What Charles never imagined was that his daughter had been closer than he ever dreamed.
For the past eight years, a young woman named Anna Miller had worked quietly in the Whitman home.
She spoke little.
Wore the same plain gray uniform.
Arrived before sunrise and left after dark.
She cleaned, cooked, organized, and disappeared into the background. To everyone else, she was simply the help.
“Have Anna prepare the coffee.”
“Tell Anna to clean the study.”
“Anna, hurry.”
No one asked where she came from. No one wanted to know.
Anna had grown up in a small orphanage outside Temple, Texas, with no clear memory of her early childhood. Only fragments remained: the echo of rain, a woman’s gentle voice singing, a man lifting her when she was afraid.
And a small scar behind her left ear.
