Chapter 5 - The Daughter Who Never DiedI didn't remember leaving the cellar.
I remembered the key in my hand, the stale smell of the basement, and Enzo saying my name several times before I finally looked at him.
“Boss, we have to move.”
“Why?”
“Because someone is watching the building.”
He showed me a message from one of our security cameras across the street. A gray sedan had parked opposite the entrance ten minutes earlier. A man inside had photographed our Bentley twice.
I slipped the hospital record into my coat.
“Find out who he is.”
Enzo nodded.
We left through the adjoining building and crossed the alley to a second vehicle.
As the city passed beyond the windows, my mind remained trapped in the cellar.
Lucia.
My little sister.
I'd been told she was born too early and died within minutes. My mother had cried for weeks. My father had forbidden us from mentioning the baby again.
I remembered the small white dress folded in a drawer.
I remembered my mother sitting beside the empty crib, staring into the darkness.
I remembered asking whether my sister was in heaven.
She'd hugged me and said yes.
If Lucia hadn't died, then my mother had been forced to grieve a living child.
And Salvatore had been part of it.
I wanted to tear the city apart.
Instead, I called the one person who might know the truth.
Doctor Samuel Whitmore had delivered me, my sister, and several generations of Boston's most influential families. He had retired twelve years earlier, moving to a quiet coastal town north of the city.
He answered on the fourth ring.
“Lorenzo?”
“Doctor, I need to ask you about a birth record from 1997.”
Silence.
“What record?”
“Lucia Moretti.”
I heard him inhale sharply.
“Where did you find that name?”
“Answer the question.”
“Lorenzo, that child died.”
“Then why did Salvatore sign a transfer record authorizing her release from the hospital?”
The old doctor said nothing.
I felt my grip tighten around the phone.
“Doctor, I know what my mother wrote in her letter. I know about the ledger. I'm asking you to help me understand why my sister's death certificate may be a lie.”
“I can't discuss medical records over the telephone.”
“Then give me an address.”
“Come alone.”
The call ended.
I looked at Enzo.
“Find out whether the doctor is still living at his old house.”
He nodded.
“And Enzo?”
“Yes, Boss?”
“Don't tell Salvatore.”
For the first time in twelve years, Enzo hesitated before answering me.
Only a fraction of a second.
But I'd spent my adult life learning to notice fractions.
“Of course,” he said.
We reached the lakeside property just after noon.
Elena met us at the door, holding a mug of coffee. She looked as though she hadn't slept.
“Is everything all right?”
“No.”
I gave her the ledger.
“Do you recognize this?”
She opened it and scanned the first page.
Her face tightened.
“This is Isabella's handwriting. She used to write comments beside every suspicious transfer. But some of these notes aren't hers.”
“Can you tell who wrote them?”
She pointed to a string of numbers in the margin.
“Your mother always wrote her sevens with a line through them. This person doesn't.”
“Can you identify the account numbers?”
“I'd need time.”
“You have it.”
She looked up at me.
“Lorenzo, what happened at the restaurant?”
I hesitated.
“My sister may still be alive.”
The mug slipped from her hand.
It struck the floor and shattered.
Nora came running from the living room.
“Mommy?”
Elena crouched to gather the pieces, but her hands were shaking too badly.
I helped her.
Then I told her everything.
When I finished, she sat motionless at the kitchen table.
“Isabella never spoke about a daughter,” she whispered. “But she kept a photograph of a baby in her desk. She called her the little star.”
“Why didn't you tell me?”
“Because I thought it was a niece. Your mother never explained.”
I looked at Nora, who was coloring a picture at the other end of the room.
Something about the baby photograph returned to me.
A white blanket.
A silver star pendant.
My mother had worn that pendant during her final year. I'd assumed it was an ordinary piece of jewelry, something she'd bought because it reminded her of my father.
But the photograph had shown the same star pinned to the baby's blanket.
“Where did my mother keep the photograph?”
“In her office. Behind a framed picture of your father.”
I closed my eyes.
I had searched the office after her death.
Someone had removed the photograph before I arrived.
That evening, I drove to the coastal town alone.
Doctor Whitmore's house stood on a quiet road overlooking the Atlantic. The sky had turned purple, and waves struck the rocks beneath the cliffs.
The doctor opened the door before I knocked.
He was eighty-one, thin, and stooped, with a face that looked carved from old parchment.
“You shouldn't have come,” he said.
“Then you shouldn't have answered.”
He stepped aside.
The house smelled of antiseptic and old books. Medical journals lined the shelves. A framed photograph of his late wife stood on the mantelpiece.
He led me to a small study and locked the door.
“Your mother gave birth to two children,” he said.
“I know that.”
“No, you don't. She gave birth to twins.”
The word struck harder than I expected.
“Twins?”
“A boy and a girl. You survived without complications. Lucia needed additional care.”
“What happened?”
“Three days after the birth, Salvatore arrived with documents signed by your father. He claimed the family had arranged for the girl to be transferred to a specialist facility.”
“Was that true?”
“No.”
“Where did he take her?”
“I don't know.”
“You delivered her. You must have had records.”
“I did. Every record was altered or removed within a week.”
I leaned forward.
“Why didn't you tell my mother?”
“I did. She tried to find the child. By the time she traced the paperwork to a private clinic in New Hampshire, the clinic had closed.”
“Did she find Lucia?”
The doctor looked toward the window.
“I believe she did.”
My heart pounded.
“When?”
“Four years ago, shortly before your mother's death.”
He opened a locked drawer and removed a photograph.
A young woman stood beside a hospital bed, holding the hand of an elderly patient. She had dark hair, pale skin, and my mother's eyes.
She appeared to be in her late twenties.
On her wrist was a silver bracelet shaped like a star.
I stared at the photograph.
“Where was this taken?”
“Saint Agnes Medical Center. Your mother visited the woman after she survived a serious accident.”
“Who is the woman?”
“I never learned her name.”
“Why do you have this photograph?”
“Because your mother asked me to preserve it. She said that if anything happened to her, I should give it to you when you were ready to search for the truth.”
He slid the photograph across the desk.
On the back was an address.
A small private clinic in Revere.
The same clinic Salvatore had mentioned.
I rose.
“Thank you, Doctor.”
He gripped my wrist.
“Lorenzo, there's one more thing.”
I looked down at him.
“Your mother didn't die in the car crash.”
I stopped breathing.
“What did you say?”
“The woman in that car was wearing Isabella's ring. She had Isabella's fingerprints on file, but she wasn't Isabella.”
He released my wrist.
“The body was identified through dental records that didn't belong to your mother.”
I stared at him.
“You're telling me someone else died in her place?”
“Yes.”
“Then where is my mother?”
He looked at the photograph of the young woman.
“That's the question your mother was trying to answer when she disappeared.”
My phone vibrated.
A message from Enzo.
A photograph appeared on the screen.
It showed Salvatore standing in the driveway of the lakeside property.
Beside him was Elena.
And a second message followed.
BOSS, ELENA HAS BEEN TAKEN. NORA IS STILL HERE.
I looked at Doctor Whitmore.
May you like
“Lock your doors.”
Then I ran.
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