Chapter 12 - THE WOMAN WHO STOLE MY NAMEClaire refused to let me drive her home.
Not because she was angry.
Because she was afraid that if she sat beside me in silence, she might begin screaming and never stop.
So Rachel arranged a separate car, and I followed several minutes behind.
When I arrived at the townhouse, Claire was sitting on the nursery floor between the twins.
Emma crawled toward her mother, clutching a stuffed rabbit. Noah sat beside the crib, banging a plastic spoon against the carpet.
Claire gathered them both into her arms.
I stopped at the doorway.
For a moment, I saw what she must have seen every day for fourteen months.
Two babies who needed everything.
A future that depended on her making the right decision every time.
And a husband whose name had become synonymous with danger.
“I'm sorry,” I said.
She didn't look up.
“Which part?”
The question was quiet.
It was also deserved.
“All of it.”
She kissed Noah's forehead.
“That's too much to apologize for in one sentence.”
“I know.”
“No, Vincent. I don't think you do.”
I lowered myself onto the floor several feet away.
“I can't undo what happened at the hospital. I can't give you back those fourteen months. I can't make you trust me.”
She finally looked at me.
“Then stop trying to make every conversation about how guilty you feel.”
The words struck cleanly.
I nodded.
“What do you need from me right now?”
She looked at the children.
“Help me find out whether another baby was taken from us.”
“Then that's what we'll do.”
“And no threats. No sending men to frighten people. No deciding you can fix this because you're Vincent Moretti.”
I met her eyes.
“Agreed.”
She studied me for several seconds.
Then she handed me Emma.
“Hold your daughter while I call Rachel.”
I took Emma carefully.
Her fingers immediately caught my shirt collar.
She looked up at me with the serious expression she wore whenever she was trying to understand something.
I wondered how many times Claire had held her like this while worrying about rent, medical bills, and whether Noah would breathe comfortably through the night.
I wondered how many moments I could never recover.
Emma touched my chin.
“Da,” she murmured.
I closed my eyes.
“I hear you, sweetheart.”
Across the room, Claire began speaking to Rachel.
Her voice trembled, but she remained composed.
I watched her while Emma played with my fingers.
This was the woman I had accused of abandoning me.
The woman I had allowed others to portray as unstable.
The woman who had protected our children while I convinced myself that being a powerful man meant never admitting I had been wrong.
I had been wrong about nearly everything.
And now, someone had used my family's name to turn that mistake into a weapon.
By noon, Ethan had identified the private pediatric facility listed in the transfer record.
It was called Willow Creek Children's Center.
The facility had closed its residential wing three years earlier, but its medical records were still held by a corporate administrator.
The corporation's name was Bellweather Family Holdings.
Adrian owned a minority share.
My mother had controlled the majority.
I stared at the ownership documents.
“Was this company part of the family trust?”
“Yes,” Ethan said. “But it was never listed as a hospital or adoption service. Officially, it managed specialized pediatric care and charitable medical grants.”
“Officially.”
“That's right.”
“Who ran it?”
“Dr. Evelyn Shaw.”
I looked up.
“Rebecca Shaw's relative?”
“Possibly. We're checking. But Evelyn Shaw died eighteen months ago.”
Another dead name.
Another closed door.
“Find the staff who worked there,” I said. “Nurses, administrators, drivers. Anyone who remembers a newborn arriving under a temporary identity.”
Ethan nodded.
Then he placed another file in front of me.
“We found a payment from Bellweather to a woman named Lydia Cross. The payments continued for eleven months after the twins were born.”
“What's the amount?”
“Three thousand dollars every month.”
“Where did she live?”
“Evanston. She moved twice. Her current address is outside Milwaukee.”
“Why Milwaukee?”
“That's where she registered a small childcare business.”
I studied the record.
“Is she connected to Claire?”
“Not directly.”
“Then how did you find her?”
Ethan hesitated.
“Her business registration lists a child as a dependent.”
“Which child?”
He turned the page.
The name was unfamiliar.
Daniel Cross.
Age: eight months.
Birth date: the same as Emma and Noah.
I felt my heartbeat slow into something cold and deliberate.
“Get Rachel,” I said. “We're not going anywhere until she tells us what we can legally do.”
Two hours later, Rachel joined us in the townhouse kitchen.
She examined the documents and made several calls to child welfare authorities and a family-law colleague in Wisconsin.
“We cannot assume this child is the third infant,” she told us. “The matching birth date is significant, but it isn't proof. We need lawful access to the relevant records and a proper investigation.”
“I understand.”
“And Vincent, if this is a child who has been living with a caregiver, we cannot simply remove him because you believe he may be related to you.”
“I understand that too.”
She studied me.
“You're learning to say that.”
“I'm trying to learn to mean it.”
Rachel's expression softened slightly.
“We'll proceed carefully.”
That evening, Adrian arrived with a sealed envelope.
He looked exhausted.
Claire immediately stiffened when she saw him.
“I didn't know he was coming,” I told her.
“Neither did I,” Adrian said.
He placed the envelope on the counter.
“Mom gave this to me six months before Claire disappeared. She said it was insurance in case something happened to her.”
I opened it.
Inside was a handwritten letter and a photograph of a woman holding a newborn.
The woman had dark hair, pale skin, and a small scar near her eyebrow.
I didn't recognize her.
But Adrian did.
“Who is she?” I asked.
He looked at Claire.
“Her name is Lydia Cross. She used to work for Mom.”
Claire went pale.
“Where have I heard that name?”
Adrian frowned.
“I don't know.”
Then Claire slowly rose from her chair.
“I do.”
She walked to the kitchen drawer and removed the copy of the blue envelope's contents.
Her fingers shook as she turned to a page I had barely examined before.
At the bottom was a witness statement attached to the hospital authorization.
Lydia Cross — Present during the transfer.
Claire looked at Adrian.
“Did your mother ever tell you why she was paying this woman?”
He shook his head.
“No.”
I examined the photograph.
The newborn's face was turned toward the camera.
A small, dark birthmark sat just beneath the left ear.
I remembered seeing the same mark on Noah when Dr. Mercer had examined him.
Then I remembered something else.
Emma had a similar mark, though hers was smaller and closer to her hairline.
Two children.
Two matching birth dates.
And now a third infant, supposedly transferred under a different identity.
My phone rang.
An unknown number.
I answered without speaking.
A woman's voice came through.
“Mr. Moretti?”
“Yes.”
“My name is Lydia Cross.”
The room went silent.
“I think it's time you knew why your father wanted the third baby hidden.”
I stood.
“Where are you?”
“I won't tell you that until I know Claire is safe.”
I glanced at my wife.
“She is.”
“Is she listening?”
Claire stepped closer.
“I'm here.”
Lydia exhaled shakily.
“Mrs. Moretti, I am so sorry.”
Claire gripped the counter.
“What did you do?”
“I took a baby home.”
“Whose baby?”
A long silence followed.
Then Lydia whispered, “The one they told me you didn't want.”
Claire's knees nearly buckled.
I caught her arm.
Lydia continued.
“But that wasn't the worst lie they told me.”
“What was?” I demanded.
Her voice broke.
“They told me the child's father had agreed to give him up.”
I felt the room tilt.
“Who told you that?”
“Gabriel Moretti.”
My father's name.
Again.
“Lydia,” I said, forcing my voice to remain steady, “is the child alive?”
“Yes.”
“Is he with you?”
“No.”
“Where is he?”
She began to cry.
“That's why I'm calling. Someone came to my house yesterday and took him.”
My blood went cold.
“Who?”
“I don't know. But they left something behind.”
“What?”
“A photograph of your father.”
She paused.
“On the back, he had written six words.”
I tightened my grip on the phone.
“What words?”
Lydia whispered them.
May you like
The third child was never the heir.
Then the call disconnected.
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