Chapter 1 - The Name That Wasn’t Edmund’sOwen Winslow was screaming when Edmund came through the front door.
The sound stopped him before he had taken off his coat.
It came from upstairs.
Not the ordinary shout of a ten-year-old angry about homework or a video game.
This was fear.
“Get off me!”
Edmund dropped his keys.
Then another voice.
Beatrice.
“Owen, swallow them!”
Edmund was already running.
At seventy-two, he no longer moved quickly without feeling it in his knees, but he took the staircase two steps at a time.
“Owen!”
He reached the second-floor landing and stopped.
Beatrice Lowell, the woman who had worked in the Winslow household for more than forty years, was kneeling beside Owen near the top of the stairs.
One arm pinned the boy’s shoulders against the carpet.
Her other hand was near his mouth.
Several white tablets lay scattered beside them.
Owen twisted violently away.
“BEATRICE!”
She released him instantly.
Owen scrambled backward.
Beatrice sat frozen for a second.
Then something strange happened.
Her expression emptied.
She touched her forehead.
“Mr. Winslow?”
Edmund stared at her.
“What the hell were you doing?”
Beatrice looked down at the floor.
At Owen.
At the pills.
Then back at Edmund.
“I…”
Her forehead creased.
“I don’t understand.”
Edmund moved between her and his grandson.
“You were holding him down.”
Beatrice blinked rapidly.
“I don’t remember.”
Owen ran to Edmund.
His whole body was shaking.
“She tried to make me take them.”
Edmund pulled the boy behind him.
Beatrice slowly stood.
“I must have had another episode.”
“What episode?”
“The memory problem.”
Edmund’s eyes narrowed.
Beatrice had mentioned forgetfulness over the previous year.
Missing keys.
Leaving a kettle on.
Repeating a grocery order.
But nothing remotely like this.
She touched her temple again.
“I’m sorry. I don’t know what happened.”
Owen gripped Edmund’s sleeve.
“Grandpa.”
Edmund looked down.
Owen’s face was wet with tears.
His cheek was red from struggling against the carpet.
“You’re safe.”
Owen shook his head.
“No. She was trying to stop me telling you.”
Beatrice became still.
Edmund noticed.
“Telling me what?”
Owen pointed.
Beatrice’s leather handbag lay open beside the staircase.
Several papers had partially spilled onto the floor during the struggle.
“She had papers.”
Beatrice stepped toward the bag.
Edmund immediately raised one hand.
“Don’t.”
Her face changed.
Only slightly.
But the confused old-housekeeper performance vanished for half a second.
Owen saw it too.
“I found a birth certificate.”
Edmund frowned.
“Whose?”
Owen swallowed.
“My dad’s.”
Silence.
Graham Winslow had been Edmund’s only child.
Owen’s father.
Graham had died two years earlier in a sailing accident off Block Island.
Edmund still had mornings when he woke expecting Graham to call.
“Why would Beatrice have your father’s birth certificate?”
“I don’t know.”
Beatrice whispered:
“Mr. Winslow, please.”
Owen continued.
“It has Dad’s birthday.”
Edmund looked at Beatrice.
“And?”
“The baby’s name isn’t Graham.”
Edmund felt something cold move through him.
“What name?”
Owen pointed toward the papers.
“Evan.”
Edmund bent slowly and picked up the document.
It was old.
Yellowed at the edges.
Rhode Island Certificate of Live Birth.
Date of birth:
September 18, 1986.
Graham’s birthday.
But the child’s name was not Graham Winslow.
EVAN MATTHEW ROWAN.
Edmund’s mouth went dry.
He read the mother.
Lena Margaret Rowan.
He had never heard the name.
Then he looked at the line marked FATHER.
Robert Daniel Rowan.
Edmund stared at it.
Owen stepped closer.
“That’s what I was trying to tell you.”
Edmund could barely hear him.
“Grandpa?”
“Yes?”
Owen pointed at the certificate.
“The father’s name isn’t yours.”
Edmund looked up at Beatrice.
She had gone completely pale.
He had known this woman since she was twenty-three.
She had helped Marian decorate Graham’s nursery.
Held Graham when he had chickenpox.
Driven him to school.
Stayed after Marian died.
Helped Edmund raise Owen after Graham’s accident.
Now she stood ten feet away looking terrified of a piece of paper.
“How long have you had this?”
Beatrice shook her head.
“I don’t know.”
“Stop.”
“I really don’t remember.”
Edmund stepped closer.
“Do not use memory loss with me right now.”
Her lips trembled.
“I’m confused.”
“Then I’ll make it simple.”
He held up the birth certificate.
“My son was born on September eighteenth, 1986.”
“Yes.”
“This certificate belongs to a child born that day.”
Beatrice said nothing.
“Why is it in your bag?”
Nothing.
“Who is Evan Rowan?”
Beatrice looked toward Owen.
That glance was enough.
Edmund’s chest tightened.
“Owen, go downstairs.”
“No.”
“Please.”
The boy’s voice shook.
“I don’t want to leave you with her.”
That sentence hurt more than Edmund expected.
He put one hand on Owen’s shoulder.
“Then stay behind me.”
Beatrice began crying.
“I never wanted him to find it.”
Edmund froze.
Not I don’t know what it is.
Not I can’t remember.
She knew.
“You remember now?”
Beatrice closed her eyes.
Edmund looked again at the bag.
More papers remained inside.
He reached for them.
Beatrice suddenly moved.
“Please don’t.”
Edmund stopped.
“What else is in there?”
She said nothing.
He opened the bag.
A court petition.
An old baptismal record.
A sealed hospital envelope.
And a typed document with a heading that made his hands begin to shake.
PETITION FOR AMENDED IDENTITY RECORD.
Original name:
Evan Matthew Rowan.
Requested name:
Graham Edmund Winslow.
Edmund stared.
Approved date:
December 4, 1986.
His son had been almost three months old.
He looked at Beatrice.
“What did Marian do?”
Beatrice began sobbing.
Edmund’s voice became quieter.
“What did my wife do?”
Beatrice whispered:
“She wasn’t supposed to tell you.”
Edmund’s blood ran cold.
“Tell me what?”
Beatrice looked directly at him.
“The baby you brought home from the hospital…”
May you like
She swallowed.
“…wasn’t the baby Marian gave birth to.”
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