Chapter 17 - THE MAN BEHIND THE NAMEThe investigators found the answer in an old immigration file.
Thomas Vale had been born in Sicily under a different surname. His family had immigrated to the United States when he was a child, and his records showed that he had spent several years living near the Moretti estate.
He was not Gabriel's brother.
He was Gabriel's cousin.
And the two men had been nearly indistinguishable when they were young.
The resemblance had faded with age, but photographs from the late 1990s showed why the deception had worked.
Same height.
Similar features.
Similar voices.
Even the same slight bend in two fingers on the right hand, caused by an injury they had sustained during a childhood accident.
For years, the family had been told that Gabriel was dead.
But the death certificate had been signed by a physician who had worked for the Moretti family for decades.
The body had never been conclusively identified.
And the funeral had taken place behind closed doors.
I read the report twice.
“Which one died?”
Rachel folded her hands.
“We don't know yet.”
“Then we identify the body.”
“The records are being reviewed. But there are legal limits to what can be established after this much time.”
I looked at Ethan.
“Find every photograph, letter, and recording that might distinguish them.”
He nodded.
Then Rachel placed another document on the table.
“This was recovered from the lake house.”
It was a letter written by Isabella.
The date was fifteen years earlier.
Gabriel believes the family can survive if one of us disappears. Thomas believes the children can survive if the family disappears. I no longer know which man is more dangerous.
I read it silently.
The letter continued.
The first child was hidden because Gabriel feared what his birth would mean. The second was hidden because Thomas feared what the first child might remember.
I looked up.
“First child. Second child. Which children?”
Rachel shook her head.
“The letter doesn't specify.”
Claire sat beside me, holding Noah against her chest.
“What if there were more children before us?” she asked.
The question was simple.
The implications were not.
My family might have been concealing a succession of births, identities, and guardianships for decades.
I thought of the third bassinet.
The missing infant.
The hospital records that had been altered.
The woman who had taken a child home because she believed his parents had abandoned him.
And the man who had returned from the dead to take that child away.
“Why would anyone do this?” Claire whispered.
I looked at the letter.
“Control.”
She shook her head.
“That isn't enough.”
“No,” I admitted. “It isn't.”
For the next two days, we waited while investigators examined the evidence.
Then Helen Price called Rachel with a new lead.
She remembered a nurse named Patricia Wells who had worked at St. Catherine during the period when Isabella's medical records were altered.
Patricia had resigned abruptly fifteen years earlier.
She had moved to Indiana and changed her surname after marrying.
Rachel contacted her attorney.
Patricia agreed to speak.
We met in a neutral conference room, with investigators present.
She was in her late sixties, with silver hair and hands that trembled whenever she turned a page.
“I've waited a long time for someone to ask me about that night,” she said.
Rachel asked her to describe what she remembered.
Patricia looked at me.
“Your father came to the hospital with another man. They argued in the corridor. One was wearing a dark coat. The other wore a gray suit.”
“Which one was Gabriel?” I asked.
“I couldn't tell them apart.”
My stomach tightened.
Patricia continued.
“One of them wanted a baby transferred. The other said the child had to stay with his mother.”
“Which baby?”
“I don't know. I was never told the child's name.”
“Did you see the child?”
“Yes.”
“What did he look like?”
“A newborn. Premature. Dark hair.”
Claire's eyes filled.
“Was the baby healthy?”
“Small, but stable.”
“Did you see the mother?”
Patricia looked down.
“Yes.”
“Who was she?”
The nurse hesitated.
Then she whispered, “Isabella.”
The room went silent.
I felt my pulse hammering in my throat.
“My mother gave birth to the child?”
Patricia nodded.
“Not at St. Catherine. She had delivered privately. The child was brought to us afterward.”
“Why?”
“Because she said someone was trying to kill him.”
I stared at her.
“Who?”
Patricia shook her head.
“She wouldn't tell me.”
“Did she say anything else?”
Patricia's eyes filled.
“She asked me to promise that if the child ever came looking for his family, I would tell him that his mother loved him.”
I lowered my head.
For the first time, the possibility that my mother had hidden a child did not feel like a simple act of cruelty.
It felt like a desperate decision made by someone who believed she had no other choice.
But that did not excuse the years of deception.
It did not explain why she had allowed Claire to suffer.
And it did not tell us why the third infant had been taken from Lydia.
Rachel asked the next question.
“Do you know where the child went?”
Patricia nodded.
She opened her handbag and removed a small photograph.
It showed a baby wrapped in a white blanket.
On the back was a name.
Michael.
Beneath it, in Isabella's handwriting, was an address.
A children's home in Michigan.
The home had closed twenty years earlier.
Its records had been transferred to a state archive.
Rachel photographed the document and passed it to the investigators.
I stared at the name.
Michael.
The missing brother might have been called Michael.
But the baby in the photograph was too old to be the infant taken from Lydia.
There were two children.
Possibly more.
And every one of them had been hidden under a different story.
As we left the conference room, my phone rang.
My father.
I answered.
“Who are you?” I demanded.
He was silent for a moment.
Then he said, “Your mother once asked me the same question.”
“Are you Gabriel or Thomas?”
A faint, humorless laugh came through the phone.
“Does the name matter?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because I want to know which man abandoned his children.”
His voice hardened.
“You think you can judge me because you have learned to change diapers?”
I looked toward Claire.
She was holding Emma's hand while the baby tried to chew on her own fingers.
“No,” I said. “I think I can judge you because I finally understand what a child needs.”
Silence.
Then my father spoke.
“You don't know what I sacrificed.”
“Then tell me.”
“I kept this family alive.”
“At the cost of everyone who loved you.”
For the first time, he had no immediate answer.
Then he whispered, “If you want to know which man died, come to the lake house.”
Rachel shook her head sharply.
I ignored the impulse to agree.
“I'm not coming alone. The investigators will arrange the meeting.”
He laughed again.
“Still learning to obey rules, Vincent?”
“No,” I said. “I'm learning not to confuse recklessness with courage.”
The line went dead.
A minute later, a message arrived.
It contained a photograph of a child's drawing.
Three figures stood beneath a crooked yellow sun.
A tall man.
A woman.
And a small boy holding both their hands.
At the bottom, a child had written three words.
PLEASE FIND ME.
I stared at the drawing.
On the back was a date.
Tomorrow.
May you like
And beneath it, a location.
The abandoned children's home in Michigan.
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