Eyes brimming with tears, she blinked through them, struggling to keep her composure. “All I’ve ever wanted was to protect my friend, her legacy and that of her daughter. Is that so wrong?”
“If you have information that could lead me to Holly’s killer—yes. It is wrong.”
“What makes you assume I do?”
“When I entered your house, I noticed the photographs in your hallway. One stood out more than the rest, a collage of photos of Holly, starting with one that looks like it was taken right after she was born and then one to represent every year of her life thereafter, as indicated by the numbers beneath each photo.”
“What about it?”
“If you didn’t know about Holly until you visited Celia in Sedona, how do you have a photo of her right after she was born? You could say Celia gave you the photo at a later date, but I believe Celia may have kept in touch with you more than you’re letting on. Am I right?”
Chelle pressed a hand to her chest, closing her eyes as she took a deep breath in. When she reopened them, she said, “You’re right. I knew about Holly before my visit, but not long before. Celia had a post office box, and that’s how we kept in touch. In one of her letters, she told me she was adopting a little girl, but she’d decided never to tell Holly she wasn’t her biological mother.”
“Do you know why Celia decided not to tell Holly about the adoption?”
“She wanted Holly to grow up feeling wanted and loved, and she thought if she told her the truth, she would feel abandoned by her birth mother.”
“I think that’s one reason why, but I believe there are others.”
“If there were, she didn’t share them with me.”
Chelle rubbed the back of her neck, wincing as though it was tender.
“Are you all right?” I asked.
“I’ll be fine. I pulled a muscle or something the other day, and I never know when it’s going to flare up.” She paused, then said, “It seems like the adoption angle is important to you. Why? Do you think it might have something to do with her murder?”
“After Holly found the adoption papers, she started searching for answers. She told one of her friends she thought she was being followed. If she was, I think she may have been murdered before she had the chance to get to the truth.”
“You should have said that from the start.”
She was right.
I should have.
“Did Celia ever mention anything about Holly’s biological parents?” I asked.
“Not by name,” Chelle said. “The night she moved back to Cambria, after I helped her get moved in, we cracked open a couple bottles of wine, and she said something I found odd.”
I leaned in, interested in what she was going to say next.
“After Celia’s third glass of wine, she told me one of Holly’s birth parents was famous.”
In terms of clues, it was a good one.
“Famous how?” I asked.
“I’m not sure. I pressed her about it, and she clammed up. Never mentioned it again.”
I thanked her for her time, and she walked me to the door. When it swung open, a breeze moved through the porch, the spoon chimes on Chelle’s railing letting out a soft, metallic song.
As the door closed behind me, I stood on the walkway for a moment, taking in the ocean breeze, and thinking about the conversation we’d just had.
Holly’s adoption had taken on roots.
A famous parent.
A closed adoption agency.
