Before she showed the photos to Liz, she needed to tell her the rest. "There's something else you have to know. Mrs. Davidson thought that our mother died twenty-five years ago. She was told that Sarah perished in a fire."
Lizzie's face was a picture of confusion. "I don't get it."
"Mom let her parents believe she was dead." Julia didn't know how else to put it. She and Alex had run through a number of scenarios, including the fact that maybe someone else had intervened, making both Sarah and Susan Davidson believe the relationship was over for different reasons. But who that third person would have been was unexplainable. "I don't know exactly what happened," Julia said as Lizzie remained silent, obviously digesting the news. "Mom said that her parents disowned her. Mrs. Davidson told me that Sarah died in a fire. One of them lied, or someone else lied, but the bottom line is that Mrs. Davidson knew nothing about us or our life with Sarah."
"Stop calling her Sarah. She's Mom," Lizzie complained.
Julia nodded, but she knew that she was starting to think of her mother as Sarah more and more, maybe because it helped delineate the person that her mother was before she'd married Gino. "These are photographs of our grandparents and Mom when she was little." She set the stack down on the table in front of Liz. "You look a lot like Mom when she was younger."
Liz hesitated. She stared at the photos as if she were afraid they would jump up and bite her. "I don't think I want to look at them."
"They won't go away just because you don't look."
"Don't push me," Liz snapped. "You're the one who's always whining about feeling rushed. Can't you see you're doing the same thing to me?"
"I'm sorry. You're right. I've had more time to think about this than you have. If it helps at all, Mrs. Davidson is really nice, and it was clear to me that she adored Mom."
"Then why did she disown her?"
"She said she didn't do that," Julia repeated. "She didn't even know about me. The last she knew was that Mom was single and alone. She didn't even believe Mom could have kids because of an ectopic pregnancy she'd suffered a few years before I was born."
"She must be lying. Or maybe this Mrs. Davidson was hiding something. She and her husband could have done something horrible to Mom when she was a child. Maybe she was abused or something..." Liz waved her hand wildly in the air as she tried to come up with reasons for the confusion.
"I honestly don't think Mom was abused by our grandparents," Julia replied. "Mrs. Davidson couldn't stop crying when she found out who I was. She couldn't understand why Sarah would have wanted her to think she was dead. She loved her so much."
"Then why would Mom have lied to us? If you don't think Mrs. Davidson is lying, then you think Mom did."
"I'm afraid I do," Julia admitted, even though it hurt to say the words. "Mom must have had her reasons. She told Gino the same story, that her parents had told her she was dead to them after she got pregnant with me. She never veered from that story."
"So there's something we're missing," Liz said. "I don't think we should take this woman's word over Mom's word. We don't know Mrs. Davidson at all."
"She'd like to know us. She'd like to come out and meet you—when you're ready," Julia amended quickly when Liz began to shake her head.
"That's not going to happen. I don't need another grandmother, especially one I don't trust. Mom didn't want us to know them. That's good enough for me. I don't even care about her reasons. She always wanted to protect us. Whatever she did had to be for that purpose."
Julia wished she could have such blind faith in their mother, but there were too many details blurring the picture of the mother she'd known. "There's more, Liz."
Liz put up her hand. "Please, stop. I don't want to hear more."
"Mom majored in Russian in college," Julia said, ignoring her plea. "Her grandmother, our great-grandmother, was a Russian immigrant. Apparently they spoke fluent Russian together." Liz didn't want to believe her. Julia could see the denial in her eyes. "Don't you think that means something?"
"I don't know what it means. You're driving me crazy. You have so many questions about everything. Why can't you just love the things you have, the people with you, instead of always wanting more? Why can't you be satisfied for once in your life?" She jumped to her feet. "I have to go to work."
"Don't run out, Liz. We need to talk about everything."
"No, we don't. Here's what I think. You do what you want, and leave me out of it."
Liz grabbed her keys and purse and strode from the room. Julia stared after her, wondering how they had gotten so off track with each other. During the past year they'd been closer than close, sharing the work it took to keep their mother comfortable and happy. Now they were as far apart as they had ever been.
Liz would say it was Julia's fault. Maybe it was. Maybe she did want too much.
But unlike Liz, she couldn't turn a blind eye to the lies that had been told. She'd spent her whole life stopping herself from asking the questions that mattered, afraid she would hurt her mother. But her mother was gone now, and it was time she got the truth—the whole truth.
* * *
Stan didn't seem surprised to see Alex when he showed up at his front door. "I thought you might come by," he said, waving Alex into the house. "Did you meet with Brady?"
Alex nodded, following Stan once again into his study. "We did. He basically confirmed what you suggested, that my father was murdered."
"I'm sorry, Alex. Do you want to sit down? Can I get you something to drink?"
"No, thanks." Alex paused. "There's something that's been bothering me since I left Brady."
"What's that?"
"He said you were friends with Sarah, that you got her the job with the theater company, and that you, in fact, were one of the primary players in setting up the whole trip. He also said it wasn't the first time you were involved in a cultural exchange between our countries. Why didn't you mention that when Julia and I were here on Sunday?"
Stan frowned, his lips drawing into a tight, irritated line. "Brady shouldn't have told you that."
"Because it isn't true, or because you didn't want us to know? You told Julia and me that you'd only met Sarah twice. That was a lie."
"There weren't many more meetings than that," Stan said. "My involvement with Sarah was limited. Charles told me she was excellent with a needle and thread. The group needed several costumers, so she was recommended for the trip."
"What about the exchange itself?"
"I made a couple of calls."
Alex suspected it was more than a couple of calls. Stan was being far too evasive. "Were you in Russia with my father?"
Stan walked around the desk by the window and sat down, putting up a barrier between them. He pressed his fingertips together, then said, "No, of course not."
The words were delivered in a firm, steady tone, no hint of a lie. Alex had no reason not to believe Stan, but he couldn't shake the uneasy feeling that he hadn't asked exactly the right question. Still, Stan had been his father's closest friend, and even after his dad's death, he had kept in touch. He'd made the effort to come to Alex's games, his high school graduation. Stan had helped him get his first camera, his first job. Alex had never believed they had anything but a completely honest relationship. Now because of a few small details, he had doubts.
Alex sat down in the chair in front of the desk. He picked up a pen and twisted it between his fingers. "Tell me more about your connection to the theater group."
Stan tilted his head to one side. "I made a few calls with government officials that facilitated the exchange. I did it for Charles. He was the driving force behind the entire effort. He obviously had another agenda besides photographing the event."
"Which you must have known at the time."
"I suspected," Stan admitted, "but I didn't ask questions."
"You should have. What about Sarah?" he continued. "Did she have Julia with her when she went to Russia? Because it's becoming very clear that Julia is
that girl in the photo."
Stan shrugged. "I didn't know anything about Julia. I have no idea why she was in that orphanage, if she is in fact that girl. I do know the photo was a problem for Charles. He didn't tell me why, except that he was furious it had been printed without his knowledge. I already told you that, Alex."
"How could you not know if Julia was with Sarah? Brady said you were friends with both of them. And you must have helped the performers acquire papers for their travel."
"That wasn't my job. And Brady is mistaken. I wasn't friends with Sarah. Charles was. Everything that involved her was done through him."
"What about this theater group? Can you put me in touch with anyone who was on that trip with my dad and Sarah?"
Stan's mouth turned down in a displeased frown. "Alex, please, just drop it already."
"That's not going to happen, especially now that I know my father was murdered to keep him silent about something. He might have lost his voice, but I haven't. And I'll speak for him when I know the truth."
"That kind of reckless behavior could get you silenced as well."
"I'll take that chance."
Stan shook his head. "You're just as crazy as your father. He always thought he could beat the odds, too, but look what happened to him."
"You should have found his killer twenty-five years ago, Stan. You should have looked harder."
Anger flared in Stan's eyes. Alex felt a momentary flash of guilt, but he quickly discarded it. He wouldn't take back his words. It was the truth. Stan should have made sure the investigation continued, instead of letting the government shut him up.
"I don't understand why you didn't," Alex added. He waited for Stan to offer an explanation, but he remained silent, so Alex came up with his own answer, an answer he didn't like at all. "Did they threaten you? Was that it?"
"Leave it alone."
"I can't, dammit," Alex said loudly, bringing his fist down on the edge of Stan's desk. "Why can't I get a straight answer from anyone?"
"The night your father died, I received a message on my answering machine. The voice was garbled, but the message was clear. If I asked any questions, my parents would be killed. I'd already lost my wife. And Charles was gone, too. There was nothing to be gained by pursuing the truth. It wouldn't have helped you or your mother. Charles wouldn't have wanted you to grow up thinking he'd been murdered. I know that for sure." He gazed into Alex's eyes. "Would you have made such a different decision?"
"Yes, I would have seen justice done for my friend," Alex said without hesitation. "Is that it—the whole truth?"
Stan hesitated for a split second too long. "That's it," he said. "Now will you let it go?"
"No, because unlike you, I don't have anything to lose."
"What about Julia? Are you willing to risk her life? And the lives of her family, her sister, her stepfather, her friends?"
Alex's eyes narrowed. "How do you know so much about her?"
"Brady filled me in."
"Of course." Alex stood up. "I want to talk to someone in that theater group who was in Moscow. Where do I look?"
A brief pause followed his question; then Stan said, "The Sullivan Theater Group out of Los Angeles. I'm sure you can find their number. A woman named Tanya Hillerman sits on their board now. She was an actress during the Moscow tour."
"You had that information on the tip of your tongue," Alex said, wondering why.
"I figured you'd be asking. You're stubborn as hell." Stan rose from his chair. "As you said, you're a grown man now and capable of making your own decisions, so I'll leave you to it. Just be careful. Don't underestimate the enemy."
"I wish I knew who the enemy was."
* * *
Alex made the call from his car after retrieving the number for the Sullivan Theater Group from Information. After working his way through a receptionist and a secretary, he was given a number for Tanya Hillerman. As he waited at a red light, he punched in her number. The phone rang three times before a woman's voice came over the line.
"Hello," she said.
"Tanya Hillerman?"
"This is she. May I help you?"
"I hope so. I'm interested in speaking to you about a cultural exchange that took place in Moscow twenty-five years ago."
"Who are you?' she asked, an edge to her voice now.
"Alex Manning." He heard her sharp intake of breath.
"The photographer? I thought you died."
"That was my father, Charles," he said. "Is that who you're thinking of?"
"Oh, yes, Charles. You're his son. The little boy who stood at the back of the stage and tried to blend in with the scenery."
"That's me," he said wryly. He had hated that brief stint on the stage. Even though he hadn't had a speaking part, he'd felt very self-conscious. He was much more comfortable behind the lights than under them.
"What did you want to ask me, Mr. Manning?"
"I assume by what you just said that you were there."
"You don't remember me? I was the star, you know. I actually played out a death scene on stage. It was my trademark. No one could die like me. It was very slow and painful to watch, but I enjoyed it."
Alex didn't know how to respond to that. He cleared his throat. "Can you tell me if you remember a costumer named Sarah Davidson or Gregory?"
"Sarah? Let me think. There were a few girls who worked behind the scenes. Was she the dark-haired girl with the big brown eyes?"
"You tell me."
"I do remember a woman like that. She was very quiet, and new to the company, but excellent with a needle and thread. That was the first and only trip she made with us. She didn't continue on with the company after that trip."
"Do you know if she had a child with her, a little girl?"
"There were some children in the company like yourself, Alex. I don't know if one of them belonged to this Sarah." She paused. "I'm surprised you're not asking me more questions about your father."
He stiffened. "What should I be asking?"
"Well, I always thought your father had other reasons for being in Russia—reasons that had nothing to do with our theater exchange. It was even rumored that he might be some sort of a spy. I thought it was very dangerous and sexy. I flirted with him madly, but he never flirted back."
"He wasn't a spy; he was a photographer. And he was married," Alex added pointedly. Defending his father came naturally, but as he did so, he wondered if he had the right. Tanya Hillerman was the third person to imply his father was a spy. Could they all be wrong?
"I think he said he was separated," Tanya continued. "It didn't matter. He wasn't interested in me. He had more important things to do. I knew it even if he didn't say it." She paused. "It was a different world back then. No one trusted anyone, especially over there. The KGB watched us like hawks, worried we would tempt some of their artists with our American ways. It was terrifying at times. Your father and I spoke about it once. He had such passion for the Russian people. I worried that it would get him into trouble. Up until that trip, I'd never not been free, but that week I felt trapped. I never wanted to go back there. And I never have. When did your father pass away?"
"A few weeks after that trip," Alex said shortly.
"He was so young, so vibrant. How did it happen?"
"A car accident."
"Oh, dear. That's terrible. Such a shame. He was a very talented photographer."
"Yes, he was."
"Are you still involved in the theater, Mr. Manning? If you grew up to look like your father, I imagine you'd make a wonderful leading man."
"No, I'm not in the theater. I'm a photographer, just like my dad." He hung up the phone, wondering if that was true. He'd always thought he'd followed in his father's footsteps. Maybe he hadn't. Because right now those footsteps seemed to be leading him far away from what he'd always believed to be true.
* * *
Christine Delaney, the reporter from the Tribune, was waiting in the lobby of the radio station
when Julia finished her show Tuesday afternoon. As soon as she saw Julia, Christine put up a hand in apology. "I'm sorry about the hit-and-run photo the other day."
"I don't think you're sorry at all," Julia replied. "And I have nothing further to say to you." Julia tried to sidestep around her, but Christine got in her way.
"I've done some research, Miss DeMarco. I found someone who used to work at the orphanage in Moscow where your picture was taken."
Julia couldn't believe what she was hearing. "You contacted someone in Russia?"
Christine's smile was smug. "Actually, the woman lives in the United States now. She came over about six years ago. She was a cleaning woman at the orphanage. She didn't want to talk to me at first, but I assured her that I would keep her anonymous."
"Why would you do that?" Julia asked suspiciously.
"Because I want your story, not hers." Christine paused, giving her a speculative look. "She told me that everyone in the orphanage was instructed to say that you were never there. They were threatened with death if they spoke about your presence. She said you were there for only one day, and she believed your parents were in serious trouble with the government."
Julia tried hard not to react, not to reveal anything to Christine, but inside she was reeling. She had to say something. She had to buy some time. She fell back on what Alex had suggested earlier. "I'm not that girl. It's a mistake. I was born and raised in Berkeley, California. I have a birth certificate to prove it." She did have a birth certificate, something she hadn't considered before now.
"Birth certificates are not that difficult to obtain, not if you know the right people," Christine said.
"I don't know what you mean," Julia replied, even though she suspected Christine was right about fake birth certificates being easy enough to get. She had to find a way to convince Christine to move on to another story. "I don't think I look like that girl in the picture," she said with as much cool as she could muster. "In fact, I'm considering suing your newspaper for printing that photo and suggesting all kinds of lies." She hadn't been considering any such thing, but Christine didn't have to know that.
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