Tony’s eyes shifted back between Fred and Melinda. Never one to hide his feelings well, Bailey could tell he was adding up the cost of the renovations he’d paid for as well as all the other loans he’d probably extended Melinda this past year.
“We will fight it,” Melinda repeated, less emphatically this time. “After all, it was your stupid idea to get the DNA testing in the first place, Tony. You owe me that, at the very least.”
Fred cleared his throat. “There is good news, however.”
“What’s that?” snapped Melinda.
“The Dakota apartment remains yours and Manvel’s. It’s outside the trust, so you both own a considerable asset.”
“Great. A stinky apartment in the shitty part of town. Thanks a lot.”
Melinda grabbed her purse and stomped out. Before she left the room, she leaned over Bailey, who was still wedged in the couch. “You’ll be sorry for this, for meddling. After everything I’ve done for you? I will take you down so fast you’ll end up in the streets, begging for handouts.”
Tony followed her, calling for her to wait for him.
Bailey took another deep breath, letting the air clear from all the arguing and harsh words. Melinda, even with all her faults, had been a friend and the only one who’d stuck by her after rehab, and the injustice of the revelation stung. She’d have to find a way to make this right. She heaved herself to the edge of the couch and sat there, numb. “So my dad and I are the heirs?”
Fred smiled. “Yes. The way the trust works, the money goes to your father, and then, upon his death, to you.”
Manvel sat beside her and patted her on the back. “Congratulations, Bailey. Nice detective work.”
“I didn’t mean for you and Melinda to lose everything. Your trust, your identity.”
“You kidding? I’m happy to take off the mantle of being a Camden. Never meant much to me to begin with. Maybe I’ll invent a new name, like Bowie did.”
Jack rose, extending his hand. “We really should make up for it. Include you in some way.”
“We can donate to your outsider artists,” offered Bailey.
Manvel stood and shook Jack’s hand, covering it with his own. “It’s not about money, what they do, and I’ve learned a lot from that. These artists want to create art because they’ve got an image or idea in their head and it just has to get out. They paint it or turn it into a giant mobile of scrap metal, but it comes from in here.” He tapped his head. “They don’t care about furthering their careers or making a ton of cash.”
A wave of tenderness swept over Bailey. “Kenneth is so proud of you, everything you’ve accomplished.”
“You’ve met Kenneth? I’m stopping by to say hello before I head out. Can I tell him the news?”
“Sure. Will you be staying at the apartment while you’re in town?”
“Nah, it’s not my home anymore. Never really was. I prefer a life on the road.”
“I like that,” said Jack. “Hey, I consider myself an outsider artist, working on cars all day. It’s its own kind of art.”
Manvel poked him in the chest, giddy. “That’s it exactly, man.”
He thanked Fred for his time before hitching his backpack over one shoulder and sauntering out. After he’d left, Bailey and Jack took the seats across from Fred’s desk.
Manvel was right; the news of actually being a Camden was bittersweet, considering the awful legacy of the family. She addressed Fred, avoiding her father’s eyes. “How are Melinda and Manvel not part of the family? I figured if I was related, we’d all be able to share the trust. Who are they, then?” The photo of Sara and the children took on new significance with these revelations.
“As I said to her, it’s one of those mysteries we may never solve.”
It pained Bailey to think that they might never know the full story. What exactly had happened between Theodore Camden and Sara Smythe? Bailey imagined the woman had been sent over the edge by her love to a married man, and that after her release from Blackwell’s, she’d bided her time before killing the man she considered responsible. But no doubt, there was more to the story.
“I think the Met should have the sheath,” she said. Jack nodded in agreement but didn’t say anything. Learning the truth seemed to have alienated the one family member she had left. What had she done?
Fred made a note on his desk. “Very well. I’ll let them know.”
“I’m sorry I lashed out at you, Dad.” Bailey’s eyes welled up with tears and she was glad Melinda was gone, so as not to see her so vulnerable. “I know I forced you into this, that you don’t want to be a part of this family, what’s left of it. But I swear I don’t care if the trust is worth two thousand or twenty thousand dollars. That’s not why I did it. I had to know the truth.”
Jack spoke slowly, carefully. “After I heard from Fred, I spent a long time sitting out on the docks, thinking. I figured I’d held you and your mom back, nursing the same grudge that had driven my father mad all those years. Watching as it affected you, too, like a poisonous birthright, passed down from generation to generation. I’m sorry I closed myself off and did nothing to help you. I didn’t know what to do, or what to say, to make it right.” He tilted his head, one eyebrow raised. “And, of course, Scotty told me I was out of my mind to pass up a potential windfall.”
She took his hand in her own. “Thanks for covering the cost of the testing. Let’s just hope the trust has enough to reimburse you.”
Fred laughed. “Oh, I don’t think you’ll find that a problem. How happy I am to spread some good news today.” His features relaxed for the first time since the meeting had begun. “You are now in charge of three million dollars.”
Bailey yelped. “Three million!”
Jack blinked a couple of times. “I’m not sure I’m capable of handling that much money.”
“Don’t worry, we’re here to help,” offered Fred. “You’ll get all the guidance and advice necessary.”
Jack turned to Bailey. “First off, I want you to consider it our money. Yours and mine. We’ll make decisions together, promise?”
She promised. “And second?”
“Let’s take care of each other better.” The words came out a hoarse whisper. “Your mother would’ve wanted that.”
Bailey buried her face in his chest and wept.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
New York City, November 1885
Blackwell’s Island. The one place to which Sara vowed she’d never return. But it was the only way of reclaiming her own past. Of finding out the truth. All the strange dreams and ruminations of the past few weeks had gnawed away at her, and it was time to close out that chapter in her life for once and for all. If Daisy had been wrongly accused, Sara would make things right. Only by seeing the girl’s face would she know.
She almost didn’t recognize the asylum, if it weren’t for the familiar octagon. The land to the right of the walkway had been transformed into a garden, where dozens of women in serviceable dresses and aprons weeded and chattered away in the unexpected November warmth, clearing the flower garden for the winter to come and picking large gourds that they put onto a wheelbarrow.
Sara walked past the building, to the south end of the island, clutching the piece of paper that Nellie had sent her. Her friend had responded quickly to Sara’s request, and for that, she was grateful. Sara had informed her of her trip today, so someone knew where she was. Part of her regretted not accepting Nellie’s invitation to accompany her, as she had a not-so-irrational fear that she might once again disappear into the madhouse.
But Nellie was a journalist. Sara didn’t want to let on too much. Not yet.
In the penitentiary, Sara waited in a dingy room with scuff marks on the walls, Nellie’s referral having created an immediate response to her request. The door opened and Daisy shuffled in behind a woman guard wearing a stony expression. “You have ten minutes,” the guard said before walking out.
Daisy scowled at Sara. Her hair, once shiny with curls, was a matted, dirty nest. Two of her teeth were missing and it made her seem even younger than she was, like a seven-year-old, albeit one who was chained by hands and feet. She sat down, hard, in the chair opposite Sara.