Chapter 5 - The Night the Dead Woman CalledI read the sentence six times.
The woman everyone believes died in that explosion may not have been Elena.
Roman took the letter from my trembling hands.
For a moment, he seemed unable to understand the words.
Then his face changed.
Not with joy.
With terror.
"No."
He whispered it once.
Then again.
"No."
I reached toward him.
"Roman—"
He stepped away.
"Six years."
His voice broke.
"Six years I buried her."
Marco stood near the basement stairs, deliberately looking away.
Roman pressed the heel of his hand against his forehead.
"I buried my wife and daughter."
My heart twisted.
"She wasn't your wife yet."
He looked at me.
"She was in every way that mattered."
The words hurt.
Not because he loved Elena.
Because I realized I was beginning to love him.
And there was no place for me in a heart still occupied by a ghost.
The flash drive contained forty-seven encrypted files.
Roman brought in a cybersecurity specialist named Daniel Cho.
By morning, Daniel had recovered a series of hospital records.
The first showed Elena admitted to Saint Agnes under an assumed name.
Two days after the explosion.
Alive.
The second showed a premature infant transferred to a private neonatal unit.
Female.
No name.
Roman gripped the back of a chair.
"Sofia."
Daniel continued scrolling.
Then he stopped.
"There's something else."
A death certificate appeared.
Elena Marquez.
Date of death: three weeks after the explosion.
Cause: complications from traumatic injuries.
Roman stared at the screen.
For a moment, I thought he might collapse.
Then Daniel opened another file.
"That certificate was amended."
"By whom?" Roman asked.
"Margaret Bennett."
My mother.
The amendment removed the confirmed identity.
The medical examiner had never conclusively identified the woman.
Roman slowly sat down.
"She might have survived."
Daniel nodded.
"And there's more."
He opened a transfer record.
A baby had been discharged from the neonatal unit.
Destination: a private adoption agency in Wisconsin.
Roman looked up.
"What agency?"
Daniel read the name.
"New Horizons Family Services."
Marco swore.
The agency had closed five years earlier.
Its director had disappeared.
And every child placement record had been sealed.
That night, Roman found me in the mansion's kitchen.
I was baking bread.
I didn't know why.
Perhaps because dough was the only thing in my life that still behaved predictably.
He stood in the doorway.
"You should sleep."
"So should you."
He watched me knead the dough.
"Elena loved bread."
I smiled sadly.
"That doesn't surprise me."
"She was terrible at making it."
For the first time, Roman laughed.
A real laugh.
Quiet and surprised.
I looked up.
He was beautiful when he smiled.
That made everything worse.
"Cara."
"Yes?"
"I don't know what happens if she's alive."
I stopped kneading.
"Neither do I."
"I won't lie to you."
"Then don't."
He approached.
"I feel something for you."
My throat tightened.
"But Elena—"
"Is someone you loved."
"Yes."
"And possibly someone who's still alive."
He nodded.
I wiped my hands on my apron.
"Then find her, Roman."
He stared at me.
"Even if it means losing you?"
I forced myself to smile.
"You can't lose something you never had."
He looked wounded.
But I turned away before he could answer.
At 2:17 in the morning, the mansion's private telephone rang.
Teresa answered.
Seconds later, she came running into the kitchen.
Her face was white.
"Mr. Roman."
He stood.
"What?"
"It's a woman."
"Who?"
Teresa began crying.
"She says her name is Elena."
The room went silent.
Roman took the phone.
"Hello?"
A long pause followed.
Then a woman's voice whispered through the speaker.
"Roman?"
His entire body went rigid.
"Elena?"
I watched his expression crumble.
"Where are you?"
The woman began crying.
"I don't have much time."
"Tell me where you are."
"Please listen."
Her breathing became frantic.
"They lied to you."
"Who?"
"Your father. Natalia. All of them."
Roman gripped the telephone.
"Where is Sofia?"
The silence stretched.
Then Elena spoke three words.
"She's with them."
The line disconnected.
Roman stared at the receiver.
Then he turned toward me.
His eyes were filled with something I had never seen before.
Hope.
And absolute terror.
"She's alive."
Before I could respond, his phone buzzed.
A photograph appeared.
A little girl with dark hair sat beside a window.
She looked approximately six years old.
Her gray eyes were unmistakable.
Roman's eyes.
May you like
Beneath the photograph was a message.
If you want your daughter alive, bring Cara Bennett to us.
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