Palmer answered.
“Your daughter is alive. She’s 21 and living with Beverly just outside Columbus. She’s safe and healthy. Hannah has been searching for you, ma’am, but with the wrong last name, every lead went cold. She was saving up to hire someone.”
My knees finally gave out.
Palmer caught me before I hit the floor.
“I knew,” I sobbed into her shoulder. “I always knew!”
Detective Palmer drove me across two state lines the next morning.
Rick was already in jail.
My hands wouldn’t stop trembling as I held the small velvet pouch containing Hannah’s earrings.
As we turned onto a quiet street, Palmer said, “Beverly is your SIL’s neighbor who took Hannah in after the funeral. Nothing official, just a kind woman who didn’t want the teenager to be alone in that house.”
Beverly met us at the door of a pale yellow house with a porch swing. She had kind eyes and flour on her apron.
“She’s in the living room,” Beverly said gently. “I told her that someone who loves her very much was coming.”
Hannah stood beside the window when I entered.
She was taller than I’d ever imagined.
“Sweetheart,” I whispered.
Her head turned slowly.
Her eyes filled with tears.
“I know that voice,” she said. “I’ve been trying to remember it my whole life!”
I crossed the room.
She met me halfway.
For a long time, neither of us spoke.
Later, Beverly brought out the letter Judith had left behind.
Hannah read it aloud with trembling hands.
“She wrote that she suspected Dad lied,” my daughter said. “That she was sorry she didn’t dig deeper.”
“She loved you,” I told her. “That much is clear.”
“But you never stopped looking?” Hannah asked.
“No, baby. I couldn’t.”
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