Chapter 108
Elena: POV
The next stop was a small town about forty minutes north—one of those places Ethan found on his research map, marked for its "authentic Appalachian charm" or some shit like that.
His black rental sedan followed behind the RV, close enough that I could see it in the side mirror every time I checked.
Mom sat in the passenger seat, window down, letting the wind mess up her hair. She was still smiling from the state park, her cheeks flushed with color I hadn't seen in weeks.
"Look at that," she said, pointing at a barn painted with faded advertisements for Coca-Cola. "They don't make them like that anymore."
"They don't," I agreed.
---
The town was smaller than the last one. Main Street barely stretched two blocks. I parked the RV near a farmers' market set up in the town square, vendors selling honey and handmade quilts under white tents.
Ethan pulled into a spot a few cars down. He got out, locked the sedan, and walked over to us.
"Ready?" he asked Mom.
"Oh, I love these," she said, already heading toward a table covered in jars of jam.
Ethan walked beside her, hands in his pockets, asking questions about pectin and canning methods like he actually gave a damn. I trailed behind, keeping my distance but close enough to hear.
The woman selling jam—mid-fifties, floral apron, kind eyes—chatted with Mom about her late husband's recipe for blackberry preserves. Mom bought three jars even though I knew she wouldn't be able to eat any of it.
I didn't say anything. Just paid when she handed me the cash.
Ethan bought a jar of honey. Then he bought another one and gave it to me.
"You don't have to do that," I said.
"I know."
I took it anyway. Because refusing felt like more effort than accepting.
---
We wandered through the market. Mom stopped at every table, touching fabric, smelling candles, asking vendors about their lives. Ethan stayed close to her, ready to catch her if she stumbled.
I hung back, scanning the crowd out of habit. Looking for black sedans.
Then I saw her.
A woman standing near a booth selling handwoven baskets. Maybe thirty, thirty-two. She had a vintage Leica camera hanging from her neck—the kind that cost more than most people's monthly rent. Her hair was pulled into a loose chignon, not a single strand out of place.
She wore a cream silk blouse tucked into tailored navy trousers. Expensive. The kind of clothes that whispered old money instead of shouting new.
A delicate gold watch caught the sunlight on her wrist. Cartier, probably. Her leather handbag—Hermès, I was pretty fucking sure—sat casually on her forearm like it belonged there.
Everything about her screamed tourist. The way she held herself, like she was observing the market instead of being part of it. The polite distance she kept from the vendors. The careful smile that never quite reached her eyes.
She didn't belong in this small Georgia town any more than I belonged at a Sterling family dinner.
But that wasn't what made my stomach drop.
It was her face.
The shape of her eyebrows. The way her eyes curved at the corners. Even the line of her jaw.
It was like looking at a stranger wearing my face—if I'd grown up with money, with manners, with a life that didn't include sleeping in a servant's quarters.
Mom touched my arm. "Elena," she said quietly. "That woman—"
"I see her," I said.
"She looks like—"
"It's a coincidence." My voice came out flat. "People look alike all the time. There's only so many face combinations in the world."
Mom didn't answer right away. She was still staring.
The woman raised her camera and took a photo of the basket display. Her movements were graceful. Practiced. Like she'd spent her whole life being taught how to hold things properly, how to stand properly, how to exist properly in spaces that mattered.
The kind of life I'd never had. The kind of life I'd watched Julian's circle live while I hovered on the edges.
"She's just a tourist," I said. More to myself than to Mom. "Probably from Charleston or Savannah. Someone who thinks it's charming to photograph 'authentic' rural life."
"Do you want to—" Mom started.
"No," I said quickly. "Let's go."
---
We walked back to the RV. Mom didn't argue, but I could feel her glancing at me every few steps.
Ethan was waiting by the driver's side door, keys in hand. He must've noticed something was off because he frowned.
"Everything okay?" he asked.
"Fine," I said. "Just tired."
He didn't push. Just unlocked the RV and helped Mom climb in.
I took one last look at the market before getting in. The woman was still there, examining a basket with the kind of detached interest wealthy people had for things they'd never actually use. Still completely unaware that she'd just thrown my entire fucking day off balance.
---
Ethan drove. I sat in the back, staring out the window.
Mom was quiet for a while. Then she reached over the seat and squeezed my hand.
"You okay, sweetheart?" she asked softly.
"Yeah." I tried to sound convincing. "Just... weird seeing someone who looks like me, I guess."
"It happens," she said. But her voice was careful. Like she didn't quite believe it was just a coincidence either.
I pulled my hand away gently. "I'm fine, Mom. Really."
She nodded and turned back around.
But I wasn't fine.
Because I kept thinking about that locket. The one with the initials A.M.H. The one I'd been carrying since Mom gave it to me.
I kept thinking about my real parents. The ones who left me on the side of I-95 twenty-four years ago.
Would they come looking for me?
If they were still alive—if they had other kids, a family, a life like that woman clearly had—would they ever try to find the baby they abandoned?
I pressed my forehead against the cool glass of the window and closed my eyes.
I wanted to believe they were dead. That they'd died in some accident right after leaving me. That it wasn't a choice.
Because the alternative—that they were alive, living their lives in silk blouses and Hermès bags, maybe with other children who looked like me but got to grow up in mansions instead of servants' quarters—was worse than anything Julian had ever done to me.
At least Julian married me. At least he pretended to want me, even if it was a lie.
My real parents didn't even bother with that. They just left.
And I'd rather believe they were dead than believe they chose to walk away.