Chapter 6 - Christmas at St. Agnes
St. Agnes had been closed for thirteen years.
The buildings remained in the Wisconsin woods because demolition had
become tangled in lawsuits.
Snow covered the abandoned chapel, dormitory and treatment wing.
Police wanted to control the exchange.
Graham wanted to burn the place down.
I wanted Lucy five states away.
She was with Rachel under police protection.
Before I left, she hugged me.
“Don’t be brave if brave means dumb.”
I smiled despite myself.
“Who taught you that?”
“You.”
Fair enough.
We drove north with detectives following at a distance. The original
will remained in a bank vault. Graham carried a copy.
At 11:38 p.m., we entered the chapel.
Battery-powered Christmas candles glowed along the aisle.
Someone had arranged them recently.
At the altar sat Julia.
Her hands were tied.
She was conscious.
“Mara?” Graham called.
No answer.
Monica stepped from behind the old confessional.
She held no weapon that I could see, but two men stood with her.
“Put the document down.”
Graham laughed once.
“You destroyed your life for paper.”
“For ownership.”
“You were already wealthy.”
“Not Vale wealthy.”
There it was.
Not grief.
Not fear.
Hunger.
Monica had spent her life watching her sister marry into a dynasty.
Evelyn’s miscarriage created an opening. Julia’s existence created
another.
“You found Mara,” Graham said.
Monica smiled.
“Mara found me.”
“What does that mean?”
“She contacted Evelyn last spring. She wanted a meeting.”
“Why?”
“To expose everything.”
“And you stopped her.”
“I redirected her.”
Julia shouted, “She kidnapped my mother!”
One of Monica’s men grabbed her shoulder.
I stepped forward.
“Don’t touch her.”
Monica looked amused.
“The hotel manager.”
“The woman whose daughter ruined your plan.”
Her smile disappeared.
“That child should have stayed in bed.”
Graham’s voice turned cold.
“Mention Lucy again.”
Monica glanced at him.
“And what? You’ll destroy me? Your family taught me how destruction
works.”
She demanded the will.
Graham placed the copy on a pew.
Monica picked it up.
Then laughed.
“This is a copy.”
“Of course.”
Her expression changed.
Police lights appeared through stained glass.
Monica shouted at her men.
Chaos followed.
One ran.
The other released Julia and fled through a side door.
Monica tried to escape toward the sacristy.
Graham caught her before police entered.
He did not strike her.
He simply held her wrists and said, “It’s over.”
Monica smiled.
“No. It isn’t.”
Police arrested her.
Julia was taken to the hospital.
But Mara was nowhere in the building.
Detectives searched until dawn.
In the old records room, I found a wall covered with names scratched
into plaster.
Women.
Dozens of them.
Beside several were dates and numbers.
This had been bigger than Mara.
Much bigger.
Graham stood beside me.
“My father did this.”
“Your father started something.”
“That’s worse.”
A detective found recent footprints behind the chapel.
They led to an old caretaker’s cottage.
Inside was a bed, food, medicine and a Christmas card addressed to
Julia.
But no Mara.
On the table sat a photograph.
My mother, Elizabeth.
Mara.
And Beatrice.
All three women were smiling.
The date on the back was seven years after Mara’s supposed death.
Graham stared at it.
“My mother knew.”
When we returned to Chicago, Beatrice was waiting.
He placed the photograph before her.
“You saw Mara after she escaped.”
Beatrice closed her eyes.
“Yes.”
“How many times?”
“Every Christmas for eleven years.”
Graham walked away from her.
She followed.
“Your father watched you constantly. If I told you, he would have found
her.”
“He died six years ago.”
“I know.”
“Why didn’t you tell me then?”
Beatrice began crying.
“Because by then Mara didn’t want to come back.”
“Why?”
“She believed someone inside Vale Holdings had continued your father’s
work.”
“Who?”
“I never knew.”
The front door opened.
Lucy ran toward me.
I hugged her so hard she complained.
“Mom. Bones.”
“Sorry.”
“Did you do dumb brave?”
“A little.”
She looked at Graham.
“Did you find your sister?”
“No.”
Lucy thought.
“Maybe she doesn’t want to be found.”
Beatrice stared at her.
Then she whispered, “That is exactly what Mara used to say.”
A courier arrived minutes later with a Christmas card.
No return address.
Inside was a photograph taken that morning.
It showed Mara standing outside the Bellweather Hotel.
Alive.
Behind her, reflected in the glass doors, stood someone we all
recognized.
May you like
Harold Finch.
The family attorney.
