Chapter 7 - The Delaware Paper
The light in the neonatal unit seemed to turn sharp, hard, stripped of its soft, warm tint.
The woman in the blue suit didn't drop Emma’s arm immediately. Her fingers remained locked around the child’s wrist for two long seconds before Marcus took three steps forward, his broad chest filling the space between her and the warming box.
“Drop your hand, Catherine,” Marcus said. His voice wasn't loud, but it had the weight of an iron door slamming shut in a stone basement.
She let go. Her hand dropped to her side, her long nails leaving four red, crescents-shaped marks on the blue cotton of Emma’s sleeve.
“You’re making a very expensive mistake, Marcus,” she said, stepping back toward the glass wall of the room. “Julian signed those papers three weeks ago in Towson. He gave Crestline full power of attorney over the estate to satisfy the arson judgment.”
Marcus didn't look at her. He pulled a folded piece of white paper from the back of the oilskin notebook and held it out toward Detective Miller.
“This is a certified copy of Dr. Arthur Vance’s trust,” Marcus said. “Recorded at the Carroll County Register of Deeds in 1994. Under Section 4, paragraph B, no male heir of the Vance line can encumber, sell, or assign any portion of the valley property without the written, notarized consent of the surviving spouse—or, in the event of her death, the primary female lineal descendant who has reached the age of seven.”
The woman in the suit let out a short, sharp laugh. “The girl is six!”
“Emma was seven yesterday,” Marcus said.
He reached into his pocket, pulled out the small blue plastic shoe he had found on the porch steps in Lineboro, and set it on the metal tray beside the paper bag from the gift shop.
“Her birth was registered at the municipal clinic in Westminster on July 31, 2019,” Marcus continued, looking straight into the woman’s eyes. “By my father. Three months before he died. The original entry is in this notebook, complete with her foot stamp and his medical license seal.”
Detective Miller stepped forward, took the folded paper from Marcus, and opened it under the fluorescent light. He pulled his reading glasses out, looked at the red ink seal at the bottom, and then looked up at the woman in the blue suit.
“Mrs. Crestline,” Miller said softly. “Or whatever name you’re using on that Delaware ID. I think you’d better come downstairs with me. We have two state troopers in the lobby who would like to ask you about three water shut-off notices that were mailed to an address in Norfolk that doesn't exist.”
The woman’s gray eyes flicked from Miller to Marcus, then down to the little girl standing behind his legs.
“She’s nothing,” the woman spat, her voice losing every drop of its smooth, honeyed tone. “She’s a half-starved brat from a squatter’s shack. She doesn't even know her own last name.”
Emma stepped out from behind Marcus’s leg.
She didn't look at the woman’s face. She looked down at the paper bag from the gift shop that was sitting on the table.
“My name is Emma Sarah Vance,” she said, her voice clear, small, and completely steady. “And my brothers are Noah and Eli. And our house has a red roof and clover in the ditch, and you’re not allowed to go there anymore because the gate is locked with a Master No. 3.”
The woman stared at her for three seconds. Her mouth opened as if she were about to say something else—something sharp, something ugly—but Miller took her by the elbow and turned her toward the door.
“Let’s go,” the detective said.
As the heavy door closed behind them, the room went quiet again, except for the soft hum of the heat lamps and the steady thump-thump of the infant monitors.
Marcus dropped down to one knee in front of the little girl.
He reached into his pocket, pulled out the blue plastic shoe, and set it on the floor beside her split sneaker.
“I found your other shoe,” he said.
Emma looked at it. Then she looked at his face—at the red dirt on his chin, the torn shoulder of his scrub shirt, and the silver thumb ring that caught the light from the warmer.
“Is my mommy awake yet?” she asked.
May you like
Marcus took her small, cold hand in his broad palm.
“Not yet, Emma,” he said gently. “But her fever dropped to ninety-nine ten minutes ago. And Dr. Vance—your granddaddy’s brother—is going to be right here when she does.”
