My mother called my six-year-old daughter “a burden” at Christmas dinner, so I took her presents and walked out—but by New Year’s, Grandma was begging for a second chance. / Chapter 83 / 191

Chapter 83 - Under Canadian Guard

The regional detachment in Saint-Bernard-de-Lacolle was stark, functional, and intensely warm compared to the frozen wasteland of the border. Radiators hissed along the baseboards, filling the room with the dry scent of heated dust and wet wool.

Lily sat on an oversized vinyl sofa in the corner of the interview office, clutching a foam cup of hot chocolate with both hands. Her cheeks were flushed pink from the rapid thaw, her dark eyelashes still wet from crying, but her breathing had steadied. A young female constable named Bouchard had brought her colored markers and a pad of official intake forms to draw on, and Lily was quietly coloring a large, golden sun over a blue square that looked remarkably like our old apartment.

"She’s in shock, Madame Vance, but physically intact," Constable Tremblay said, lowering his voice as he pulled out a chair across from me. He was a broad-shouldered man with tired eyes and a heavy notebook. "No frostbite. Just mild hypothermia. The paramedics cleared her ten minutes ago."

"And the man on the ice?" I asked, my voice raw.

"Julian Hoffman is currently under armed guard at the hospital in Saint-Jean-sur-Richelieu," Tremblay replied, setting a clear plastic evidence bag onto the desk between us. "Broken femur, severe hypothermia, two fractured ribs. But he will survive to answer for kidnapping, cross-border firearms violations, and human trafficking. The FBI has already put in an extradition hold."

I stared down at the clear bag on the desk. Inside lay Hoffman’s personal effects: a water-damaged leather wallet, a titanium smartphone with a cracked screen, and an ancient, brass safety-deposit key marked with a worn serial number: *SL-7702*.

Beside the key lay a laminated Canadian driver's license, warped by moisture but perfectly legible under the stark fluorescent lights.

The photograph showed a woman with high cheekbones, dark, sorrowful eyes, and a faint scar curving along her jawline. It was a face I had seen only in faded silver frames on Eleanor’s mantle—frames that were always turned slightly toward the wall.

The name on the card read: *Claire Vance-Morin. Issued: September 1999. Address: Rue Sherbrooke, Montreal.*

My hand shook as I touched the surface of the bag. "This wasn't a forgery."

"Our database verified the identity within twenty minutes," Tremblay said, his tone softening. "The license expired in 2004. According to our civil registry, the woman holding that identity lived quietly in a residential district of Montreal for nearly five years before the paper trail went completely cold. Madame Vance... your sister did not die in the Hudson River in 1985."

I looked across the room at Lily. She looked up from her drawing, offering me a shy, tentative smile.

"Mommy?" she asked, her small voice cutting through the hum of the radiators. "Are we going home now? Grandma’s house smelled bad. I want to go to our real bed."

"Soon, baby," I whispered, swallowing the lump of ash in my throat. "Very soon."

Before Tremblay could ask his next question, the landline on his desk began to ring, shrill and persistent. The red light of the priority line blinked three times.

Tremblay picked up the receiver, listened for ten seconds, and his expression hardened. He shifted his gaze toward me, sliding the receiver across the wooden surface.

"It’s the New York State Police liaison," he murmured. "They are patching through a direct caller from the Vance estate in Saratoga Springs. She has been calling every station along the border for the last hour."