Then Ruth added:
“She told me the child's mother was gone and that I must never discuss the other child with anyone who came asking.”
I stared at her.
“Did you report that?”
“I documented the statement. Later, the agency told me the identity and placement questions had been resolved.”
I sat motionless.
Ruth took a slow breath.
“Michael, there's something else I haven't been able to forget.”
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“What?”
“Before the woman left, Renee called her Grandma.”
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