“Your tension is wild,” Selene observed mildly, leaning over to eye my stitches. “I can see the trauma from here.”
“I’m working on it,” I grumbled. “Apparently I’m strangling it.”
Elodie’s brows rose. “Apparently?”
I cleared my throat. “Wes, uh ... gave me some pointers.”
Four sets of eyes snapped to me, synchronized as a firing squad.
“Wes Vaughn taught you to knit?” Kit asked, delighted. “I thought his hobbies were brooding and avoiding sunlight.”
“He said his grandma taught him. And Mary,” I added, softer.
The mood shifted, just the tiniest degree. Mom’s knitting paused for half a second, the needles held in midair.
Selene’s smile gentled. “Wes Vaughn: fiber arts instructor,” she said, tipping her mug toward me. “That is not on my bingo card, but I am thrilled to be wrong.”
My cheeks warmed again. “He just ... showed me how to loosen my grip. Guide the yarn. Apparently choking it isn’t the goal.”
“Choking is usually not the goal,” Kit said solemnly, then lifted the mutant eggplant with both hands and wiggling eyebrows. “Unless it is.”
A shocked sound escaped Mom as she put a hand to her forehead. “Katherine.”
“It’s a metaphor, Mom.”
“It is not and you know it.”
Laughter rolled through the circle, easy and bright, and some of the new-girl tightness in my shoulders eased. I was still the latest addition, the one who had lied to them all for years about a picture-perfect engagement while she stayed away, the one who had shattered that illusion on their doorstep. They had every reason to keep me on the outer edge.
Instead, they handed me tea and knitting and a seat in the circle like there had always been space saved.
Selene set her project in her lap and gave her needles a little tap against her mug. The sound cut through the low buzz of conversation. “All right, Keepers,” she said, a glint lighting her eyes. “I have news.”
A ripple went around the group. Kit sat up straighter, eggplant drooping over her knee. Elodie leaned in. Everyone’s attention sharpened.
Selene reached into the big canvas tote at her feet and pulled out a manila folder, the edges soft and worn like she’d been thumbing it all day.
“So,” she said, turning her gaze on me. “Remember when you joked that Alma Barker was hiding because she was knocked up?”
I winced, my eyes slicing toward Kit. “I, um. Vaguely.”
Kit grinned. “Some of us remember it fondly.”
“Well.” Selene slid a paper out and smoothed it on her knee. “Turns out your throwaway theory had legs. Or, I guess, a birth certificate.”
The room leaned closer in unison.
My pulse picked up.
“There was a gap in Alma’s paper trail,” Selene continued. “We knew that already. She goes quiet here, then reappears a county over briefly, then suddenly she’s back in Star Harbor with an engagement announcement to William Lovell.” She tapped the paper. “I started digging in the other county. Hospital records. Church logs. Midwives.”
Mom made an approving noise as she bumped against Cora’s arm. “That’s my girl.”
Selene smiled, quick and sharp, then sobered. “I found this. A birth record for an A. Barker. No first name spelled out, just the initial. No father listed. The date ...” She glanced down again, then back up. “The date falls right in the middle of Alma’s missing timeline.”
The room went quiet.
I stared at the black-and-white copy as it made its way from hand to hand, my heart doing an odd, uneven rhythm in my chest. Name of mother: A. Barker. Occupation: domestic. Father: dash, dash, dash. A blank space where half a life should have been.
