The words second daughter follow me around all morning, even before I know they exist.
I wrap them around the extra girl in the portrait, the one with the wrong eyes and the too-thick paint, and tuck them in my pocket with my phone. They hum there while I help Claire sort through a mountain of shopping bags in the sitting room, while Daniel disappears with Robert to the hospital, and while Harbor Glen sprawls below the wide glass windows like a postcard you could cut your fingers on.
“These go to staff families,” Claire says, lifting a box with a picture of a toy train on it. “These are for the pediatric wing. Mrs. Mercer prefers distinct wrapping paper for each group. She says it keeps things organized at the distribution.”
The word distribution makes gifts sound like medication doses. I nod anyway. “She color-codes Christmas.”
Claire gives a quick, nervous laugh and glances toward the door, its garland pinned just so. “You could say that. Tape?”
I reach for the roll, find the cardboard core empty, and hold it up. The last strip curls over the edge, useless.
“I’ll grab more,” she says, already shifting the next box. “There’s a supply basket in the staff hallway.”
“I can get it,” I say. “Just tell me where.”
“It’s fine, really.” Her smile twitches. “The back corridors are easy to get turned around in if you’re not used to them.”
I hear what she doesn’t say: the back corridors aren’t for me.
Before I can answer, Evelyn appears in the doorway, a vision in winter white—cashmere sweater, pearls, hair pinned back with effortless precision. The air seems to thin a little when she steps into the room, the salt-and-woodsmoke smell replaced by her perfume, sharp and clean with some underlying floral note I can’t name.
“What’s this?” she asks, taking in the half-wrapped gifts and Claire’s flustered hands. “A tape shortage at Christmastime?”
“My fault,” I say quickly. “I killed the last roll.”
Her gaze softens by half a degree. “You didn’t kill anything, dear. Claire, check the staff basket. Hannah, would you mind running to the office and grabbing the silver wrapping paper? Top shelf of the closet, right of the doorway. There should be tape in there as well.”
The office. Not the study Daniel brought me to, with portraits and donor calls. The word lands differently. The command center.
“Of course,” I say. “Where—”
“End of the west hall, past the second set of doors,” she says. “Left at the donor wall, right before the back stairs. Mercer crest on the glass. You can’t miss it.”
Crest on the glass. Wave on wave, everywhere I turn.
I slip out into the hallway, rolling the empty cardboard ring in my palm. The polished floor reflects the garlands twined along the banister, tiny white lights twinkling in the dark wood. Through the huge windows, I catch a slice of Harbor Glen: the narrow peninsula tapering into the Sound, the cliffside mansions perched above rocky shoreline, the town’s manicured center tucked neatly below. Farther up, Harbor Glen Memorial Hospital gleams on the hill, its dedicated Mercer wing all glass and chrome. I swear I can taste its disinfectant on the back of my tongue.
The donor wall Evelyn mentioned hangs along the corridor—photos from the Light the Harbor parade, names etched in glass, the town’s social ladder laid out in tiers of generosity. People in heavy coats smile from yacht decks under nets of lights, their positions in the harbor forming a shimmering seating chart for power. Everyone here knows which boat means what. Which crest opens which door.
The office door is exactly where she said, a pane of frosted glass with the silver wave pattern etched across it. Mercer Home Office, the smaller lettering beneath reads. The handle is cool under my fingers, and for a breath I consider turning back, telling Claire I got lost, letting the staff fetch the tape.
Instead I turn the knob.
The room smells different from the rest of the house. Less pine and polish, more paper and toner and that faint electronic heat from a computer that never really turns off. Light pours in from a wide window overlooking the harbor, catching dust motes and the edge of a model yacht on a sideboard. A framed aerial photograph of the peninsula hangs above it, the Mercer estate sitting fat and smug on the cliff, Harbor Glen curling around the shore beneath like a lower-rank inscription.
I tell myself I am here for paper and tape. I say the words in my head the way I coach kids at the shelter to repeat safe truths: just the office, just the closet, just the shelf.
The closet door stands slightly ajar. I pull it open and find a neatly arranged row of plastic bins, each labeled in Evelyn’s controlled handwriting: SILVER PAPER, RED PAPER, FOUNDATION STATIONERY, GALA SUPPLIES. The sight of the labels soothes some raw place in me that grew up with grocery bags shoved onto shelves and tape lost at the bottom of junk drawers.
“Silver,” I murmur, reaching for the top bin. The plastic lid squeaks faintly under my hand. Tape and scissors rest in a smaller container on the shelf, right where she said.
It would be easy to stop here. To carry the bin and the tape back to the sitting room and tell myself I am different from the women she warned me about, the ones who rifled drawers and took pictures.
My gaze drifts toward the desk.
It is a beautiful piece of furniture—sleek, dark wood, the grain barely visible beneath the shine. A wide monitor sits near the center, black and sleeping, a leather blotter spread neatly in front of it. To one side, a small stack of folders fans out like a hand of cards. One manila folder lies slightly apart from the others, its front cover pushed back, pages open like a mouth mid-sentence.
I stand at the closet doorway, paper bin pressed against my hip, heart beginning to tap a quicker rhythm. I don’t move.
I think about the extra girl in the portrait, about Daniel’s too-fast denial, about the word boundaries when I asked about Lydia’s room. I think about the hospital up on the hill, about how many babies pass through those antiseptic halls with stories written by other people.
“You’re just getting tape,” I whisper, my voice soft in the hush of the room.
I set the bin down on the floor.
The carpet is thick under my feet as I cross to the desk. The closer I get, the more I notice the details: the Mercer crest embossed on the corner of a notepad, a brass pen holder engraved with Robert’s initials, a crystal paperweight encasing the wave pattern in three dimensions. The folder lies beneath that paperweight, its first page pinned in place by the glass.
I slide the paperweight aside, the crystal cool and heavy in my hand, and lean over to read.
The heading jumps out first, bold and centered at the top of the thick white paper.
MERCER FAMILY TRUST II
SECOND DAUGHTER BENEFICIARY
Every hair on my arms lifts.
I grip the edge of the desk, the wood unyielding under my fingers. My eyes scan down to the next lines, trying to keep my breathing quiet.
This Trust II (“Trust II”) is established for the benefit of the Second Daughter Beneficiary (hereinafter, “Beneficiary B”) in addition to existing provisions for the First Daughter, Lydia Anne Mercer, and the First Son, Daniel Robert Mercer …
The words blur for a moment, my brain catching on the capital letters. First Daughter. First Son. Second Daughter Beneficiary. Someone went through and categorized their children like document versions.
My gaze drops lower, to a paragraph where the name should appear.
The Beneficiary B shall be [REDACTED] …
A thick black rectangle covers the space where the name belongs, the redaction printed into the copy, not scribbled on by hand. No hint of letters shows through; ink floods the space in solid darkness. I reach out and skim my fingertip over the bar, feeling nothing but the slight texture of laser-printed toner on stiff paper.
Below the redaction, numbers march down the page: eight digits, then more in a separate line marked ADDITIONAL DISCRETIONARY DISTRIBUTIONS. The sums tilt the air. My stomach tightens, the old working-class reflex kicking in while my eyes tally the zeros. The trust’s principal could rebuild our entire apartment building and still pay off every medical debt I’ve heard sobbed into my headset at the shelter.
The money is for a girl whose name I’m not allowed to see.
I flick my gaze farther down, to a subheading: RECITALS AND INTENT. Legal language knots around phrases like “unusual circumstances” and “privacy considerations for Beneficiary B.” I catch the words “separate from public family legacy instruments” and the beginning of a sentence about “non-disclosure obligations,” but my eyes skid off the dense text. Another line mentions Harbor Glen Memorial Hospital in the vaguest possible terms, folded into the Mercers’ list of assets and charitable commitments.
Love and harm in the same paragraphs. Saving lives in one clause, sealing someone up in another.
I slide to the next page, the paper whispering under my fingers. More numbers. Terms about age-based distributions: twenty-five, thirty, thirty-five. A section labeled RELOCATION SUPPORT catches my eye. The first sentence runs:
The Trustee may, at her discretion, facilitate housing and living arrangements to encourage Beneficiary B’s residence at a geographic distance from the primary Mercer family holdings …
I don’t reach the end of the sentence.
“Looking for something, Hannah?”
Her voice comes from the doorway behind me, soft and perfectly pleasant. Every muscle in my body locks. My fingertip freezes on the paper, just touching the edge of the redaction bar.
I straighten too quickly and bump the desk with my hip. The crystal paperweight wobbles, edges catching the light, and I grab it on instinct, my palm slick with sudden sweat.
“Tape,” I say, turning toward her with the worst attempt at a smile I have ever performed. “You sent me for tape. And paper. I found them in the closet.”
Evelyn stands framed by the frosted glass, the hallway garlands blurred behind her. Her hands are empty, but I know she never walks this house without carrying something—agenda, list, invisible ledger.
Her gaze moves once from my face to the folder, then to the paperweight in my hand. Nothing about her expression changes, not at first. But the air shifts, subtle and chilling, like a draft slipping under a door.
“You’re thorough,” she says. “Most people stop at the closet.”
I place the paperweight back on the folder with care, aligning it with the corner as neatly as I can. “I wasn’t— I just saw it was open. I thought it might be something I was supposed to bring out to you.”
“How conscientious.” She glides into the room, each step controlled. Her heels sink into the rug without sound. Up close, I can see the tiniest line at the corner of her mouth, tension hiding behind lipstick. “Legal documents are notoriously dull. I would hate for you to waste your time.”
My heart thuds so loudly I’m sure she can hear it. “It’s fine. I didn’t really understand it.”
“Trusts are complicated.” She lands on the word complicated the way other people land on poisonous. “Robert insists we keep copies here for quick reference. Our attorneys prefer digital, but I like something I can hold. Old-fashioned of me.”
She reaches past me, fingers brushing my sleeve, and closes the folder with a firm, decisive motion. The paper sighs together; the title disappears. She aligns the edges precisely with the rest of the stack, then lifts the entire pile and taps it once on the desk to square it.
“Mercer Family Trust II,” she says lightly, as though reading grocery items. “Inherited responsibilities for Lydia’s legacy, contingent provisions for Daniel… nothing that affects you directly. I promise.”
The lie curls in the room, thin and sweet.
“I really was just getting tape,” I say. My voice comes out tighter than I intend. I hold up the roll like proof, cardboard ring now neatly loaded with clear plastic.
“And you found it.” She smiles, all white teeth and practiced warmth. “Thank you for being helpful.”
Her hand goes to the top drawer on the right side of the desk. I notice the small, polished lock for the first time, the metal glinting under the lamp. From the front pocket of her sweater, she retrieves a key—new brass, edges still sharp—and slides it into the lock. The mechanism clicks with a small, final sound.
“Robert and I talked last week about tightening things up in here,” she says, still facing the drawer. “We have so many guests during the holidays. Staff, children, cousins dropping in. People wander. Papers wander. It’s amazing what ends up in the wrong hands.”
My fingers curl into the tape roll until the edge cuts into my palm.
She places the stacked folders inside, closes the drawer, and turns the key. When she withdraws it, she doesn’t put it back in her pocket right away. She lets it dangle from her fingers, the tiny ring jingling once, twice, a bright, controlled sound.
“There,” she says. “One less thing for anyone to worry about.”
I stand rooted. The harbor stretches out beyond the window behind her, gray and calm, pretending not to know what happens up on this cliff.
“I didn’t mean to snoop,” I say. Heat creeps up my neck, prickling under my collar. “I know you said other women—”
“The girls before you had less self-control,” she says gently, cutting me off with a tilt of her head. “They went through drawers, snapped photos, spun stories in their heads. I told you, that never ends well. Curiosity can be an asset, but only when it’s paired with discretion. Do you understand?”
The word discretion lands heavy on my tongue. I nod.
“Of course,” I say. “I’m sorry.”
“No harm done.” Her eyes hold mine for one long beat, pinning me. “I won’t say anything to Daniel. He worries enough.”
“About me?”
“About everyone,” she says smoothly. “You’re family now. We protect family from unnecessary burdens.”
Protect. The same word she uses for donors, for staff, for the town that bends around the Mercers’ gravity.
She moves toward the doorway, key still hooked in her fingers. “Bring the silver paper, dear. Claire has a schedule to keep, and the hospital expects the gifts this evening. The children look forward to seeing which yacht we ride for Light the Harbor. We wouldn’t want to disappoint them.”
She steps into the hall and waits, an elegant guard.
I grab the bin from the closet and clutch the tape, the plastic edge biting my skin every time my grip tightens. When I pass her, the faint musk of her perfume brushes my cheek. She reaches behind me, closes the office door, and turns the key in the lock. The metal scrapes softly, then settles into another precise click.
“There we are,” she says. “Private spaces should stay private.”
The glass door reflects my face for a moment—eyes wide, mouth pressed thin—overlaid by the etched Mercer crest, wave lines running right through my features. Then she turns away, key disappearing into her pocket, and the reflection breaks.
We walk back toward the sitting room together, her steps measured, mine a half-beat off. The donor wall glows under recessed lights, names topped by the Mercer wing’s engraved dedication. On the hill, the hospital waits, full of babies and parents and paperwork that can rename an entire life.
Claire looks up when we re-enter. “Found it?” she asks, relief smoothing her shoulders.
“Hannah is a lifesaver,” Evelyn says. “She just needed a little direction.”
Claire hands me a box and I start wrapping, fingers going through the motions—fold, crease, tape, repeat. The silver paper crinkles under my touch, catching the firelight in the corner of the room. My hands work, but my mind cycles three words on a loop: Second Daughter Beneficiary.
I picture the extra girl in the portrait, the black bar on the page, the way Evelyn’s knuckles whitened for half a second when she saw me by the desk. I press another strip of tape down so hard it ripples the paper.
“Too tight,” Claire murmurs kindly. “You can be gentle with it.”
I loosen my grip and try again. But the tape feels weaker now, thin and transparent, nothing that could hold back whatever lives in that locked drawer.
By the time I finish my third package, the roll sticks to my fingers. I stare at the smooth silver surface and imagine words written underneath in neat legal type: Second Daughter Beneficiary, name withheld, life rearranged.
Evelyn chats about parade routes and menu planning, about which donors will want to ride on which boat this year, about “making room for new traditions.” I nod at the right places, my smile practiced. The office key weighs against her side with each movement, a small, invisible metronome marking out new boundaries.
I tape the final edge of ribbon, and in the quiet inside my own head, I promise myself one thing.
That document exists now, inside my memory, whether she locks it up or not.
And no matter how tightly she turns that key, I know I haven’t imagined a second daughter.