“What?”
Ethan’s expression remained calm.
“Human resources has been instructed to create a temporary program.”
“For me?”
“For any employee who needs it.”
Mrs. Jenkins smiled knowingly.
“Smart man.”
I stared at Ethan.
“You did that today?”
“It should have existed already.”
There was no performance in his answer.
No expectation of gratitude.
He had seen a weakness in the structure around him, and instead of pretending it was only my problem, he had changed it.
The gesture reached somewhere deep inside me.
Not because it solved everything.
Because he had listened.
Mrs. Jenkins looked between us.
“Well,” she said, “this morning seems to have become complicated.”
“You have no idea,” I replied.
Her gaze moved to Lily.
Then to Ethan.
Something unreadable passed across her face.
“Actually,” she said slowly, “I may.”
I straightened.
“What does that mean?”
She picked up her tea, buying herself a moment.
“Nothing. I’m tired.”
But Ethan had noticed too.
He stepped closer.
“Mrs. Jenkins, have we met?”
“No.”
The answer came too quickly.
“Have you met my brother?”
Her hand stopped halfway to the cup.
My breath caught.
“Mrs. Jenkins?”
She looked at me.
The warmth in her face had been replaced by worry.
“Claire, I need you not to be angry.”
“That usually means I’m going to be.”
She set the cup down.
“Caleb came to see me once.”
The hospital sounds continued around us—wheels rolling over tile, distant voices, a monitor chiming behind another curtain.
Inside our small space, everything went silent.
“When?” I whispered.
“After Lily was born.”
I could not make sense of the words.
“No.”
“He came late one evening.”
“No, he didn’t.”
“He didn’t come inside.”
“You would have told me.”
“He begged me not to.”
My chest tightened.
“What did he say?”
Mrs. Jenkins looked toward Lily.
“He asked whether you were safe. Whether the baby was healthy. Whether anyone had been asking questions.”
Ethan moved beside me.
“How long after Lily’s birth?”
“About six weeks.”
I gripped the edge of the chair.
All those sleepless nights.
All those mornings when I had stood at the window with Lily in my arms, wondering whether Caleb knew she had been born.
He had known.
He had been close enough to come to our building.
“Did he see her?”
Mrs. Jenkins’s eyes filled.
“From the courtyard.”
The pain of it came quietly.
Not rage.
Not even betrayal.
Something heavier.
“He watched us?”
“Only for a few minutes.”
“Why didn’t he come upstairs?”
“He said he couldn’t.”
“He could have knocked.”
“I told him that.”
“What did he say?”
Mrs. Jenkins swallowed.
“He said if he came into your life again, the people looking for him might follow.”
My anger wavered.
Ethan placed one hand on the back of my chair, not touching me, only near enough that I could feel his steadiness.
“Did he leave anything?” Daniel asked.
Mrs. Jenkins looked at him.
“Who are you?”
“Daniel Reyes. I’m trying to find Caleb.”
She considered him.
Then she reached toward the small handbag beside the bed.
“I kept it because I hoped he would come back for it.”
From an inner pocket, she removed a silver chain.
A small key hung from it.
Ethan inhaled sharply.
“That was my mother’s.”
He took the chain with trembling fingers.
The key was delicate, old-fashioned, engraved with two letters.
E.C.
“Evelyn Callahan,” Ethan whispered.
Mrs. Jenkins nodded.
“Caleb said his mother wore it every day.”
“She did.”
“What does it open?” I asked.
Ethan turned the key over in his palm.
“I don’t know.”
Samuel, who had remained near the curtain, stepped forward.
“I do.”
Every eye turned toward him.
He looked older beneath the hospital lights.
“There was a private box Evelyn kept at the old Callahan house.”
“What kind of box?” Ethan asked.
“A document chest built into the wall of her dressing room.”
Ethan frowned.
“That room was renovated after she died.”
“By your father?”
“Yes.”
Samuel’s expression darkened.
“Then he may have been looking for it.”
Ethan closed his hand around the key.
