The guest room always feels too warm at night, like the house wants to lull me into forgetting where I am.
Snow presses against the window in white sheets, blurring the view of the drop to the Sound. The generator’s low thrum vibrates through the floorboards. I toe my slippers off and curl them under the chair, watching my phone screen dim and brighten as it waits in my palm.
Daniel taps twice on the door before coming in, a habit from our tiny apartment that he has kept even in his childhood castle. He shoulders it closed with his hip, balancing two steaming mugs.
“Peace offering,” he says, nudging one toward me. “Mulled cider. Claire had it on the stove downstairs.”
Cinnamon hits my nose before I curl my fingers around the mug. The heat seeps into my skin, loosening fingers that have been clenched around secrets for an hour.
“Thanks,” I say. “You’re going to turn me into a holiday drink person.”
He smiles, tired at the edges, and sinks onto the bed beside my chair. His knee brushes my leg through the duvet. The TV on the dresser stands dark; we agreed earlier we were “too tired” for another movie. I hear faint laughter from some distant room, a leftover echo from the neighbors’ stranded visit.
“Storm’s still bad,” he says. “Road into town looks like Antarctica. Harbor Glen’s officially an island.”
“Peninsula,” I say automatically, then shrug. “Geographically.”
“Technically,” he corrects, nudging my calf. “Emotionally, very island.”
I let a small smile touch my mouth, then let it go.
“Daniel,” I say, fingers tightening around the mug, “I need to talk about something. And I need you to hear all of it before you react.”
His shoulders lift with a careful breath. “Okay. That tone makes me nervous, but okay.”
I set my cider on the nightstand, then pick up my phone again. The Mercer crest on the duvet catches my eye—those stylized waves stitched in pale thread over white. Their influence stitched into fabric, into lives.
“I went into your mother’s office tonight,” I say.
His gaze snaps from my face to the phone. “When?”
“During the movie,” I answer. “When I said I needed the bathroom. The door was unlocked, Daniel. The drawer, too.”
“Hannah.” My name comes out on a groan. He scrubs his hand over his face. “She must have forgotten. That doesn’t make it an invitation.”
“I know.” I swallow. “I went straight to the trust folder. The one labeled Mercer Family Trust II – Second Daughter Beneficiary. I didn’t take anything. I put it back exactly. I just—”
I tip the phone toward him, thumb pressing the screen awake.
“—I took photos.”
His jaw tightens. “Tell me you’re kidding.”
“I’m not.” My voice stays soft, not apologizing. “I need you to see what it actually says instead of waving it away as ‘estate planning jargon.’”
“Hannah, that’s exactly what it is.” He drags in a breath, making an effort. “Look, I know this house is a lot. My family is a lot. But legal documents exist so everyone ends up taken care of without drama.”
“Read,” I say.
I open the first image, zooming into the header, then scroll with my index finger to the paragraph I memorized in the bathroom.
“This part,” I say. “Right here.”
I angle the phone so he can see.
He leans closer, his arm brushing mine, cider forgotten in his hand. His eyes track the lines.
“‘Provide for the financial security of Second Daughter Beneficiary while ensuring appropriate boundaries from Settlor’s existing family structure,’” I read aloud, my voice low. “Then this clause about no public identification with the Mercer name. Legal documents, social media, press. Nothing.”
He shifts, the mattress dipping. “So…they wanted her privacy protected. That’s not sinister.”
“Then this,” I say, and swipe to the next photo. My finger taps the screen where the text shrinks to smaller type.
“Non-disclosure,” I read. “She has to agree to ‘perpetual non-disclosure regarding parentage, adoption history, or any alleged relationship to Settlor, Settlor’s spouse, or their descendants.’ Perpetual, Daniel. Not just while she’s a minor. Forever.”
He exhales through his nose, a short scuff of air. “You’re reading it with emotional highlighter on. Lawyers write stuff that way to cover every possibility. And it says ‘alleged relationship.’ Maybe some woman made a claim that wasn’t true and they just wanted to dodge a frivolous lawsuit.”
I swipe again, to the clause that turned my stomach inside out.
“Then why this?” I ask.
My finger traces the lines.
“‘Beneficiary shall make no attempt at direct or indirect contact with any member of the Mercer family…except through counsel designated by Trustee.’ And if she does, they cut off the money and drag her into court.”
He stares at the words. His thumb taps once on his mug, a little hollow sound against ceramic.
“You’re telling me,” I say quietly, “that withholding your name, your existence, school photos, everything, is just ‘no big deal legalese’? That forbidding contact with your own son isn’t a conscious choice?”
“You’re twisting this into a soap opera,” he says. His voice climbs a notch. “All this tells me is that some situation happened, probably years ago, that my parents handled with lawyers instead of drama. Maybe they helped someone out. Paid support so she wouldn’t have to drag a kid through scandal. You don’t know.”
“It references Harbor Glen Memorial,” I say. “Irregular medical documentation. Prior custodial arrangements. Adoption placements.” I swipe to that paragraph and hold it up. “This is not a random woman trying to gold-dig your family. This is something your parents did.”
He flinches, just slightly.
I see it. The crease between his brows deepens, then smooths as he forces his forehead to relax.
“And I asked you,” I say, keeping my voice steady, “if you ever had another sister. You shut it down. ‘Just Lydia.’”
“Because that’s the truth,” he says, sharp now. “That’s my life.”
“Is it?” I slide the phone onto the duvet, screen up, trust text glaring like a third presence in the room. “Daniel, I’m not asking this to hurt you. I’m asking because I keep finding evidence that your family story has missing bodies. So I’m going to ask again, and I want you to take a minute before you answer.”
His chest moves in a shallow rise and fall.
“Did you ever have another girl living here?” I ask. “Even briefly. A sister, a cousin, a foster kid, a ‘friend from out of town’ who stayed longer than a weekend. Anyone who was treated like part of the family and then vanished.”
“No,” he says immediately.
I wait.
His gaze skates away, toward the window, where wind drives snow sideways against the glass. From up here, Harbor Glen looks erased; only the faint glow of the hospital cuts through the white, that building their foundation parades every December boat parade as proof of how many lives they’ve saved.
“No,” he repeats, but there’s less weight in it. “Just Lydia and me. We had cousins visit, but—”
He stops.
His fingers tighten on the handle of his mug until his knuckles pale.
“What?” I ask.
“Nothing,” he says too quickly.
“Daniel.”
He closes his eyes for a second, lashes dark against his skin. When he opens them, they look slightly unfocused, like he’s watching something over my shoulder.
“There was…a girl,” he says slowly. “I mean, I don’t know if this is even real. Memory is weird.”
My heart jumps hard against my ribs.
“Tell me,” I say, leaning forward.
He exhales, the sound shaky enough that it ruffles the hair at my temple.
“I must have been, I don’t know, eight? Nine? It was summer. I remember the Light the Harbor parade that year because Dad let me stay on deck late and the fireworks freaked Lydia out.” His mouth twitches with the ghost of a smile. “Anyway. There was this girl.”
He lifts his hand from the mug and makes a small shape in the air. Kid-sized.
“She was younger than me,” he says. “Younger than Lydia, too. Dark hair in these two messy braids. She wore this ridiculous life jacket around the house for a while because she didn’t want to take it off after being down by the docks. Mom hated it. Said it clashed with the upholstery.”
A small laugh slips out of him, then dies.
“She slept…in the third-floor hallway for a bit,” he continues. “On a daybed. Before the Lydia shrine situation. I remember the sheets—blue with little boats. She used to roll her toy cars along the banister, and Mom would snap at her about scratching the wood.”
My skin prickles.
“What did your parents call her?” I ask.
He frowns. “I don’t… I want to say—” He breaks off. “They told us she was a cousin from out of state. Hartford, maybe. Or that she was a friend’s kid whose parents were having a hard time. There was a story. There’s always a story.”
His gaze drifts to the wall, where Evelyn’s framed watercolor of the harbor hangs, all soft blues and grays. The Mercer crest sits in the corner of the matting, embossed in silver.
“How long did she stay?” I ask.
“Long enough that it stopped feeling like a visit,” he says. “She came to the hospital picnic with us. She knew which donor wall had Mom’s name highest. She knew which back road the driver used to skip Main Street traffic. I remember her arguing with Lydia about who got the blue sled instead of one of the plastic ones.”
He blows out a breath, eyes widening slightly.
“And then?” I prompt.
“And then…one day she wasn’t there,” he says. “Mom said she went home. That’s all. Lydia asked a couple of times and got shut down.” He swallows. “I think I stopped asking sooner than she did.”
“Did you see her again? At school, at Harbor Glen, at another event?”
“No.” He shakes his head. “She just…exited. Stage left.”
The room feels smaller, the air thicker with steam from our cooling mugs and the faint scent of the pine cleaning product housekeeping uses. A draft snakes in from the window frame, bringing salt and distant smoke from someone’s fireplace farther down the peninsula.
“Daniel,” I say, voice barely more than a breath, “what if she wasn’t a visiting cousin? What if she was the second daughter?”
His eyes snap to mine.
“What if your parents ‘helped out’ by taking her in, then found a way to move her offstage while keeping the hospital and foundation spotless?” I say. “What if that trust is how they paid to make sure she stayed gone?”
“Stop,” he says.
“You just described a girl who lived here, slept here, played on these cliffs, then disappeared with no goodbye,” I press. “Your parents have a legal document that pays a second daughter to never speak to you or use your name. How many coincidences do you need?”
“I said stop.” His voice cracks on the word.
He sets his mug down with more force than necessary. Liquid sloshes against the rim, the cinnamon stick rattling. He stands up, putting space between us in three quick steps, then paces once toward the window and back.
“You’re digging around in half-formed memories from when I was eight and turning them into a kidnapping podcast,” he says. “It’s not healthy, Hannah.”
“What’s not healthy is pretending a kid on a daybed isn’t worth remembering,” I shoot back. “You loved Lydia. You would burn the world down for her. Doesn’t any other girl in this house deserve at least a name?”
“Don’t do that,” he says sharply. “Don’t weaponize Lydia to make me feel guilty for not buying your conspiracy board.”
“This isn’t about conspiracy,” I say. “This is about patterns. A trust. Redacted names. Staff talking about ‘the other little girl.’ A blocked caller asking for ‘Mrs. Mercer’ who isn’t your mother. How many signals do you ignore before it becomes a choice?”
His hands flex at his sides.
“You know what this sounds like?” he asks. “It sounds like you need my family to be monsters so that all the messy stuff in your own past suddenly makes sense. Your dad leaving, your mom’s secrets about your birth, the fact that Harbor Glen feels like enemy territory. You’re projecting.”
The words land like a slap, even though his hand never lifts.
“I am reading the document your parents signed,” I say, letting my voice cool. “I’m not inventing that.”
“And you’re doing it with a highlighter that says ‘abuse’ on every line,” he bites out. “Do you have any idea how many kids that hospital actually helps? How many families can afford chemo because of the foundation? Harbor Glen smells like disinfectant and woodsmoke because of us. The whole town turns up for that boat parade because they know my parents deliver.”
“And how many kids never make it onto the success stories wall?” I ask. “How many second daughters get trusts instead of names?”
His face twists.
“You broke into my mother’s office,” he says. “You stole photos of confidential documents. Do you understand what that looks like? Legally? She could call that harassment, theft. She could say you’re unstable.”
The word hangs between us, ugly and heavy.
“She already thinks that,” I say. “She already watches what I Google and what I wear and how often I go for walks. The only thing I have is information she doesn’t control.”
“Delete them,” he says.
My hand flies to my pocket, protective without thinking. “No.”
“Hannah.” His voice softens, which unnerves me more than the anger. “Please. This is our first Christmas here as a married couple, and you’re—” He cuts himself off, jaw working. “You’re tearing at the foundation of my entire life over something you don’t even understand.”
“Help me understand,” I say. “That’s all I’m asking. Sit with the possibility that there was another girl and that she mattered enough to be paid to disappear.”
“I won’t crucify my parents on the altar of your worst-case scenarios,” he says, voice rising again. “Not at Christmas. Not ever.”
“So you’d rather crucify reality,” I say quietly. “Because it threatens the story where your parents are the ones who saved everyone.”
His eyes flash.
“What I’d rather,” he says, “is a wife who doesn’t spend every waking minute in this house looking for reasons to hate the people who raised me. Maybe you should ask yourself why you’re so committed to finding trauma where there might be none.”
“There was a girl,” I say. “That’s not ‘might.’ That’s memory.”
“Enough.” He rakes a hand through his hair, turning away. “I can’t do this tonight. I can’t sit here and let you dismantle every Christmas I ever had because you’re bored and snowed in.”
“This isn’t boredom,” I say. “This is survival.”
He walks to the dresser, opens the top drawer, and pulls out sweatpants he’s already wearing, then shuts it again just to have something to do with his hands. The gesture is pure displacement.
“I’m sleeping in here,” he says, not looking at me. “But I’m done talking about this. If you bring it up again tonight, I’m leaving. I’ll go sleep in the pool house or at the hospital or wherever has fewer…theories.”
He flips off the overhead light and climbs into bed, turning his back to me. The room drops into shadow broken only by the bedside lamp on my side and the glow from the snow-muted window.
I sit in the chair a long moment, pulse thudding in my throat, my phone a weight against my thigh.
Outside, the town has vanished under white; the only clear shapes are the hospital’s lights on the hill and the faint line of the back road locals use to bypass the manicured center. Somewhere down there are donor walls and coffee shops and people who have watched the Mercers longer than I have.
I pick up my mug and take a long swallow of now-lukewarm cider, the sweetness turned cloying on my tongue.
“Fine,” I whisper, too quiet for Daniel to hear over the generator and the wind.
If he can’t follow this crack in his childhood story, someone else will.
I turn off my lamp, lie on top of the duvet with my clothes still on, and stare through the snow-smeared glass toward town, counting the hours until the plows carve a path off this peninsula and I can start asking Harbor Glen who remembers the little girl who stayed for one summer and never came back.