The woman I'd always called Mrs. Wilson.
The woman who'd baked my birthday cakes and braided my hair when I was little.
The woman I'd rescued from a locked basement.
She was crying now.
“Are you saying…”
My voice broke.
“Are you saying you might be my grandmother?”
Mrs. Wilson nodded slowly.
Then she whispered:
“Sweetheart, I've been afraid to tell your mother for more than thirty years.”
CHAPTER 7: THE WOMAN WHO BETRAYED SIX FRIENDS WAS FINALLY CAUGHT—BUT HER LAST SECRET CHANGED MY FAMILY FOREVER
My mother walked into Mrs. Wilson's living room carrying two cups of tea—and found me crying beside a photograph of the baby she had once been.
“Emma?”
I looked up.
Mom stopped in the doorway.
Mrs. Wilson was still holding my hand.
The old photograph lay between us.
For several seconds, nobody spoke.
Then Mom placed the cups on the table.
“What's happened?”
