Chapter 16: Catherine

The Sullivan Foundation occupied the top floor of the Sullivan Building in downtown Portland—a 1920s Art Deco masterpiece that made Maya's architect's heart sing the moment she stepped through the lobby doors.

The building was all geometric elegance: chevron patterns in the marble floor, bronze elevator doors etched with stylized eagles, a ceiling painted in deep blues and golds. James Sullivan's family had built this. His grandfather had commissioned the design, had chosen the materials, had stamped the Sullivan name onto Portland's skyline in a statement of wealth and permanence that had outlasted three generations.

Maya rode the elevator to the fifteenth floor with her heart in her throat. She'd called ahead—spoken to a secretary who'd been pleasant but cautious, who'd only agreed to the meeting after Maya mentioned Margaret Sullivan-Hayes and James's name.

The foundation's offices were understated—polished wood, comfortable furniture, art that leaned toward Pacific Northwest landscapes. A receptionist led Maya to a corner office with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the Willamette River.

Catherine Sullivan-Reed was waiting.

She was in her sixties, with silver hair cut in a precise bob and eyes the same vivid blue as Margaret's—the Sullivan blue, apparently, passed down through generations. She wore a tailored suit in charcoal gray, and her handshake was firm without being theatrical.

"Ms. Chen. Please, sit." Catherine gestured to a chair across from her desk. "When my assistant told me that a woman claiming to be James Sullivan's granddaughter wanted a meeting, I assumed it was a crank call. Then I called Aunt Margaret."

"You spoke to Margaret?"

"For two hours. She told me everything—the letters, the marriage certificate, the investigation." Catherine leaned back in her chair, studying Maya with the analytical gaze of someone who made careful assessments for a living. "I've spent forty years with this family's history. I thought I knew all our secrets. Apparently, I was wrong."

"I understand this is a lot to process."

"That's an understatement." Catherine's voice was dry but not hostile. "My grandfather—John Sullivan, James's younger brother—always said James died a hero in the war. That was the family story. James was the golden boy who sacrificed everything for his country, whose memory we honored with the foundation and the scholarships and the annual ceremony at the veterans' memorial." She paused. "No one mentioned a secret marriage. No one mentioned a child."

"Your grandfather might not have known."

"That's what Margaret said. She claims she was the only one James confided in. That their father—my great-grandfather—would have disowned James completely if he'd known about Rose." Catherine's jaw tightened. "My great-grandfather was not a kind man, Ms. Chen. The family mythology paints him as a titan of industry, but the reality was... less flattering."

"He was a racist."

Catherine didn't flinch. "He was a product of his time, amplified by wealth and power. He believed Irish-Catholic families like ours were superior to—well, to everyone else. A marriage between James and a Japanese woman would have been, in his view, the worst possible betrayal." She exhaled slowly. "So yes. James had every reason to keep the marriage secret."

Maya let the silence settle. The river glittered below, boats moving slowly.

"I'm not here for money," Maya said. "I want to be clear about that. I don't care about inheritance or family claims or any of that."

"Then what do you want?"

"I want to know what happened to James. I want the classified file on Operation Shepherd declassified. And I want to understand why a man who was apparently alive at the end of World War II never came home to the woman who loved him."

Catherine was silent for a long moment. When she spoke, her voice had lost its defensive edge.

"I've wondered about that my whole life. The official story never made sense to me. MIA-presumed dead, no body recovered, no details about the mission or the circumstances. For a family as prominent as the Sullivans, you'd think the military would have provided more closure." She stood and walked to the window. "When I was twenty-five, I tried to get the file through FOIA. The request was denied on national security grounds. I tried again at thirty-five, and forty-five. Always denied."

"Dr. Martin Engel at the National Archives believes the file is in the declassification review queue. He thinks it can be expedited with formal requests from family members."

Catherine turned. "Engel. I know that name. He's the one who's been pushing for comprehensive declassification of OSS and early CIA records."

"He's willing to help."

"And you want my help too."

"You're a lawyer. You know how these bureaucracies work. And you have standing—you're James's grandniece, a direct descendant. Your support would carry weight."

Catherine returned to her desk but didn't sit. She stood with her hands flat on the surface, looking down at Maya.

"If we do this—if we pursue declassification—the truth might not be what any of us want to hear. James might have collaborated with the enemy. He might have been a traitor. He might have abandoned Rose deliberately."

"He might have," Maya agreed. "But I don't think so. I've read his letters. I've seen how he wrote about Rose. That wasn't a man who would abandon her willingly."

"Love letters are easy to fake."

"Maybe. But the letters Rose wrote to him—the ones she never sent—they're not fake. She loved him until the day she died. She spent sixty years looking for answers. I don't believe she was wrong about him."

Catherine was silent. Maya could see the conflict playing out behind those Sullivan-blue eyes—the instinct to protect the family reputation against the desire to know the truth.

"My grandfather never talked about James," Catherine said finally. "Not once, in my entire childhood. I used to think it was grief—the wound too deep to touch. Now I wonder if it was something else. Shame, maybe. Or guilt."

"Guilt for what?"

"I don't know. But there are family papers—correspondence, business records, personal journals—in the foundation's archive. I've never had them fully catalogued. After this conversation, I think I should." She met Maya's eyes. "If there's anything in those papers that sheds light on James's story, I'll share it with you."

"And the declassification request?"

"I'll file the paperwork myself. As you said, I have standing. And I have resources the average citizen doesn't. If the intelligence community wants to fight, they'll find the Sullivans are not easily intimidated."

Maya felt the tension in her shoulders ease slightly. She'd come here prepared for rejection—for the kind of defensive hostility that old money families deployed when their narratives were challenged. Instead, she'd found an ally.

"Thank you, Catherine."

"Don't thank me yet. This is going to be a long fight." Catherine extended her hand. "But for what it's worth—welcome to the family, Ms. Chen. Or should I say, cousin."

Maya shook her hand. "Maya is fine."

"Maya, then. I'll be in touch."

---

Maya walked out of the Sullivan Building into a Portland afternoon. The investigation was gaining momentum—Margaret, Dr. Engel, Catherine—each contact opening new doors, new possibilities.

She found Eli waiting at a coffee shop two blocks away, Hemingway's leash tied to an outdoor table. He'd insisted on driving her to Portland again, had dropped her at the building and said he'd wait as long as it took.

"How did it go?" he asked as she sat down.

"Better than expected. She's going to help."

"Just like that?"

"Not just like that. But she wants the truth as much as I do. Maybe more—she's been living with the official story her whole life, and I think part of her always knew it was incomplete."

Eli slid a coffee across the table—her order, memorized years ago and apparently never forgotten. "So what's next?"

"We wait. Catherine's going to file the declassification request and search the family archives. Dr. Engel is working the bureaucratic channels. Margaret is writing a formal statement as the last surviving person who knew James personally." Maya wrapped her hands around the warm cup. "And I go back to Willow Creek and try to restore a Victorian house while juggling a career three hundred miles away."

"That sounds manageable."

"That sounds insane."

"All the best things are." Eli's smile was soft, private—the smile he'd given her when they were seventeen and everything felt possible. "Ready to go home?"

Home. The word settled into Maya's chest.

"Yeah," she said. "Let's go home."

They walked to the truck, Hemingway leading the way with the confident joy of a dog who believed every walk was an adventure. Maya looked back once at the Sullivan Building, at the Art Deco eagle above the door.

James Sullivan had grown up in the shadow of that eagle. He'd carried the Sullivan name and the Sullivan expectations and the Sullivan blue eyes. And then he'd fallen in love with a woman his family would never accept, and he'd chosen her over everything—over safety, over inheritance, over his own survival.

Maya didn't know if that made him a hero or a fool. Maybe it made him both. Maybe the two weren't as different as people pretended.

She climbed into the truck and watched Oregon scroll past the window—the mountains Rose had never stopped loving, the forests that had sheltered a secret marriage, the highway that led back to a small town where a woman had built a garden that was actually a wish.

The investigation was far from over. But for the first time since she'd returned to Willow Creek, Maya felt like she was moving forward.