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Years before DNA testing became popular.
“Our dad?”
Courtney shook her head. “We have different dads, and unfortunately, Mom never told me anything about yours. I’m sorry.”
Palmer studied each picture and tried to find a memory, something she had hidden away, but came up blank. “I don’t remember any of this,” she said quietly. “Except this one?” She held up a duplicate of the photo she carried with her. “I have a copy of this photo. For the longest time I’ve wondered if that was me and my mom, or if this was something someone just gave me to keep.”
“That’s Mama,” Courtney said. “And one of the last pictures of the two of you together.”
“Where were we?”
“A train station, I believe.” Courtney gave Palmer a moment before she asked, “I don’t remember if Mom told me where you were going or not. Sometimes she’d tell stories, but she wasn’t well, most of the time, and she’d mix the two of us up.”
Palmer nodded and continued sifting through the photos.
“Did your family treat you well?”
Kent squeezed Palmer’s leg as she stiffened. She looked up from the box and met her sister’s gaze. “I was never adopted.”
“What?” Courtney’s voice broke.
“I lived in an orphanage—well, they call them ‘halfway houses’ now—until I was twenty-one.”
Courtney looked stunned, angry, and confused. “I don’t understand.”
“It’s a long, complicated, and emotional story for another day,” Kent said, saving Palmer from having to tell her story when she was there to learn about where she came from.
“No, wait. I get that it’s probably hard to talk about, but why change your name to Palmer? And why ask me what your name was? If you hadn’t, Mom may have been able to find you.”
Palmer met her gaze. “The orphanage called me Faith Smith. All children who came in or were dropped off with no paperwork were named Faith, Hope, John, or Luke—names with biblical ties.”
Courtney shook her head as she processed everything. “Oh, God. I think I’m starting to figure things out,” she said. She opened the folder and handed Palmer her birth certificate. “Your name is, or was, Abigail Weaver. Our mother’s name is Donna Weaver. You were born in Dodge City, Kansas, but lived in a town called Hanston until you were two, and then Mama moved you back to Dodge City because she had to work.”
“Until she gave me up for adoption,” Palmer said as she looked at her sister. “Do you know why?”
“She didn’t, Palmer. Mom had me when you were about five, and my entire life, she looked for you, but she was looking for an Abigail. We’d move all the time, between Kansas, Missouri, Oklahoma, and Iowa, looking for you. Mom would sit at elementary schools and wait for recess to see if she could find you. She would volunteer at all my schools as the lunchroom lady, just so she could see all the kids around your age.”
“I don’t understand,” Palmer said.
“Neither do I, but for different reasons,” Courtney said. “When you were almost three, the babysitter kidnapped you. Mom hired her to watch you while she worked nights as a waitress. The sitter was a young girl, in high school. One night, Mama came home from work, and you were gone. She went to the girl’s house, at least the address she had given Mama, and it was a vacant lot. Mama went to the police, but they thought she’d done something to you, and they didn’t start looking for you until weeks later. Even then they only looked around the neighborhood where you lived at the time.”
The waitress came to their table with their food and drinks. “We condensed and added things to save plates for you,” she said. “And I’m going to leave this tray here for extra space.”
“Thanks,” Kent said as he helped arrange things. Palmer sat, stunned. Tears dripped down her cheeks. She did nothing to stop them. Someone had kidnapped her and left her at an orphanage, instead of keeping her as their own. They took her from her mom, from her home. Her mom had looked for her.
“Where do you live?” Courtney asked.
“We live in San Francisco,” Kent told her. He glanced at Palmer, who met his gaze briefly. Courtney’s revelations shocked her and left her speechless.
“Palmer’s lived there her entire life,” he said, speaking for Palmer.
Courtney’s mouth dropped open, and she shook her head. “No wonder she couldn’t find you. You were across the country with a different name.”
“What about the FBI?” Kent asked.
“When I was about ten, I remember a man coming to the door. He was dressed in a dark suit, and he made Mom very nervous. She invited him in and told me I had to go to my room, but I hid in the hallway to listen. It was after he started talking about you that I realized he was some sort of agent or police officer. He told her they didn’t have any updates, but they were still looking. He asked her if she’d remembered anything else from the day you were kidnapped, and she hadn’t.”
