Chapter 7 - THE SIGNATURE THAT SHOULD HAVE BEEN IMPOSSIBLE
Vincent stared at the document through the glass.
"I never signed that."
Daniel placed the envelope against the window and tapped it twice.
Then he turned and walked away.
Norah watched the sedan disappear into traffic.
"You signed my mother's death certificate?"
"No."
"Your name is on it."
"Someone forged it."
"Why should I believe you?"
Vincent lowered his gun.
"You shouldn't. Not yet."
The answer surprised her more than a denial would have.
He took out his phone and called his attorney.
"Find every medical record connected to Evelyn Hale. Every hospital admission, every death certificate, every insurance claim. I want the original documents, not copies."
He ended the call.
Then he looked at Norah.
"My signature is on thousands of documents. Daniel has had access to them for fifteen years."
"And you trusted him."
"Yes."
His honesty made her angrier.
"Then how am I supposed to trust you?"
"You aren't supposed to. You're supposed to watch what I do next."
They returned to the estate before noon.
Carmine was conscious but barely able to speak. When Norah showed him the photograph of Daniel holding the baby, his eyes filled with terror.
"That was taken the night you were born," he whispered.
"Why was Daniel holding me?"
"Because he believed you were his."
Norah gripped the bedrail.
"Was he?"
Carmine looked at Vincent.
The silence stretched.
"Yes," he finally said. "Daniel was your biological father."
Norah closed her eyes.
The answer hurt, but it also brought a terrible kind of clarity.
"Then why did my mother stay with him?"
"She didn't. She left him when she discovered what he was doing. She came to me because she believed I could protect you."
"And you failed."
Carmine nodded.
"I failed both of you."
Vincent stood near the window, his face unreadable.
"Why did you tell everyone the baby had died?"
"Daniel wanted the child erased. He believed Evelyn had hidden evidence inside the family records. I told him the baby was dead because it was the only way to make him stop looking."
"Then you let my mother raise me alone."
"I gave her money. A house. Protection."
"She lived in a one-bedroom apartment and worked nights."
Carmine looked away.
"I know."
Norah felt tears burning her eyes.
"She never told me she was afraid. Not once."
"She was brave," Carmine whispered. "Braver than any of us."
A knock interrupted them.
Vincent's attorney entered carrying a thick folder.
"We found the original death certificate," he said. "It was issued under a false identity. The body was never positively identified."
Norah's heart began pounding.
"Then she might not have died?"
The attorney hesitated.
"We found something else."
He opened the folder.
Inside was a photograph taken at a small coastal hospital eight years earlier.
A woman lay in a bed, her face partially obscured by bandages.
On the back, a nurse had written: Patient awake. Asking for her daughter.
Norah stopped breathing.
"Where was this taken?"
"St. Catherine's Hospital. The building closed six years ago."
Vincent studied the image.
"Who gave you this?"
"It came from a former nurse. She claims the patient was transferred to a private clinic the following morning."
"Where?"
The attorney handed him another page.
A shipping address.
The same address appeared in the ledger hidden inside the piano.
Norah looked at Vincent.
"She's alive."
"We don't know that."
"She's alive."
Vincent didn't argue.
Within twenty minutes, a convoy of SUVs was heading toward the coast.
The clinic stood behind a rusted gate at the end of a narrow road. Its windows were boarded, and weeds had swallowed the parking lot.
Vincent's men entered first.
The building was empty except for dust, broken furniture, and the smell of damp plaster.
Norah followed them into the basement.
On the wall hung a small framed photograph.
Evelyn stood beside a piano.
She looked older than Norah remembered, thinner and paler, but unmistakably alive.
A handwritten note was pinned beneath the frame.
If you found this, my daughter is in danger.
Norah pulled it free.
The final sentence was written in a shaky hand.
Tell her the man she calls father isn't the only one who lied about her birth.
Behind them, a door slammed shut.
The lights went out.
A voice emerged from the darkness.
"Hello, Norah."
Daniel Cross stepped into the faint emergency glow.
He held a gun in one hand.
In the other, he carried a photograph of Evelyn.
May you like
"Now," he said, "we can finally talk about your mother."
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