He dropped to his knees so they were at eye level. His hand lifted toward her face, trembling — then stopped short.
“What’s your name?” he asked hoarsely.
“Eleanor. Eleanor Hayes.”
“And how old are you?”
“Ten. I’ll be eleven in February.” She hesitated. “Are you sure you’re okay? You’re crying.”
He wiped his eyes roughly. “Eleanor, I need to ask you something important. Do you live here with your parents?”
“With my grandma. My parents died when I was little. A car accident. I don’t remember them.”
“Wait.” He gently held her arm. “What is your grandmother’s full name?”
“Ruth Hayes. Why?”
His breath caught. “And your mother’s name?”
“Caroline. Caroline Hayes. She kept her maiden name.”
A sound escaped him — half laugh, half sob. With shaking hands, he pulled a leather wallet from his pocket and showed her a photo.
It was a young woman in her twenties, with brown hair and a beautiful smile.
And the same birthmark on the left side of her face.
Eleanor gasped. “She looks like me. Who is she?”
“Her name was Caroline. Caroline Hartley,” he said, his voice breaking. “She was my daughter.”