Chapter 2 - The Man Who Feared a ChildNobody moved.
Dante seemed to realize what he had said only after the words escaped his mouth. He straightened his jacket, smoothed his expression, and looked at me with the weary patience of a man trying to explain an unfortunate misunderstanding.
"I meant the child in the photograph," he said. "The baby Elena lost."
I slowly placed the photograph on my desk.
"You knew about the photograph?"
His jaw tightened.
"I know what you told me four years ago. I was there when you received the news."
"No. You weren't in the hospital when my daughter died."
"I was there afterward."
"Funny. I don't remember seeing you."
A dangerous silence settled over the room.
Dante had been my father's favorite son in everything except blood. My father had praised his intelligence, his charm, and his ability to make enemies believe they were friends. I had inherited the business. Dante had inherited the gift of convincing people to hand him what he wanted.
For years, I had trusted him with my accounts, my soldiers, and my life.
I no longer knew which part of that sentence frightened me most.
He glanced toward Nora.
"Why is the housekeeper still here?"
"Because I haven't dismissed her."
"And the child?"
"She's a child. You may have forgotten what those are."
Caleb looked away, hiding a brief smile.
Dante ignored him.
"Gabriel, this entire situation is ridiculous. Some woman brings you an old photograph, and suddenly you're interrogating your own family."
"Then you won't mind answering a few questions."
"Of course not."
"Where were you on December twenty-third, four years ago?"
His expression barely changed.
"At the hospital, as I just said."
"Which hospital?"
"St. Catherine's."
"Which entrance did you use?"
The pause lasted less than a second.
I noticed it anyway.
"The main entrance, naturally."
"The maternity ward was closed for renovations. Visitors were directed through the west entrance."
Dante stared at me.
I had spent weeks at that hospital. I knew every corridor, every elevator, every miserable plastic chair in the intensive care unit.
My brother knew that, too.
He smiled faintly.
"You're upset. I understand that. But don't mistake my concern for guilt."
"I haven't decided what to mistake it for."
Maisie tugged at Nora's sleeve.
"Mommy, is that the bad man?"
Dante turned toward her.
"What did you say?"
The little girl immediately hid her face against her mother's coat.
Nora stood between them.
"She's tired. We need to leave."
Dante's eyes narrowed.
"You've been here three weeks, Mrs. Hayes, and already your daughter is wandering into rooms she doesn't belong in. Perhaps the household needs a more competent employee."
"That's enough," I said.
My brother looked at me sharply.
I rose from my desk.
"You will not threaten a woman or her child in my house."
"I'm not threatening anyone."
"Then stop looking at them as though you're deciding where to bury them."
For the first time in our lives, Dante had no immediate answer.
I turned to Caleb.
"Take Nora and Maisie to the east guest suite. Assign two women to look after them. No one enters without my permission."
Dante laughed once.
"You cannot possibly be serious."
"I have never been more serious."
When Caleb escorted them out, Maisie looked back at me.
"Don't let him take my mommy."
Something inside my chest twisted.
"I won't."
The door closed.
I watched Dante until he finally looked away.
"You've made a mistake," he said.
"Possibly."
"You have no evidence."
I picked up the brass key from the box and held it between two fingers.
"Then why are you afraid of it?"
His eyes dropped to the key.
It was a small movement.
A fraction of a second.
But it was enough.
Dante left without another word.
I waited until his footsteps disappeared before turning to Caleb.
"Find out everything about Nora Hayes."
"Already doing it."
"And Maisie?"
Caleb hesitated.
"Gabriel, there's something else."
He placed a thin folder on my desk.
Inside was Maisie's temporary employment file, including a copy of her birth certificate.
Her recorded birthday was December twenty-third.
Her listed place of birth was St. Catherine's Hospital.
And the attending physician named on the document was Dr. Victor Bell.
The same physician who had signed my daughter's death certificate.
Caleb looked at me.
"There's a problem with Dr. Bell."
"What problem?"
"He died six months ago."
I closed the folder.
"Then we'd better find out who killed him."
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Because if my daughter had survived, someone had spent four years making certain I never found out.
And that someone had just walked out of my study wearing my family's name.
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