Chapter 7 - HAVEN HOUSE
“Don’t go alone,” my mother said.
I promised.
The next morning, Daniel and I drove south with Mika. The investigator had arranged to meet us near Haven House after checking the new lead.
The building sat behind a high wall at the end of a narrow road.
A faded sign called it a recovery residence.
Inside, the air smelled of bleach and boiled vegetables.
A receptionist asked whether we had an appointment.
“We’re looking for Cora Mendoza,” Daniel said.
Her fingers stopped over the keyboard.
“No resident by that name.”
Mika placed a photograph on the counter.
“Please look carefully.”
“I said we don’t—”
A door opened behind her.
A woman carrying folded towels stepped into the hallway.
She saw the photograph.
Then Daniel.
One towel slipped from the pile.
The receptionist turned.
“Liza. Go back.”
The woman bent to retrieve it.
As she passed us, she murmured:
“Ask for Corazon Reyes.”
Daniel went pale.
The investigator entered two minutes later.
The manager appeared after another five.
Suddenly, there were records to review.
A patient with a similar name.
An old clerical error.
A relative who had supposedly arranged placement.
Explanations came so quickly they stepped on one another.
I barely heard them.
At the far end of the hallway, an attendant opened a door.
A woman sat beside the window with a blanket across her knees.
Her hair had gone almost completely gray.
But Daniel knew her instantly.
“Tita?”
She turned.
For a second, she looked through him.
Then her mouth opened.
“Danny?”
He crossed the room so fast he hit his shoulder on the doorframe.
He knelt and wrapped his arms around her.
She gripped the back of his shirt with both hands.
“I tried,” she said.
“I know.”
“I tried to call.”
“I know.”
I stood in the doorway until she looked up.
“Andrea.”
“I’m here.”
Her face crumpled.
“Your mother?”
“She’s safe.”
Cora covered her mouth.
For nineteen months, she had apparently been carrying that question.
Mika stayed outside with the investigator and the records.
Daniel held his aunt.
I pulled a chair close.
“Who brought you here?”
She looked toward the open door.
“Rafael signed the forms. Said I had no family who could take responsibility.”
“Why didn’t they contact Daniel?”
“He gave them a different number.”
She reached beneath her mattress.
From a tear in the lining, she pulled a folded photograph of a document.
“I kept this.”
Across the bottom was a familiar signature.
May you like
Not Rafael’s.
Bianca’s.
