by Pamela Crane
Nana leaned over to whisper in Vera’s ear. “I’m proud of you, you know. For your willingness to help Sydney by donating a kidney. It’s a brave thing to do.”
But Vera didn’t consider it brave; to her, it was what sisters did for each other.
“You know I’d do anything for my family.”
“Yes, that I do know. Even if it meant disappearing for six months to help a dying man you barely met,” Nana said with a chuckle. “Oh, did I tell you how Miss Frances, the sweet woman who tried to foster me back when I was child, contacted me recently?”
The cloak-and-dagger way Nana said it piqued Vera’s curiosity. “No, how did she find you, Nana?”
After Vera’s return home, her bond with her grandmother gelled as Nana shared a delicious taste of her life with Vera, drawing her into a time with Elvis Presley on the jukebox, Marilyn Monroe on the silver screen, and Dwight Eisenhower in the White House. More than that, Nana was once an orphan, just like her. And Nana had found her forever family, just like her.
“Miss Frances connected with me on Facebook. She’s probably in her nineties now, but I’ve got to hand it to her for her sleuthing skills and tech-savviness.”
“What’d she say?”
Nana glanced at the front of the room, where the last visitors mingled about, then returned her gaze to Vera. “Like I told you, she had tried to find a way to adopt me back when I was a child, but in the 1950s it wasn’t easy for a single woman to adopt without the support of a man. When she finally did get through the red tape, I had already been moved around a lot. She eventually lost track of me, but never forgot me. She ended up adopting five other kids over the years—one of which is the one who introduced her to Facebook.” Another dab-dab at the tears. “She just wanted to tell me that she never gave up searching for me.”
Never give up. The cliché was a lifestyle for Vera, words she breathed in and lived out. It helped uncover her past, introduced her to Bennett, revealed her sister Marin, and exposed another mother somewhere out there.
“Which brings me to something else I thought you should see.” Nana handed Vera a newspaper clipping, one Vera hadn’t seen before. “I found this in an old hat box my mother had given me before she died. I had never really looked through everything inside it until just recently.”
At the top of the article was a grainy picture of a woman who resembled the countless images of Alvera Fields that had imprinted on Vera’s memory. The headline sat large and bold in the center:
**
The Pittsburg Press
Pittsburg, PA
Tuesday, November 22, 1910
MISSING WOMAN MAY BE DISGUISED
Riverfront Merchant Certain Millionaire’s Wife Tried to Buy Man’s Clothes and Was Afraid of Identification.
Many false clues telephoned by persons who located Alvera Fields at various places are run down vainly by her distracted husband, Robert Fields.
Except for one clue, which may or may not be worth anything. Since the first day of the public search for wife to millionaire Robert Fields, and mother to newborn daughter Olivia Fields, who disappeared so completely the evening of April 16, no further productive results have been made. Until now.
Through the medium of police, detectives and lawyers who have been conducting a search under cover for over six months, a possible lead has surfaced. This single clue centers about the identity of a mysterious woman of apparent refinement who tried to buy an outfit of male apparel, avowedly for the purposes of disguise in a masquerade, and who wanted to pledge expensive jewelry in a waterfront pawnbroker’s warehouse yesterday afternoon. The jewelry was identified by Robert Fields as belonging to his wife Alvera. Hours later police were notified of the suspicious activity. The woman was later spotted at a suffragette meeting, but fled before authorities could identify her.
Here was a young mother, aristocratic, refined and ideally happy in her home, devoted to her husband and child, balanced in her thoughts and life, according to her husband, who, taking with her only such funds as one might carry for casual purchases, stepped out of the house door on a cool spring evening, seemingly intent on plans to attend an event. From that moment she was gone from the ken of her whole circle of acquaintances as completely as if she had never existed. Yet friends of the missing woman have accused husband Robert of forcing his wife to take residence in a sanitarium or flee due to her zeal for the women’s suffrage cause.
Did Mrs. Alvera Fields abandon her family to fight for the women’s suffrage cause under a new identity? Or is something more sinister afoot in the Fields family? The public may never know.
**
But Vera knew. Never give up. While the public details of what happened to Alvera Fields were shrouded in the unknown, Vera saw the passion in her ancestor’s journal that could drive a woman to give up everything for something bigger than her. Justice. Freedom. Empowerment. It was the root of her great-great-grandmother’s sacrifice, to pursue rights for women across the globe, even at the cost of her child. Had that been what her own biological mother did for her? Sacrifice her family by running away in order to free them from her demons?
This thought hung around Vera as she felt the prickle of eyes watching. She had felt it often lately, the steady gaze of someone lurking in the background. Turning around in her seat, she caught a glimpse of a woman, tucked halfway behind a massive suit of armor, hazel eyes glistening. The same color as Marin’s. As her own.
In that moment Vera realized her discoveries into her family’s past had only just begun.
**
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Acknowledgments
This is the part of writing I like the least. I won’t dare say I hate it, because I’ve taught my kids that hate is a strong word and to use it sparingly, so that would make me a hypocrite. But how does an author remember to give credit to everyone who has inspired or supported the book? I’m a mom of four, with limited sleep hours, so my memory cannot be trusted to keep track of what we’re eating for dinner, let alone who deserves acknowledgment.
But I’m going to try.
My husband Craig always gets first billing. He’s the one that turned my daughter’s portrait into my most prized cover because her beautiful face is on it. He’s the one who takes kid duty and sends me off alone to write so I can meet my deadlines. Without his support, I’d still be on the first draft of this book.
My children—Talia, Kainen, Kiara, and Ariana—come second as my biggest littlest fans. They love having a murder-writing mom when most kids would be ashamed…or scared.
To Kevin Cook, my miracle-working editor at Proofed to Perfection Editing Services. The man is not only brilliant but long-suffering as he worked tirelessly wading through and refining my writing weaknesses and teaching me so much along the way. Any lingering issues or errors are on me for tinkering with it after he finished.
To my mom who shared tons of historical information with me about my suffragette ancestor. Thank you for being so tech-savvy and scanning it all for me. Keep your eyes peeled in the book for your cameo, Mom!
Thank you, Mary Kaja, for helping with Vera’s journal entries. You have more talent in your pinkie toe than I have in my whole body. Your name will be among the literary greats someday.
To everyone at Bloodhound Books who believed in this book enough to invest in it. This was a unique publication deal, so thank you for working with me on it!
To the book clubs who have picked my books. For the Zoom meets and tech glitches you’ve endured just to chat with me. I love you all so much—that includes your whole group, Jilia, and the fabulous LT Book Club, among several others whose book club names I can’t
remember at the moment (I think I told you I’m a sleep-deprived mom, right?).
My Mental Mommy Readers Group, you all are incredible. Elaine, Melissa, Kris, Ruth, Cheang, Linda, Emily, Jess—among others—have been my biggest cheerleaders. Your book reviews and social media posts and word-of-mouth mean the world to me. You are why I keep challenging myself to put out better, twistier stories.
My biggest hug of gratitude goes to all of you who have bought the book, every one-click purchase is more precious to me than sleep. Your support feeds my family (and horses and dogs and cats and ducks…and any other animals I end up rescuing by the time you read this). I love you all.
Thank you for supporting this most incredible writing adventure.
About the Author
PAMELA CRANE is a USA Today bestselling author and professional juggler of four kids, a writing addiction, and a horse rescuer. She lives on the edge and writes on the edge...where her sanity resides. Her thrillers unravel flawed women with a villainous side, which makes them interesting…and perfect for doing crazy things worth writing about. When she’s not cleaning horse stalls or cleaning up after her kids, she’s plotting her next murder.
Join her newsletter to get a FREE book and updates about her new releases and deals at www.pamelacrane.com.
Enjoy what you read?
Then check out LITTLE DOES SHE KNOW, an “addictive psychological thriller!”
A missing boy. A dead body. Four decades apart, but connected by a mysterious link.
It’s 1986, the height of big hair, power suits, and “Material Girl.” Ginger Mallowan is the epitome of all of these things, until her son disappears during a beach walk one night. That’s the moment girls don’t want to have fun anymore, and the moment she starts hunting for answers.
It’s 2022, and Ginger’s hair is a bit flatter, she’s retired her power suits, but she still dances to “Material Girl.” She hasn’t found—or forgotten—her missing son, but she has managed to survive the grief…thanks to her neighbor Tara Christie.
Tara is the friend who keeps Ginger’s secrets. But that vow is tested one night when Tara is jarred awake by a scream coming from next-door, where she finds Ginger standing over a dead body. As the investigation shakes the town to its core, and Tara’s husband is charged with the murder, Tara must choose between proving her husband’s innocence or protecting Ginger’s past.
Little does she know she’s about to stumble down a twisty path that could destroy them all.
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