I lie awake long after Daniel falls asleep, my mind looping the same image: the third-floor door, the white PRIVATE sign, the extra sleeve at the edge of that hallway portrait. Rules stack up in my chest like dishes in a sink—no jeans at breakfast, no talk of tides, no questions about Lydia’s room—clinking against one another until my head buzzes. At some point the waves outside sync with my pulse and drag me under, but even in dreams I stand on the terrace, staring at a tree stitched with tiny lights I’m not allowed to sit under.
In the morning, the house feels quieter, the kind of hush that belongs to expensive things and people trying not to wake them. Frost clings to the windowpanes, turning the view of Harbor Glen below into a watercolor: gray harbor, white breath of waves, the hospital’s glass wing catching a thin sliver of sun on the hill. I taste coffee and disinfectant in the air even up here, that tang that belongs to both healing and bleach.
After breakfast—another lesson in “simple” elegance and which jams count as appropriate for winter—Daniel pulls on a blazer and checks his watch.
“I have a quick call with the foundation board,” he says. “They want to talk about the Light the Harbor route for next year. Twenty minutes, tops.”
“Sure.” I slide my empty cup toward Claire, who swoops in with a practiced hand. “Want me out of the way?”
“You’re never in the way.” He leans in, brushes his lips over my hair. The gesture is warm, but his eyes flick toward the doorway that leads to his father’s study. “Dad’ll be in there with me. You can hang out in the study if you want. The view’s good, and Mom keeps a stash of contraband cookies in the bottom drawer.”
“Contraband?”
“Not gluten-free,” he says, dead serious, then grins. “Go. Nest. I’ll come get you when we’re done.”
The study sits at the far end of the main hall, past the portrait that has been bothering me: Evelyn in a dark green dress, Robert in a tux, Daniel at fifteen, and Lydia, maybe thirteen, perched on a chaise with a book. The extra sleeve at the edge still peeks into view, a hint of a smaller arm cropped out by the frame. I stop, stare for a beat, then force myself to keep walking.
The study door stands open. Inside, the air feels denser, smelling of old paper, leather, and the faint ghost of cigar smoke clinging to the curtains. A gas fireplace crackles under a carved mantel, lending the room a dry heat that prickles my cheeks. Books line three walls from floor to ceiling, interspersed with framed honors and photos of Harbor Glen’s harbor glowing under Christmas lights, boats captured mid-parade like floating constellations.
The Mercer crest is everywhere in here. It curls along the spine of leather-bound annual reports, glints from the corners of framed magazine covers, and sits in the center of a heavy glass paperweight on the desk. An abstract silver wave, stylized and clean, repeated so often that I start to feel waterlogged just looking at it.
“This is good,” Daniel says behind me. He’s already slipped into his boardroom voice again. “We’ll just be in the corner.”
Robert appears over his shoulder, taller, broad in a navy sweater that looks soft enough to nap on. “Hannah,” he says, voice warm. “Make yourself at home. There’s tea in the cabinet if coffee starts to feel uncivilized.”
“I’m good, thanks.” I move away from the desk so they can claim it. “I’ll just… browse.”
Robert smiles, the same grin Daniel wears when he wins an argument. “Every book in here has been vetted. Nothing scandalous. You’re safe.”
I don’t feel unsafe. That’s not the problem. I feel watched, even when no one is looking at me.
They sit at the small conference table by the windows, laptops open, phones set face down in front of them. Robert taps a button on a speaker and cheerful hold music fills the room, clashing with the quiet dignity of the wood paneling. I drift to the far wall, where a row of large oil portraits hangs in a neat line above a low console table.
This is the Mercer gallery, I realize—the official version, curated for board members and donors. The earliest painting shows a stiff Victorian couple, the woman’s dress cinched so tightly at the waist I feel short of breath just looking at it. Next, a sepia-toned photograph of a stern doctor in a white coat in front of an older, smaller hospital, Harbor Glen Memorial written in looping script above the door. The hierarchy of the town sits captured in frames: whose name went on the building, whose money steered the ship.
I move along the wall, my fingers hovering but not touching. The air smells of varnish and polish and a faint hint of citrus cleaner, sharp under the richer scents. My footsteps sink into a thick rug that muffles the sound, making my movements feel furtive even when I’m technically allowed here.
Halfway down the wall, I stop.
The painting in front of me is big, the kind I see in magazines about old money: the modern Mercer family, staged in what I recognize now as the back terrace. The harbor spreads out behind them, the cliffs dropping away, a hint of the hospital wing in the distance. The Light the Harbor boats appear in miniature near the horizon, strings of lights suggested by tiny dabs of white.
Evelyn sits in an outdoor chair, spine straight, a dark shawl wrapped around her shoulders despite the painted suggestion of summer. Robert stands behind her, one hand on the chair back, the other resting on the shoulder of a much younger Daniel in a blazer and khakis. Beside Daniel stands a girl I know must be Lydia—twelve or thirteen, in a white dress with a blue sash, hair in dark waves like the ones in the photographs in the hall. Her eyes look alive, worried and bright, the painter having captured the moment between a smile and a question.
And then there is the other girl.
She stands close to Evelyn’s knee, one hand resting on the arm of the chair, body angled half toward the viewer and half toward the older siblings. Younger than Lydia, maybe eight. Dark hair cut shorter, just brushing her jaw. Her dress is a simple pale blue, not as detailed as Lydia’s, the folds of the fabric less clear. Her face snags my attention and doesn’t let go.
The eyes sit slightly off-center, the irises not quite aligned. One corner of her mouth tilts in a way that doesn’t match the rest of her expression. The skin tone on her cheeks holds too much pink compared to the others. The brushstrokes around her jawline and hairline clump together, thicker and rougher, paint layered on paint. Up close, the texture reminds me of an eraser rubbed too hard on paper, a smear where something else used to be.
I lean in, breath held, following the edge where her shoulder overlaps Lydia’s sleeve. The boundary between them blurs more than it should, colors bleeding into one another, the painter’s hand less sure here than anywhere else on the canvas.
On the small brass plaque beneath the frame, engraved letters catch the light.
THE MERCER FAMILY, HARBOR GLEN ESTATE
ROBERT, EVELYN, DANIEL, AND LYDIA MERCER
COMMEMORATING THE INAUGURAL LIGHT THE HARBOR PARADE
My eyes move back up to the painting. Four names. Five people.
I count again, lips moving silently. Robert. Evelyn. Daniel. Lydia. The unnamed girl with the off-kilter eyes and the thicker paint.
I know Lydia’s face by now. Her photographs hang in the hallways and the dining room, in the library and the upstairs landing, each image curated to show a different angle: Lydia studying, Lydia laughing, Lydia at the hospital charity wing cutting a ribbon while tiny patients clap. This girl shares a bone structure but not the same features. Her chin rounds in a different way. Her nose angles just enough that it should catch the light differently, but the highlight doesn’t quite match. The painter tried to harmonize her and missed.
A prickle runs up my arms, raising fine hairs under my sweater. The room doesn’t change, but my body reacts anyway, shifting my weight back, away from the frame.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Robert’s voice booms behind me, falsely jovial into the speaker. “Let’s talk about donor tiers.”
The board call hums behind my back, words like “legacy,” “impact,” and “naming rights” rising and falling like background static. I tune it out, leaning closer to the painting until the varnish smell grows stronger and the brushstrokes blur.
I whisper, barely forming the words, “Who are you?”
The girl, of course, doesn’t answer. But the clumped paint around her face tells a story: one version laid down years ago, another layered on top, both trapped in oil. The paradox that runs under everything here surfaces in my mind: this family builds a hospital wing for children, lights up a harbor in their honor, and still, somewhere on a canvas, a child doesn’t merit a nameplate.
I pull my phone from my pocket with a hand that doesn’t feel entirely steady. I angle the camera, check that Daniel and Robert still face the other way, then snap a quick photo of the painting and one of the plaque. The shutter sound bites the air. I wince, lower the volume, and take another, closer this time around the younger girl’s face.
My mouth tastes dry, metallic. I lick my lips and catch polish and lemon oil on the air from the console beneath the painting. No one calls out my name. The board meeting trundles on, full of percentages and pledges.
I could stop here. I should stop here. But the question in my chest swells until my ribs feel tight.
I step back and glance along the rest of the portraits. Earlier paintings of Evelyn and Robert with a single small child clearly labeled “Daniel.” Later photographs with only Daniel and Lydia, both teens, smiling from yacht decks and hospital galas and the country club lawn. Never a third child. Never this girl with the mismatched eyes.
My mind offers rational explanations on cue. Bad artist. Practice figure left in and relabeled. Family friend included as an honor. But none of those explain the plaque. The plaque has only the core four.
“So, we’re agreed on the order of speakers?” Daniel’s voice drifts over from the table. “Mom, then the mayor, then the pediatric oncology family?”
“Perfect,” a tinny voice replies through the speaker. “People love that human-interest angle. That family’s story is gold for us.”
Gold. Human-interest angle. I swallow, my throat thick. Love and harm in the same sentence, wrapped in a holiday event.
Daniel catches my eye and gives me a quick, apologetic shrug, then mouths, Two minutes. I nod and press my back to the paneled wall, arms crossed. The wood feels cool through my sweater, grounding.
When the call finally ends, Robert stretches, vertebrae popping, then checks his watch. “I have to meet Evelyn at the hospital,” he says. “We’re reviewing the new donor wall. You two have the place to yourselves for a bit. Try not to redecorate.”
“No promises,” Daniel says, grinning. “You know how she is with throw pillows.”
I fake a laugh, watching Robert leave. As soon as the door closes, I push off the wall and nod toward the painting.
“Hey,” I say. “Can I ask you something?”
“Sure.” He rubs his eyes, trades his board voice for something closer to the man I married. “What’s up?”
“That’s what I’m trying to figure out.” I move to stand directly in front of the portrait, feeling my heartbeat in my fingertips. “How many kids are in this painting?”
He joins me, frowning playfully. “Pop quiz?”
“Just answer.”
He studies the canvas. “Four. No, five, counting Dad’s ego.”
I don’t smile. I point, tracing the air. “You. Lydia. Your parents. And her.”
His gaze follows my finger to the younger girl. For a second, everything about him stills. His shoulders drop a fraction, his jaw tightens, the joke dies on his lips.
“That’s Lydia too,” he says, too quickly. “The artist tried two different studies and didn’t commit. Terrible composition. Mom hates this one.”
“The plaque says Robert, Evelyn, Daniel, and Lydia,” I say. My voice stays light, but my grip on my phone tightens. “Not ‘Lydia twice.’”
He exhales, a huff that aims for amusement and falls short. “Artists,” he says. “They get… impressionistic. He probably painted in some extra kid for balance and promised he’d fix it later, then never did. Dad says the guy was a nightmare to work with.”
I lean closer to the painted girl’s face. From this angle, the clotted brushwork around her features looks more obvious. “This doesn’t look like a half-finished idea. It looks like he painted someone, then painted her again on top. The paint’s thicker here.”
“You took an art history class once,” he says. “Now you’re a conservation expert.”
There’s no heat in his words, but the edge catches me anyway. “Does that look like Lydia to you?”
He stares at the girl. A muscle jumps in his cheek. “I never liked how he painted her,” he says. “She looks wrong in all of these. Mom says he made her nose too sharp. Lydia used to joke she looked like a cartoon villain.”
“The Lydia in the white dress looks fine,” I say. “It’s this one that looks… off.”
His hand lifts, then drops before he touches the frame, fingers curling into a fist at his side. “You’re reading way too much into a bad portrait,” he says. “Trust me, I grew up with this thing. It’s just a painting. Mom only keeps it up because the hospital used it in a brochure that year.”
“Then why doesn’t the plaque list whoever this is?” I ask. “If she’s a family friend or a cousin or—”
“She’s not,” he snaps, then softens his tone so fast I feel the whiplash. “I mean—there wasn’t anyone else. It was just me and Lydia. You know that.”
I do know that. He has said it before, with a weight that never invited cross-examination. Only son. Baby sister. Two kids, one tragedy. Clean numbers.
“Okay,” I say. I let the word hang, not fully accepting, not fully challenging. “I just thought it was weird.”
“You’re tired.” He slides an arm around my shoulders and steers me gently away from the wall. “This house is a lot the first few days. You start seeing patterns in the wallpaper.”
“That’s not wallpaper,” I murmur, glancing back. “That’s paint.”
“Same thing.” He presses a quick kiss to my temple, a little too rehearsed, then pulls out his phone. “Come on. Let’s talk about something fun. Mom wants to take us down to the harbor tonight to see the boats. They do a mini Light the Harbor dry run for the tourists. We can grab hot chocolate and walk the back road so we don’t get stuck in traffic with the townies.”
“The townies,” I repeat.
“You know what I mean.” He winces, catches himself. “Sorry. That sounded gross. I grew up in this weird bubble of donor walls and country club talk. I forget how it lands.”
“It lands,” I say. I try to inject teasing into the words. “Maybe we should walk through the manicured center with the townies on purpose. Let everyone see whose yacht we’ll be riding on, get our names on the social census.”
He laughs, relieved. “You’re learning fast.” He pockets his phone. “Seriously, though, the parade is great. Fireworks, kids in hats, the whole thing. The hospital sponsors a boat with former patients. It’s the good side of all this”—he gestures vaguely around us—“before the endless board calls and donor spreadsheets.”
My gaze drifts back to the portrait, to the unnamed girl pressed in at the edge of the chair, her hand resting on Evelyn’s arm like she once had a claim there. Good side, I think. Bad edges.
“Do you ever feel weird,” I ask, “about the way your family’s everywhere here? The hospital, the harbor, the donor walls… the paintings.”
He follows my line of sight for half a heartbeat, then looks away. “Somebody has to build things,” he says. “Better us than people who don’t care.”
Love and harm in the same hands, I think. Boats for sick kids and locked doors upstairs. A hospital wing for families and a girl in a painting without a name.
“You’re spiraling,” he says gently. “New house, new rules, grief talk, now haunted portraits. It’s a lot. Can you do me a favor and not mention the art conspiracy to Mom? She already thinks you’re too smart for your own good.”
The phrase stings in ways he probably doesn’t intend. Too smart for my own good. For whose good, exactly?
I force a breath past the tight spot in my chest and nod. “Fine. I won’t start an uprising in the gallery.”
“Thank you.” He squeezes my shoulder. “Trust me on this one?”
I look up at him, the man who drove me up the back road into this world perched above the law, the man who slips between versions of himself to keep everyone comfortable. I want to trust him. I also can’t unsee the extra child varnished into the family story and then erased in brass.
“I’ll try,” I say.
When he leaves to find his mother, I stay in the study a minute longer. I pull out my phone and open the photo I took of the painting. On the small screen, the brushstrokes flatten, the oddness of the girl’s face blurring with pixels. For a second, my stomach loosens in relief. Maybe it really is bad art. Maybe I just want there to be something hidden because that’s the only way I know how to exist in someone else’s story—by looking for the seams.
Then I zoom in.
The clotted paint around her eyes jumps back into focus, thick and deliberate. The edge of her hair still pushes too far over Lydia’s sleeve. My thumb hovers over the delete icon, trembling slightly.
I lock the screen instead and slide the phone into my pocket, the rectangle a small, hard weight against my leg.
Maybe I am reading too much into it.
Or maybe this house doesn’t just lock doors; maybe it repaints the walls and trusts no one will count the children twice.