Page 36 of Laced With Secrets

The lobby was warm and still decorated for Christmas, with a large tree in the corner and garlands draped along the reception desk. A woman in her forties looked up as we entered, her smile professional and welcoming.

“Good afternoon. Are you here to visit a resident?”

“Margie Patterson,” Dominic said. “We called ahead.”

“Of course! Mrs. Patterson is always delighted to have visitors. She’s in apartment 2B—just up the stairs and to the right. The elevator’s there if you prefer.”

“Stairs are fine,” I said, even as Dominic’s hand found my lower back.

We climbed to the second floor, the hallway quiet except for the distant sound of a television playing old Christmas movies. Apartment 2B had a wreath on the door and a small nameplate that read “M. Patterson” in elegant script.

I knocked, and after a moment, a voice called out, “Come in, come in! Door’s open!”

We entered a small but comfortable apartment that smelled like lavender and old books. The living room was filled with photographs—decades of family memories covering every surface. A tiny artificial Christmas tree sat on a side table, decorated with handmade ornaments that looked like they’d been collected over a lifetime.

Margie Patterson sat in a wingback chair by the window, a blanket over her lap despite the warmth of the room. She was small, bird-like, with white hair styled in soft curls and eyes that were still sharp and bright behind wire-rimmed glasses. She must have been in her late eighties or early nineties, but her smile was warm and immediate.

“Well, well,” she said, her voice surprisingly strong. “Visitors! And with flowers, I see.”

“Mrs. Patterson,” I said, moving forward to set the paperwhites on the table beside her chair. “I’m Leo Sterling-Hart, and this is Dominic Steele. We were hoping we could talk to you for a bit.”

“Leo Sterling-Hart.” Her gaze shifted from the white roses and winter berries to study my face with the kind of assessment that showed she was still keen despite her advanced years. Her expression shifted, lighting up with recognition. “Oh! I know that red hair.”

She leaned forward. “You’re Benji’s grandson, aren’t you? The one who took over his cobbler shop?”

Warmth flooded through me. “Yes, ma’am. You knew my grandfather?”

“Knew him? Benji was one of the best men I ever had the privilege to know.” Her smile was fond, nostalgic. “Your grandfather had a heart bigger than this whole district. Alwayslooking out for people who needed help, always making sure folks were taken care of.” She gestured toward her small sofa. “Sit, sit, both of you. And someone hand me that box—are those chocolates?”

Dominic gave her the truffles, and she opened them with genuine delight, selecting one immediately. “Oh, dark chocolate! My absolute favorite. How thoughtful.”

Dominic and I settled onto the sofa, close together.

We spent a few minutes in pleasant conversation—Margie asking about my shop, and sharing stories about the district. It was only after we’d been there for a bit, after she’d had another chocolate and seemed comfortable with us, that her sharp eyes focused on me with a knowing intensity.

“After forty years as a nurse, I developed quite a sixth sense for these things,” she said matter-of-factly, her gaze lingering on me with professional assessment. Her smile widened as she looked at Dominic. “You must be the proud papa?.”

Dominic’s grin radiated pride. “Yes, ma’am. That would be me.”

“Congratulations to you both.” Margie’s expression was genuinely warm. “Now, tell me about this baby. When are you due?”

“June.”

I glanced at Dominic, then back at Margie. “Mrs. Patterson… actually, the reason we’re here—we wanted to ask you about someone that may have been a patient of Dr. James’. Thomas Wong.”

Margie was quiet for a long moment, her fingers worrying at the edge of her blanket.

“Ah,” she finally said, her voice heavier. “So that’s why you’ve come. I wondered if anyone would, after they identified those remains.”

“You worked with Dr. James,” Dominic said gently. “You helped take care of Thomas?”

“I did.” Margie’s voice had lost its cheerful tone, turning heavy with memory. “That sweet boy.”

Margie reached for another chocolate, taking her time. “In spite of the social revolution, society still branded pregnant and unmarried omegas with a scarlet letter.”

“Did he tell you who the father was?” Dominic’s question was careful, neutral.

“No.” Margie shook her head firmly. “He never told me a name.” She paused. “In those last few weeks, he asked about having the baby somewhere else. I gave him pamphlets for omega support services in other cities.”