But there was nothing in these papers that said Lily had ever been diagnosed by a professional. There was nothing to say she’d seen a psychiatrist at all. For all her love for Lily, Mariana had never taken her to a doctor or a social worker. There was nothing to show that either Mariana or Beth had ever tried to help her. There was nothing that spoke to how much Lily might have suffered. There was nothing to show that, after being born in secret to the wrong woman at the wrong time, Lily had had any chance at all.
“Lily’s father isn’t named on the birth certificate,” I said. “If Lily found out who he was, it must have been from Mariana.”
Michael looked at the date in the newspaper clipping. “Lawrence Gage was murdered three months after Mariana Greer died. If Mariana had told Lily that Gage was her father, Lily had known it for three months by then. I wonder what took her so long?”
I rubbed my forehead, trying to process everything. I was tired. There were too many gaps in the timeline—too many months and years when Lily had just dropped off the map in a way you could still do in the midseventies, when there was no internet and there were no cell phones. In 1975, a simple fake ID and a crossing of state lines would allow you to start a new, anonymous life.
Michael, who was following my train of thought without realizing it, kept talking as he shuffled through the papers. “Between Gage’s murder in 1975 and Thomas Armstrong’s murder in 1977 is a complete blank. Where was Lily? What set her off to start the Lady Killer murders? And where is she now?”
“I told you, she’s dead,” I said.
Michael narrowed his eyes at me. If he suspected it was Lily I’d seen at the Greer mansion, the presence I had felt, he decided not to ask. Instead he said, “I’d like to see some proof of that.”
“I’d like to see a lot of things,” I replied. “Let’s add it to the list.”
* * *
—
The last pages Ransom Wells had given me were records of charitable trusts. One was a charity for orphaned girls; another was to support single mothers in poverty. Another was a charity to provide mental health services “for teenage girls at risk.” Another was for victims of violence. All of the charities were run by numbered companies. And, according to Ransom’s paperwork, all of the numbered companies were owned by Beth Greer.
I had wondered more than once what Beth had done with her time over the past forty years, since she’d never married or had children and she had no need to work. This was the answer.
“Why did he give us this, do you think?” Michael asked, reading over the papers. His laptop was sitting on the coffee table, and outside it had long ago gone dark.
“This is the story,” I said, feeling bitterness as I looked at the records. I pointed to the newspaper article about Lawrence Gage. “Lily is the villain.” I pointed to the charity records. “But not Beth. He wants us to see Beth as the heroine, the one who selflessly saves orphans and single mothers. She’s the sweet one, not a killer like her sister.”
I shouldn’t be surprised. Ransom had told me he’d be loyal to Beth to the end.
Michael put the file down. “It’s late.”
I looked at the clock on my phone. It was nearly ten thirty. “I’m sorry,” I said, getting up and grabbing my coat, my cheeks burning. “I’ve overstayed my welcome.”
“Of course you haven’t,” Michael said, standing up. “I’m a night owl. I just don’t want you to miss the last bus.”
I zipped my coat, busily grabbed my bag, and started to put the papers in it.
“Because you’re going to take the bus, aren’t you?” Michael said into the silence. “You’re not going to take me up on my offer of a ride.”