By the time we reach the Harbor Glen Performing Arts Center, the sky over the peninsula has gone that deep indigo that eats the last of the daylight. The glass front of the hall glows against it, all warm gold and reflections of harbor lights. Above the roofline, on the opposite hill, the hospital’s windows shine in a sharp grid, Mercer crest faintly lit on the side like an afterthought and a warning.
The valet takes our car with a “Happy Christmas, Mr. Mercer,” and a little bow that includes me only as an extension of him. The air smells of salt and woodsmoke from someone’s chimney nearby, with a chemical edge riding on top that makes me think of antiseptic and floor polish. The breeze cuts through my tights and bites at my knees before we step into the heated glow of the lobby.
Inside, the sound hits me first: a hundred conversations stacked on top of each other, laughter ricocheting off marble and glass, the muted clink of crystal. A string quartet in one corner plays tasteful carols, notes floating beneath the chatter like an expensive air freshener. Donors mill under wreaths and twinkling lights, their winter finery sparkling under chandeliers.
“You okay?” Daniel murmurs at my side.
His tux fits him like it was built around his body, his bow tie impeccably straight. I catch a whiff of his cologne—clean, warm, layered over starch and the faint smell of nervous sweat. He looks at me with that soft concerned crease between his brows, but there’s a distance in his gaze that wasn’t there a week ago.
“I’m fine,” I say, the word flat in my mouth.
My hand tightens around my clutch. Inside, my phone rests against the copies I made earlier: the trust photos, the charred fragment from Mrs. Donnelly’s living room, the shot of her fireplace swallowing Mercer letterhead. The envelope with the hospital logo is back at the house under my pillow, which feels both safer and more exposed than my purse.
Evelyn materializes from a cluster of donors like she’s been assembled by invisible stagehands. Her gown is deep emerald, cut to flatter without reveal, a diamond brooch shaped like the Mercer wave crest pinned at her shoulder. She glows in this light, all smooth skin and champagne warmth.
“There you are.” Her hand lands on my forearm, cool and firm. “Daniel, go say hello to the Harts; they flew in from Boston just for tonight. I need Hannah for a moment.”
Daniel hesitates, eyes flicking to me. There’s apology there, and the familiar flinch toward obedience.
“I’ll be right back,” he says quietly, squeezing my fingers before he lets go.
Evelyn steers me into the current of donors, our bodies angled toward the heaviest concentration of jewels and tailored suits.
“You look lovely,” she says through a practiced smile. “Try to keep that expression. Reporters notice everything.”
Her breath smells faintly of mint and very expensive wine.
“I didn’t know reporters were coming,” I answer.
“It’s a signature Mercer Foundation event on Christmas Eve,” she replies, dipping her head to accept air kisses from a silver-haired couple. “Of course they’re coming.”
“Evelyn, you angel,” the woman coos, gripping her elbow. “We are so honored to be here. What you’ve done for those children—Harbor Glen will be talking about it for generations.”
“You’re too kind,” Evelyn says, her laugh bell-like without touching her eyes. “We simply do what any family with resources ought to do.”
The man pats her other arm.
“You’ve raised millions for the hospital,” he says. “Those little ones at risk—without you, where would they be?”
Under my palm, my clutch edges into my ribs. I picture Mrs. Donnelly’s shaking hands feeding pages into the flames, baby names blacked out, crib tags swapped. I picture my mother, twenty-two and nauseous in a Mercer office, holding pamphlets covered in smiling sailboats.
“This is our Hannah,” Evelyn adds, turning me toward them with the same flourish she’d use for a new donor wing. “She’s a social worker by training. Such a heart for children. We’re very fortunate.”
Their eyes skim over me, taking in my dress, my posture, the way I stand slightly stiff at Evelyn’s side.
“Wonderful,” the woman says. “Following in your footsteps.”
“Trying to,” I answer, my voice thinner than I intend.
Evelyn’s fingers tighten on my arm, a subtle cue. Smile wider. Nod.
I do, the muscles in my cheeks protesting. My gaze slides past them and catches on the far wall of the lobby.
At first I think it’s more greenery—garlands wound around some kind of decorative structure. Then I see faces.
An entire section of wall has been given over to a “Mercer Kids” display. Enlarged photos float in staggered rows: babies bundled in blankets, toddlers on swings, teens in graduation gowns, young adults in crisp scrubs or college sweatshirts. In many of the shots, the harbor glints in the background, boats outlined in holiday lights. In more than a few, I recognize the Light the Harbor parade, the boats lined up like a glowing procession off the docks.
At the top, in brushed steel letters, the words MERCER FOUNDATION: CHILDREN WE’VE HELPED curve over the images.
I excuse myself from the conversation with some mumbled line about getting water and drift toward the display, drawn and repelled at the same time.
The smell shifts as I cross the lobby. Less perfume, more greenery and chilled air from the revolving door. Under it all, that sterile tang from the hospital up the hill, threaded through Harbor Glen everywhere I go.
I stop in front of the wall. A little girl with a gap-toothed grin beams at me, Mercer hospital band visible on her wrist in a newborn photo, then reappears in a later shot with an adoptive couple on a sailboat. A boy with dark curls sits on a hospital bed, IV drip just out of frame, and then grins from under a baseball cap at a foundation picnic. Captions run beneath the images in elegant font: JACOB – NOW THRIVING. EMMA – SAFE AND LOVED. LEO – A SECOND CHANCE.
“We try to update it every year,” a voice says near my shoulder.
I turn to find a young woman in a black dress with a Mercer Foundation name tag and a tablet in her hand. She looks proud, a little nervous.
“It’s beautiful,” I say. The word scrapes my throat.
“Mrs. Mercer started the wall after the first Light the Harbor parade,” she explains. “She wanted a place where people could see the stories behind the donations. She says, ‘Donor walls are about names that give. This is about names we save.’”
Names we save.
I look back at the smiling faces. Every one of them could be a genuine success story. Every one of them could have a file half-burned in a nurse’s fireplace somewhere or a biological mother who was told she had no choice.
“Do you know all of them?” I ask.
She laughs.
“Not personally,” she says. “The foundation has worked with thousands of kids since the early years. These are just highlights.”
Highlights. A curated reel of miracle children for Harbor Glen’s social census. Proof at eye level that the Mercers are the peninsula’s benevolent gods, plucking kids from danger and displaying them like medals.
“Excuse me,” I whisper.
I step closer to one photo that freezes me in place. A baby girl in a knitted pink hat, swaddled in a hospital blanket, eyes squeezed shut. The angle of the nose, the chin—nothing definitive, yet my body reacts before my brain can talk it down.
The caption reads: BABY GIRL – ADOPTED INTO A LOVING HOME. NO NAME LISTED.
My mouth goes dry. I slide my thumb over the side of my clutch, feel for the button on my phone through the fabric, fighting the urge to snap a photo of the display and run. I’m afraid if I raise my camera, half the room will turn at once.
“Hannah.”
Daniel’s voice is low behind me. I spin around, guilt prickling my skin even though my phone stayed hidden.
“They’re seating people,” he says. His eyes flick to the wall and away. “You should come in. Mom’s already backstage with the youth choir.”
“Of course she is,” I say.
He studies my face.
“You look pale,” he says. “We can duck out after the first half, if you want. Say you’re tired.”
I hear the offer for what it is: mercy and escape, but only from the noise, not the machinery underneath it.
“I’m fine,” I say again, the lie tasting like pennies. “Let’s go.”
The concert hall smells like pine and candle wax, though I know the flames on the altar are electric. The stage is framed by towering evergreens wrapped in white lights, with a choir riser in front of the orchestra and a podium stamped with the subtle wave of the Mercer crest. People settle into plush seats, velvet rustling, programs crackling.
We sit near the front with the family and top donors. Evelyn’s empty seat at the end of the row stands out, small clutch on it like a placeholder. My heart thuds in my ears while the youth orchestra tunes, thin violin notes and warm brass rolling over us in a shimmering wash.
The first half is safe territory—choir pieces, a young soloist with a pure high voice, an orchestral arrangement of carols. I clap when everyone else does. My hands sting. The music washes over my numbness but doesn’t soak in.
During intermission, Daniel leans over.
“She’s speaking after the kids’ number,” he says. “Then she’ll drag us into the lobby again. Just a heads-up.”
“Great,” I answer, staring straight ahead.
I press my clutch between my knees, feeling the rectangle of my phone through the leather. It buzzes once, a muted vibration. I glance down—no way to see the screen without making a show of it. The timing knots my stomach. Blocked call? Email? Riley? My mother?
The house lights dim again before I can risk checking. The youth choir files onstage, kids in white shirts and dark pants, little red ribbons pinned at their collars. They sing about hope and home and children of the world. Their voices are clear and earnest, hitting notes that turn the audience into one soft, sighing organism.
Then the emcee steps up to the podium.
“Tonight,” he says into the mic, “we celebrate not just music but the work that changes lives in our community. No one embodies that more than the woman behind the Mercer Foundation’s Children’s Initiative. Please welcome Evelyn Hart Mercer.”
The applause crashes over me like a wave. Evelyn walks onstage, collecting the sound, letting it pour over her. She kisses the emcee’s cheek, then takes her place at the podium, both hands resting lightly on either side.
“Thank you,” she says, and the microphones turn her voice into something larger than the person I know. “Every year, we gather here to remember that no child should face illness, neglect, or danger alone. Not in Harbor Glen.”
The words are perfect. Polished. She talks about the peninsula, about how the town’s fortunes rise and fall with the tide, about Light the Harbor and the way the community comes together to fill the dark with boats and lights and hope.
“Our hospitals and our foundation exist for one purpose,” she says. “To make sure every child gets the care, the family, and the future they deserve.”
My stomach gives a slow, deliberate roll. Images flash behind my eyes: scribbled-out names on adoption forms, Mrs. Donnelly’s fireplace, my mother telling me a social worker described adoption as “giving a child the life they deserve.”
Evelyn glances down at the front row and lets her gaze rest on me for just a fraction of a second. Her lips curve.
“And I am very proud,” she says, “that our commitment to children doesn’t end with my generation. The next generation of Mercers is ready to carry this work forward.”
Alarm pricks the back of my neck.
“My son Daniel,” she continues, “has found a partner whose heart for vulnerable families matches our own. Someone who chose social work when she could have chosen any path. Someone who understands that true privilege is the ability to give back. Hannah, sweetheart, come join me for a moment.”
My spine locks.
Heads turn. A spotlight swings, searching, then lands on our row, hot on my skin. Daniel’s hand closes over mine.
“You don’t have to—” he begins.
“Yes, she does,” Evelyn calls lightly from the stage, voice carrying to the rafters. “Don’t be shy.”
The audience laughs.
I stand because not standing would be louder. My legs feel detached, moving me up the aisle toward the stairs. The heat of the lights intensifies with each step. The air smells different up here—denser, filled with the faint tang of cabling and dust and evergreen from the stage trees.
Evelyn reaches for me as I join her, her fingers cool and strong around my waist. To the audience, it probably reads as affectionate. To me, it feels like a clamp.
“Everyone, this is my daughter-in-law, Hannah,” she says into the microphone, voice honey-sweet. “She’s too modest to tell you about the work she did before joining our family, but I can brag for her.”
I aim my face at the audience and stretch my lips into what I hope passes for a smile. Phones rise, tiny screens glowing in the dark. I feel the weight of a hundred eyes, the hum of their appraisal.
“Hannah worked with families in crisis,” Evelyn goes on. “She sat with mothers at their most frightened, helped connect them to resources and support. When my son brought her home, I thought, ‘Yes. This is the future of our family’s legacy.’”
Her hand squeezes my side, nails pressing just enough to punctuate the line. I feel my clutch pressed to my thigh, the small rectangle of my phone trapped between leather and fabric. Another muted buzz vibrates against my skin.
In my mind, I imagine stepping up to the microphone, sliding her hand off me, and saying, very clearly, “Your donations are funding a system that manufactures orphans on paper. Your saint is burning evidence in nurses’ fireplaces. The woman next to me helped build a machine that tried to eat me before I was born.”
The vision is so vivid my breath catches.
Instead I swallow and stand still.
“We are blessed,” Evelyn says, “to know that long after Robert and I are gone, our foundation’s work with children will continue in such capable hands. Please give her a round of applause.”
The audience obliges. The sound is a roar in my skull. My cheeks ache from holding my expression steady. Spots of light swim at the edges of my vision, whether from the stage lights or my blood pressure, I can’t tell.
Evelyn leans her head toward mine, her mouth close to my ear, still smiling for the cameras.
“Breathe,” she murmurs, a warning threaded through the word. “And don’t do anything foolish.”
I force air into my lungs. The pine-scented stage decorations fill my nose, layered over the ghost of hospital disinfectant I carry with me now wherever I go.
“Smile,” she adds, teeth barely moving.
I do. My lips stretch, my jaw tight. My fingers curl so hard around my clutch that the metal clasp digs into my palm. My phone vibrates again—once, insistent. Message waiting. Evidence accumulating. A life story assembling itself in scraps and screenshots while I stand under a crest-shaped logo and let Evelyn wrap me in her performance.
The audience sees a woman embraced by her powerful mother-in-law, sharing the glow of generosity and holiday spirit.
I stand there, pinned under the Mercer wave, and count the seconds until I can peel her hand off my waist, step off this stage, and finally read what waits in my buzzing, burning, incriminating phone.