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We all make decisions we regret. I cannot say that I regret meeting your father, because that is how I got both of you. But I do regret not taking you in the night and running away, although I know I would never have been able to run far. But I should have tried.

I can only excuse my lack of action as fear—fear that if I ran, I would be killed and you would have been left only to your father.

Or fear that your father would have killed you as he would have me.

I thought I could help to protect you. Could make things better.

Could convince him that God is merciful.

I can only think that if I had taken you away, things would have been different. That your father’s harshness would not have driven you into sin as it did.

When you left, your father declared you dead. Refused to even try to find you. I know some social workers tried to find us. But by then, you were dead to the Community, and no one would acknowledge your existence.

So then he sought to replace you.

For thirteen years, you had a sister. Her name was Rachael.

And then she fell ill, as Eleanor had, and did not survive. Perhaps she would have, if she’d had a brother or another sister to protect her.

In your father’s eyes, I failed him. My children were unworthy of the Community and of Divine Transformation. I am unworthy as a wife and mother.

I cannot argue this, as I failed to protect you, my children. For that, I am sorry.

I love you.

Momma.

It should have made me feel more than it did, reading that letter. Finding out that my mother had loved me, in some sense, anyway. Even if she did think that I’d fallen into sin. But at least she regretted… Something.

Did she regret that Noah and I had run? Or that Noah had fallen ill, and that was a sign of our unworthiness? Did she regret sending us to conversion camp, or that she’d felt we had to be sent? Did she regret joining the Community, or only that they’d been as harsh with us as they had?

If she had managed to reconnect with Noah, as seemed likely from his fingerprints having been in the house, what had she said? Did she accept Noah as Noah? Would she have accepted me? And Elliot?

I very much doubted it.

Not that I would ever know now.

“What does this mean?” I asked Humbolt, handing him the letter.

He scanned it. “I understand the bequests,” he answered. “Assuming you can identify the items in question.”

I nodded. Momma had only had the two pieces of jewelry other than her wedding ring and a single silver Transformation cross she wore around her neck.

The table linens were in a sideboard drawer, and the crocheted bedspread was probably still on my parents’ shared bed.

And the tool box and every single tool were all marked with my grandfather’s initials: JDL, for Jonah David Lee.

Yeah, that Lee family, although not a direct line to that particular Lee. It’s Virginia. There are Lees everywhere, and most of us are distantly related in some way or other, not that I wanted to claim that particular family connection any more than the one my mother had married into.

Momma had grown up in Shenandoah on a small family farm. How she’d met my father, I didn’t know, but once she had, she’d left home. I’d never met either of my maternal grandparents, although I had a vague memory of when my grandfather died and Momma had left for three days to go to the funeral.

Noah and I had been little—five, maybe six. And when she’d come back, she’d had my grandfather’s tool box. She kept it in the barn so that she could use it to do things like repair the wire for the chicken coop or the fences or pens for the goats.

The animals had always been Momma’s purview.

“What about the animals?” I asked Humbolt.

He sighed, the fabric of his mask puffing out a little. “Until the police can determine what happened to your father, that’s hard to say,” he replied. “If he’s alive, all that reverts to him, of course.”

“And if he isn’t?”

“Then we’d have to see about a will,” Humbolt answered. “If one cannot be found, then I suppose it all goes to you and your… twin.”

I noticed the pause, but at least he hadn’t said sister .

I nodded. I couldn’t imagine Noah wanting goats or chickens. I didn’t know that I wanted goats or chickens, either, but I hadn’t really given it much thought. Elliot joked sometimes about keeping goats so he wouldn’t have to cut the lawn, but I didn’t know how serious he’d been.

It was all moot until they found my father, anyway.

“And if nobody finds him?” I asked.

“The standard length of time before you can have someone declared legally dead is seven years,” Humbolt answered.

“I don’t think the goats can wait that long,” I pointed out.

“There are provisions for such things,” Humbolt replied. “You can take custody of the animals until death can be determined or the animals—or their value—be restored to your father.”

I nodded. At least the animals wouldn’t die, although I did wonder who was taking care of them now. I was about to ask when Humbolt spoke again.

“You should speak to the police,” he said, gently.

I nodded again. “I meant to ask you about that,” I replied, forgetting the goats for the time being. “I didn’t want to get mired up in… interviews before this, though.”

“I’m happy to serve as your legal representative, should you feel the need,” he offered. “Although I am not very experienced with criminal law as an estate attorney. But I’m happy to provide what advice I can, and make a recommendation should you need more… experience.”

“Thanks.” I sighed. “Should I show this to them?” I asked, lifting the letter.

“Probably,” he replied. “Although I’m happy to make a copy for your personal records—and my legal files—first, if you wish.”

“Yeah,” I agreed, handing it to him. “That’s probably a good idea.”