Chapter 2 - The Child in the Photograph
Vincent stared at the image on his phone until the screen dimmed.
His penthouse door.
His hallway.
His home.
And someone was inside.
Claire stood beside him on the twenty-ninth floor, still holding the old photograph of Teresa Morelli and the infant.
“Vincent.”
He tapped the screen awake.
The photograph had arrived less than a minute ago.
No visible face.
Just a figure partly concealed by shadow beyond the open penthouse door, one hand holding another photograph.
Claire whispered, “Call the police.”
“No.”
She looked at him sharply.
“Someone broke into your home.”
“I understand what happened.”
“Then why are you acting like this is an inconvenience?”
“Because whoever is inside wants a reaction.”
“They already have one.”
Vincent looked at her.
“Do they?”
That stopped her.
He dialed Marco.
His driver answered immediately.
“Boss?”
“Where are you?”
“Garage.”
“Stay there.”
“You coming down?”
“No. Call building security. Quietly. Nobody goes to my floor.”
Marco hesitated.
“You want me upstairs?”
“I want you exactly where you are.”
Vincent ended the call.
Claire crossed her arms.
“You’re going to your penthouse.”
“Yes.”
“That is an objectively terrible idea.”
“I’ve had worse.”
“That doesn't improve this one.”
Vincent looked at the open elevator.
“Go downstairs.”
“No.”
“Claire.”
“No.”
His eyes hardened.
Hers did too.
Vincent had spent most of his adult life around people who understood when an instruction was not a suggestion.
Claire Bennett had apparently missed that lesson.
“You may be in danger because of me.”
“I was already in danger when someone came to my construction site asking for that box.”
“That’s different.”
“How?”
“Now I know about it.”
“So do I.”
“That’s precisely the problem.”
She stepped closer.
“Then stop deciding what happens to me.”
Vincent stared at her for a long second.
Then he pressed the button for the lobby.
“Go down.”
Claire pressed the button for the penthouse.
The doors closed.
Vincent looked at the illuminated button.
Then at her.
She gave him a tight smile.
“You can fire me tomorrow.”
“I’m considering tonight.”
The elevator rose.
Claire tucked the photograph into her clutch.
“What did the sentence on the back say?”
Vincent’s jaw tightened.
She already knew.
But apparently she wanted to hear him say it.
He did.
“‘You promised you would protect her.’”
Claire nodded.
“And you don't remember making that promise?”
“No.”
“You don't remember the baby?”
“No.”
“You don't remember being photographed with your mother and that child?”
“No.”
The elevator passed forty.
Claire watched the numbers.
“Could the photograph have been altered?”
Vincent considered it.
“Possibly.”
“But you recognized yourself.”
“Yes.”
“The clothes?”
“Yes.”
“The place?”
“Yes.”
“Where was it?”
“St. Catherine’s Hospital.”
Claire turned.
“You recognized the hospital?”
“My brother died there.”
Her expression softened.
“I’m sorry.”
“It was a long time ago.”
Vincent hated the sentence the moment he said it.
People said that when they wanted time to mean healing.
Sometimes time merely taught pain how to sit quietly.
Anthony Morelli had been twenty-four when he died.
Vincent had been thirty.
The official story was simple.
Anthony had crashed his car after drinking.
Vincent had identified his body.
His mother had never been the same afterward.
But Anthony died in 1996.
The photograph had been dated 1994.
Two years earlier.
Claire seemed to follow part of his thinking.
“What happened at St. Catherine’s in 1994?”
“I don’t know.”
“You were there.”
“Apparently.”
“With your mother.”
“Yes.”
“And a baby.”
“Yes.”
“And your mother later hid evidence of that day inside a wall.”
Vincent turned toward her.
“Claire.”
“What?”
“You’re saying everything I already know.”
“I’m making sure you hear how insane it sounds.”
“I heard it the first time.”
The elevator chimed.
Penthouse.
Vincent moved before the doors fully opened.
He put Claire behind him.
The corridor was empty.
His penthouse door stood closed.
That was wrong.
The photograph showed it open.
Vincent approached without making a sound.
He examined the lock.
No damage.
Claire whispered, “Maybe they left.”
“Maybe.”
Vincent took out his key.
Claire caught his sleeve.
“What if they didn’t?”
He looked at her hand.
She let go.
He unlocked the door.
The apartment was dark.
Vincent never left it dark.
A lamp remained on in the foyer whenever he went out.
He stepped inside.
Claire stayed close.
Nothing moved.
The city glowed through enormous windows.
Vincent reached for the wall switch.
“Don’t,” Claire whispered.
He stopped.
“Why?”
“If they’re still here, they know the layout better in the dark than we do right now.”
Vincent glanced at her.
“That was unexpectedly sensible.”
“Thank you, I think.”
They moved deeper.
Vincent noticed the first disturbance near the living room.
A drawer open.
Not searched.
Simply open.
Then another.
A cabinet.
A desk drawer.
A sideboard.
Someone had gone through specific places.
Not stealing.
Looking.
Vincent walked toward his office.
The door was open.
His safe stood behind a framed painting.
Closed.
He checked it.
Untouched.
Claire exhaled.
“So they weren't after money.”
“Most people aren't when they come after me.”
“That sentence is not reassuring.”
“It wasn't intended to be.”
On Vincent’s desk sat a photograph.
He stopped.
Claire nearly walked into him.
“That’s the one?”
“No.”
The photograph from the message had shown a baby.
This was different.
Vincent picked it up.
A family photograph.
His father, Salvatore.
His mother, Teresa.
Vincent at twenty-nine.
Anthony at twenty-three.
Taken at Christmas.
Vincent remembered that night.
His father had been furious because Anthony arrived two hours late.
His mother had cooked too much food.
Anthony had secretly poured half a bottle of expensive bourbon into the eggnog.
Vincent had laughed until his father noticed.
Six months later, Anthony was dead.
Vincent turned the photograph over.
Three words.
ASK ABOUT ANTHONY.
Claire read them over his shoulder.
“Your brother?”
“Yes.”
“What does he have to do with the baby?”
“I don’t know.”
A floorboard creaked.
Claire froze.
Vincent turned.
Nothing.
Then another sound.
From the bedroom hallway.
Vincent motioned for Claire to remain behind him.
She ignored the instruction by approximately two feet.
They moved down the hall.
Guest room.
Empty.
Library.
Empty.
Vincent reached his bedroom.
The door was partly open.
He pushed it.
No one.
But the room had been searched.
Closet doors open.
Nightstand drawer pulled out.
Mattress shifted.
Then Vincent saw the wooden box on his bed.
He knew it immediately.
His mother’s jewelry box.
It should have been in storage.
Vincent had not opened it since Teresa died.
He walked toward it.
“Was that here before?” Claire asked.
“No.”
“Then maybe don't touch it.”
Vincent lifted the lid.
Inside were Teresa’s rosary.
Her wedding ring.
A silver necklace.
And a cassette tape.
Claire stared.
“Please tell me you still own something that plays that.”
“I own restaurants. Somewhere, I own everything.”
Beneath the cassette was a folded note.
Vincent opened it.
The paper was newer than the envelope downstairs.
His mother’s handwriting again.
Vincent—
If you are reading this, then I failed to keep my promise.
His chest tightened.
Claire remained silent.
He continued.
There are things your father did that I spent years trying to undo. There are things Anthony knew that you did not. I told myself keeping you ignorant would keep you safe.
It didn't.
Vincent stopped.
Claire whispered, “Keep reading.”
His eyes moved downward.
If something happens to Anthony, do not believe the first story you are told.
Vincent's hand tightened around the page.
The room seemed to shrink.
His brother's death had been ruled accidental.
Anthony had been drinking.
The police report had been clear.
His father had arranged the funeral before Vincent could think straight.
Teresa had barely spoken for weeks.
Vincent remembered asking her whether Anthony had seemed troubled.
She had looked at him strangely.
Then she had said:
Your brother was trying to do the right thing.
At the time, Vincent thought she meant Anthony was trying to stop drinking.
Now he wasn't sure.
Claire touched his arm.
“There’s more.”
Vincent looked down.
Find Evelyn.
She knows where the child went.
Do not trust Daniel.
And Vincent—
The final line had been scratched out.
Repeatedly.
So violently that the pen had torn through the paper.
Vincent held it toward the light.
There were impressions beneath the ink.
Claire leaned closer.
“Can you make it out?”
“No.”
She took out her phone.
“What are you doing?”
“Restoration trick.”
She turned on the flashlight and held it almost parallel to the page.
The indentations cast tiny shadows.
Vincent tilted the paper.
Letters emerged.
Not clearly.
But enough.
Claire read slowly.
“Anthony... was...”
She stopped.
Vincent's heart struck hard.
“Was what?”
“I can’t see the last word.”
They changed the angle.
Nothing.
Claire photographed it.
“I can enhance the image later.”
Vincent folded the note.
“We do it now.”
A noise came from the foyer.
Both turned.
The front door.
Vincent heard it close.
Someone had been inside.
Or had just entered.
He moved toward the hallway.
Claire grabbed his arm again.
This time he didn't tell her to release him.
They listened.
Footsteps.
Slow.
Vincent pushed Claire into the bedroom and quietly closed the door.
“What are you doing?” she whispered.
“Stay here.”
“Absolutely not.”
“Claire.”
“If someone kills you, I’m going to be extremely annoyed.”
Vincent looked at her.
“That may be the strangest expression of concern I've ever received.”
“Get used to it.”
The footsteps stopped.
Vincent opened the bedroom door.
He moved into the hallway.
Silence.
Then his phone rang.
The sound seemed deafening.
Unknown number.
Vincent answered.
“Who is this?”
A man's voice.
Old.
Rough.
“You should have listened.”
Vincent glanced toward the foyer.
“Are you in my home?”
A quiet laugh.
“No.”
“Then you have ten seconds to tell me why I shouldn't hang up.”
“Because Teresa asked me to protect you.”
Vincent stopped.
“Who are you?”
“You don't remember me.”
“That isn't an answer.”
“No. It isn't.”
Vincent heard something in the background of the call.
A train.
Then bells.
He knew those bells.
A church near Taylor Street.
The man was somewhere in Little Italy.
“You sent the photographs.”
“Yes.”
“You broke into my apartment.”
“No.”
Vincent looked toward the jewelry box.
“Someone did.”
“Yes.”
“Who?”
“The people who have spent thirty years making sure you never find out what your father did.”
Vincent's voice dropped.
“My father is dead.”
“That doesn't mean his secrets are.”
“Who was the child?”
Silence.
“Answer me.”
“I can't.”
“You can.”
“No, Vincent. Not over the phone.”
Vincent walked into his office.
Claire followed.
“Where?”
The man gave him an address.
Vincent recognized it.
An old social club that had been closed for almost twenty years.
“Midnight.”
“Why?”
“Because I have something Anthony left for you.”
Vincent looked at the clock.
11:18.
“What?”
“The truth.”
The line went dead.
Claire had heard enough.
“You’re not going.”
“Yes, I am.”
“Obviously. Why did I even bother?”
Vincent pocketed his phone.
Then Claire's rang.
She looked at the screen.
Unknown number.
Vincent held out his hand.
“Give it to me.”
“No.”
“Claire.”
She answered.
“Hello?”
Nothing.
Her expression changed.
“What?”
Vincent stepped closer.
Claire listened.
Her face drained of color.
Then the call ended.
“What did they say?”
She didn't answer.
“Claire.”
She lowered the phone.
“They knew my name.”
“That isn't difficult.”
“They knew my mother's name.”
Vincent became very still.
“What did they say?”
Claire looked at him.
“They said I should ask my mother why she changed our last name.”
Vincent frowned.
“What was it before Bennett?”
Claire shook her head.
“I don't know.”
“You never asked?”
“She said Bennett was my father's name.”
“Was?”
“He died before I was born.”
Vincent stared at her.
Something uncomfortable moved through his thoughts.
“How old are you?”
“You know how old I am.”
“Tell me.”
“Thirty-nine.”
“When's your birthday?”
Claire looked confused.
“October eighteenth.”
Vincent stopped breathing for a second.
The baby in the photograph had been born October 16, 1994.
Two days apart.
But Claire was thirty-nine.
The dates did not fit.
Unless something else didn't fit.
“Claire, what year were you born?”
“1987.”
Vincent looked at her.
“You're certain?”
“Of course I'm certain.”
“Birth certificate?”
“Yes.”
“Have you seen the original?”
Her confidence faltered.
“My mother has it.”
“Have you seen it?”
“I've seen copies.”
“Original.”
“No.”
Vincent walked back to the photographs.
He picked up the image of Evelyn Hart.
Claire stood beside him.
“Don't.”
“Don't what?”
“Start looking at me like I'm part of this.”
“I’m looking at facts.”
“You're looking at me.”
“Because you're standing in front of me.”
She folded her arms.
“That's a very convenient defense.”
Vincent turned the photograph toward her.
“Do you recognize Evelyn?”
“No.”
“Look carefully.”
“I am.”
Claire took the photograph.
For several seconds, nothing happened.
Then she frowned.
“What?”
Claire brought the picture closer.
“The necklace.”
Vincent looked.
Evelyn wore a small gold pendant.
Oval.
A tiny engraved flower at its center.
Claire touched her throat instinctively.
She wasn't wearing a necklace tonight.
“Claire?”
“My mother has one exactly like that.”
Silence.
Vincent felt the pieces shifting again.
“Exactly?”
“I think so.”
“Think?”
“I've seen her wear it my whole life.”
“Call her.”
Claire already was.
The phone rang.
Once.
Twice.
Voicemail.
She tried again.
Nothing.
“Where does she live?”
“Evanston.”
“Alone?”
“Yes.”
Vincent called Marco.
“Bring the car upstairs.”
“Boss, security found something.”
“What?”
“Camera footage.”
Vincent looked toward Claire.
“Of the person who entered my penthouse?”
“Yes.”
“Who?”
Marco hesitated.
“That's the problem.”
“What problem?”
“The cameras show nobody entering.”
Vincent's eyes narrowed.
“Then someone was already here.”
“That's what security thinks.”
“How long?”
“They're checking.”
Vincent ended the call.
Claire was staring toward the bedroom hallway.
“What?”
“The jewelry box.”
“What about it?”
“You said it was in storage.”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
Vincent understood.
A private storage room inside the building.
Only three people had access.
Vincent.
Marco.
And his longtime housekeeper, Rosa.
Rosa had worked for Teresa Morelli before working for Vincent.
Thirty-four years.
Vincent called her.
No answer.
He called again.
Nothing.
Then a text arrived from Rosa's number.
I'M SORRY.
Another followed.
YOUR MOTHER MADE ME PROMISE.
Vincent typed immediately.
WHERE ARE YOU?
No response.
Then:
DON'T GO TO THE CLUB.
Vincent stared.
Claire moved beside him.
“She's involved.”
“She knows something.”
“There's a difference?”
“Yes.”
Vincent's phone rang again.
Rosa.
He answered instantly.
“Rosa.”
He heard crying.
“Mr. Vincent.”
“Where are you?”
“You need to forgive me.”
“For what?”
“I thought it was over.”
“What was over?”
“Your father made everyone afraid.”
“My father has been dead twenty-three years.”
“Some promises live longer than people.”
Vincent closed his eyes briefly.
“Rosa, listen to me. Who was the baby?”
She sobbed.
“Please.”
“Who was she?”
“I can't tell you.”
“Then tell me who Evelyn Hart was.”
Silence.
“Rosa.”
“She wasn't Evelyn Hart.”
Vincent felt Claire move beside him.
“What?”
“That wasn't her real name.”
“What was it?”
A sound came through the phone.
Rosa gasped.
Then the line went dead.
“Rosa?”
Nothing.
Vincent called back.
No answer.
He grabbed his coat.
Claire was already reaching for hers.
“You're staying here.”
“Not happening.”
“Someone may have just found Rosa.”
“And someone may be at my mother's house.”
Vincent stopped.
Claire's fear was no longer hidden.
He made the decision.
“We go to your mother first.”
“What about midnight?”
“We have forty minutes.”
The elevator arrived.
Marco was waiting downstairs.
They crossed the lobby quickly.
Outside, Vincent's black sedan waited at the curb.
Marco opened the rear door.
Then Vincent noticed something beneath the windshield wiper.
A photograph.
Another one.
He pulled it free.
Claire leaned toward him.
“What is it?”
Vincent didn't answer.
The photograph showed the infant again.
Older this time.
Perhaps six months.
A woman held her.
Not Teresa.
Not Evelyn.
Rosa.
On the back was an address.
Claire's mother's address.
Beneath it were five handwritten words.
SHE KEPT WHAT WAS YOURS.
Claire read them.
Neither spoke.
Marco drove.
Vincent called Rosa repeatedly.
Nothing.
Claire called her mother.
Nothing.
The city passed in streaks of light outside the windows.
Twenty minutes later, Marco turned onto Claire's mother's street.
Claire leaned forward.
“That’s her house.”
The front door stood open.
Vincent was out of the car before it fully stopped.
Claire followed.
“Mom!”
No answer.
Vincent entered first.
A lamp was overturned.
A chair lay on its side.
On the floor was the same gold pendant from Evelyn Hart's photograph.
Claire picked it up with shaking fingers.
“My mother never takes this off.”
Then they heard something upstairs.
A floorboard creaked.
Claire looked toward the staircase.
“Mom?”
A door slowly opened above them.
May you like
Someone stepped into the hallway.
And Vincent recognized the face.
