Chapter 36 Stranger in the Back row
The gallery show runs for three weeks, and by the end of it, something unexpected happens: my art attracts attention.
Not the national-media-circus attention of the Sterling trial. Not the rubbernecking curiosity of people who want to gawk at the children of a murderer. This is different. This is quiet and specific and, somehow, more terrifying. Art critics write about my work in small publications. A professor from a graduate program in New York sends me an email asking if I've considered applying. The student newspaper runs a profile with the headline: "From Invisible to Unforgettable: Maya Reyes and the Art of Survival."
Sophie clips it out and puts it on the refrigerator. "Now you're famous like Eleanor," she says. "But different. Eleanor writes about bad guys. You draw feelings."
"Feelings are harder to draw than bad guys."
"That's why you're special."
I don't feel special. I feel exposed. Every time someone looks at my work—really looks, the way the curator did, the way the critics do—I feel like they're seeing something I've spent years learning to hide. The pool house window. The family tree. The girl at the crossroads. These aren't just drawings. They're confessions.
"What's the point of art if it doesn't scare you?" Jenna asks when I tell her this. She's stretching on the floor of our dorm room, her body folded into a shape that makes my joints ache just watching. "If you're not terrified, you're not doing it right."
"I think I've had enough terror for one lifetime."
"Different kind of terror. This is the good kind. The kind that means you're growing."
I want to believe her. But there's a part of me—the part that still eats lunch in the art room closet, the part that still flinches when someone says my name too loud—that's waiting for the other shoe to drop. Happiness has always been temporary. Safety has always been conditional. I've learned to hold good things loosely, ready to let go when they inevitably shatter.
\---
The letter arrives on a Tuesday.
It comes to the art department office, in a cream-colored envelope with my name written in handwriting I don't recognize. The return address is a PO box in Maine. There's no sender name.
Inside is a single sheet of paper, typed, unsigned.
Dear Maya Reyes,
I saw your work at the student gallery. The drawing of the pool house window. The one where someone is watching from outside. I recognized it immediately, though I've never been to your house. I recognized it because I've been that person—the one watching from the dark, trying to find the courage to knock.
My name is not important. What's important is that I know things. About William Sterling. About the years before his arrest. About the people who helped him bury his secrets. Some of those people are still out there. Some of them are still dangerous.
I can't tell you more in a letter. But if you want to know the truth—the whole truth, not just the pieces you've already uncovered—meet me at the Harbor Diner in Stonington, Maine, on the last Saturday of this month. Come alone. Tell no one, especially not your sister Eleanor. She's a journalist. Journalists can't be trusted with this.
You can trust me. Or you can ignore this letter and live the rest of your life not knowing what your father did before he was caught.
The choice is yours.
I read the letter three times. Then a fourth. My hands are shaking so hard the paper rattles.
Someone knows. Someone saw my drawing and recognized the pool house window. Someone knows about William Sterling's secrets—secrets that might still be dangerous, people who might still be dangerous.
And they want me to come alone.
I think about the last time I met a stranger alone. It was at the boathouse, and Eleanor was waiting in the shadows, and that night ended with me discovering I had a sister. Then Peyton, with her hollow eyes and her mother Caroline, with her fifteen years of grief in the bleachers. Both of those encounters changed my life. Both of them could have ended very differently.
But this letter is different. This letter mentions Eleanor by name. It warns me not to tell her. This person knows about my family. About my art. About the pool house window and what it means.
They know too much to be ignored.
\---
I don't tell Eleanor.
I know I should. I know she would want to know, that she would investigate, that she would probably find this stranger before I even got to Maine. But the letter said to come alone, and the part of me that survived Peyton's basement and William's trial and seventeen years of invisibility knows when a threat is real.
This threat feels real.
So I tell Jenna I'm going on a weekend trip to clear my head. I tell my professors I have a family emergency. I tell my mother nothing at all—she would hear the lie in my voice, even over the phone.
And on the last Saturday of October, I drive six hours north to Stonington, Maine, alone.
\---
The Harbor Diner is exactly what you'd expect from a coastal town in late autumn.
It's small and weather-beaten, perched on the edge of a gray Atlantic harbor. Fishing boats bob in the water, their rigging clinking in the cold wind. The diner itself smells like fried clams and coffee, and the windows are fogged with condensation. There are maybe six customers inside, scattered across vinyl booths.
I scan the room. An old couple sharing a slice of pie. A fisherman reading a newspaper. A teenage girl scrolling through her phone. None of them look like they're waiting for me.
Then I see him.
He's in the back corner, in a booth that faces the door. He's older than I expected—late sixties, maybe, with silver hair and a weathered face that's seen too much sun and too little sleep. He's wearing a fisherman's sweater and drinking black coffee, and when he looks up and meets my eyes, I feel something cold settle in my stomach.
I know that face. Not from my own memory. From photographs. From newspaper clippings. From the evidence files Eleanor compiled during the trial.
His name is Gerald Webb. Or rather, he's supposed to be Gerald Webb. But Gerald Webb is dead. He died of a heart attack six years ago. Eleanor and I searched for him when we were looking for Oliver, hit a dead end, moved on.
Except he's not dead. He's sitting in a diner in Maine, drinking coffee, watching me walk toward him like he's been waiting for this moment for years.
"Miss Reyes," he says. His voice is gravel, old cigarettes and older secrets. "Thank you for coming. Please, sit."
I don't sit. "You're supposed to be dead."
"I am dead. Legally speaking." He gestures at the empty seat across from him. "I had a heart attack, briefly. Flatlined for ninety seconds. When I woke up, I realized it was the best thing that ever happened to me. A dead man can't be subpoenaed. A dead man can't be pressured by William Sterling's associates. A dead man can finally tell the truth."
"What associates?"
"Sit down, Miss Reyes. I'll explain everything."
I sit.
\---
Gerald Webb—if that's even his real name—pours me a cup of coffee from the carafe on the table. His hands are steady, but I can see the tension in his shoulders, the way his eyes keep flicking toward the door.
"I was William Sterling's lawyer for twenty-three years," he begins. "I handled everything. The adoptions. The payoffs. The women he wanted to disappear. I was good at my job because I didn't ask questions. That was the deal. He paid me well, and I didn't ask questions."
"You handled Oliver's adoption."
"I handled all the adoptions. There were more than you know."
The words hang in the air, cold and heavy. More than you know.
"How many?" I ask.
"Four that I personally arranged. Including yours, before your mother refused the money and disappeared on her own." He takes a sip of coffee. "But there were others. Before my time. Before William got careful. He was young once, and reckless, and he didn't always use lawyers to clean up his messes."
"Other children? Other siblings?"
"Possibly. Probably. I can't say for certain. But I can tell you that the people who helped him—the fixers, the enforcers, the ones who made problems go away—some of them are still out there. And some of them are not happy that William is in prison."
"Not happy enough to come after us?"
"I don't know. That's why I'm here." He sets down his coffee cup. "There's a man named Vincent Moretti. He was William's head of security for fifteen years. He was the one who handled the dirty work—the intimidation, the threats, the occasional act of violence that was too delicate for legal channels. When William was arrested, Moretti disappeared. No one's seen him since."
"And you think he's a threat?"
"I think Moretti was loyal to William in ways that went beyond a paycheck. I think he believes William will be released someday, and when that happens, he wants to be in good standing. And I think he might see William's children—especially the ones who testified against him—as loose ends."
Loose ends. The phrase makes my skin crawl.
"Why are you telling me this? Why now?"
Gerald Webb is quiet for a moment. When he speaks again, his voice is softer. "I had a daughter. She died ten years ago. Cancer. She was thirty-one." He looks at me. "Before she died, she told me something I've never forgotten. She said, 'Dad, you've spent your whole life protecting terrible men. Maybe it's time to protect someone who deserves it.'"
"And you think I deserve it?"
"I think your father destroyed everyone who ever trusted him. I think I helped him do it. And I think this is my last chance to make things right." He slides a manila envelope across the table. "This is everything I know about Vincent Moretti. Where he might be. Who he might be working with. What he might be planning. Use it however you see fit."
I take the envelope. It's heavier than it should be.
"Why me?" I ask. "Why not Eleanor? She's the journalist. She's the one who investigates things."
"Because Eleanor is a journalist. She would publish. She would expose. And exposure would put a target on your entire family." He leans forward. "This isn't a story, Miss Reyes. This is a warning. Moretti is dangerous. If he's out there—if he's planning something—you need to be careful. Not loud. Careful."
I think about Sophie and Sam. About Margaret and Caroline. About Eleanor, who would absolutely publish. About Caleb, who would absolutely try to protect everyone.
"I don't know what to do with this," I admit.
"Yes, you do. You've survived worse than this. You just haven't realized it yet." He stands up, leaving a twenty-dollar bill on the table. "One more thing. Moretti has a daughter. Her name is Isabella. She's about your age. She might be a victim in all of this, or she might be complicit. I don't know which. But if you find her, be careful. She's her father's daughter."
He walks out of the diner without looking back. The door swings shut behind him, and the cold Atlantic wind sweeps through the room.
I sit in the booth, the envelope clutched in my hands, and try to process what just happened.
A dead lawyer. A missing enforcer. A daughter who might be enemy or ally.
And the knowledge that my father's secrets are deeper than I ever imagined.
\---
I drive back to Evergreen that night, the envelope on the passenger seat, my mind racing.
I should tell someone. Eleanor. Caleb. Margaret. Someone who can help me figure out what to do with this information. But Gerald's warning echoes in my head: Tell no one. Especially not your sister. This isn't a story. This is a warning.
He's right. If Eleanor gets hold of this, she'll investigate. She'll publish. And if Vincent Moretti is really out there, watching us, waiting for his moment...
I can't put her in danger. I can't put any of them in danger.
So I do the only thing I can think of. I hide the envelope in my dorm room, behind my textbooks, and I pretend I never went to Maine. I call Sophie and listen to her talk about competitive jump rope. I text Oliver about his latest paintings. I tell Jenna my weekend trip was fine, just a little road trip to clear my head.
And I wait.
But the waiting feels different now. There's a shadow at the edge of my vision, a cold draft in a warm room. Someone is out there. Someone who might want to hurt my family.
And I'm the only one who knows