Chapter 2 - THE ADDRESS SHE BEGGED ME NOT TO FIND
The doctor looked at Vanessa before he answered me.
That was my first indication that whatever had happened to Claire was worse than six deleted messages.
“Mr. Moretti,” Dr. Mercer said carefully, “I can't disclose a patient's current address without her permission.”
“Then call her.”
He hesitated.
“Please.”
That single word surprised all three of us.
Men had begged me for mercy in warehouses along the Chicago River. Politicians had lowered their voices when I entered restaurants. I had spent half my life believing that respect and fear were interchangeable.
But standing in that emergency room, I couldn't command my way into being a father.
Dr. Mercer stepped outside to make the call.
Vanessa reached for my arm.
“Vincent, this is ridiculous. You don't even know those children are yours.”
I looked at her hand until she withdrew it.
“Then why are you frightened?”
“I'm not frightened.”
“You haven't asked whether Claire is alive.”
Her expression changed.
Only slightly.
But I had built an empire on noticing slight changes.
“Of course she's alive,” Vanessa said.
“How would you know?”
She opened her mouth.
Nothing came out.
My phone vibrated again.
Ethan had sent a screenshot of an archived message.
The sender was Claire.
The date was six months earlier.
Vincent, I know you may hate me, but the babies were born early. Noah is having trouble breathing. I don't want your money. I just need you to know that you have a son and a daughter.
I read it three times.
Then a fourth.
Below it was a delivery confirmation from my private communications server.
The message had reached my penthouse.
Someone had opened it.
Someone had deleted it.
“Who has administrator access?” I asked Ethan.
“You. Me. And the household account.”
“Who controls the household account?”
He paused.
“Vanessa requested temporary access when the renovation began. You approved it.”
I remembered signing the authorization.
I had barely looked at the document.
Claire had already been gone for months. Vanessa said she needed access to coordinate contractors and household security.
I had given her the keys to a system containing every message my wife might send.
My stomach turned.
“Preserve everything,” I told Ethan. “No one touches the servers.”
“Already done.”
“And Ethan?”
“Yes, boss?”
“Don't tell anyone where Claire is if you find her. Not even me until we've established she's safe.”
He was quiet for a moment.
“Understood.”
Vanessa was watching me.
“You're letting your imagination run away with you.”
“No,” I said. “I'm finally using it.”
Dr. Mercer returned.
“Claire answered.”
My heart began hammering.
“Is she all right?”
“She asked me not to give you her address.”
The words hurt.
They also made sense.
Fourteen months earlier, she had walked into our bedroom and seen another woman wearing my shirt.
I had allowed that woman to remain in my life.
Then I had ignored six messages from my wife.
At least, that was what Claire believed.
“Did you tell her about tonight?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“What did she say?”
The doctor swallowed.
“She said she doesn't believe you didn't know.”
I lowered my head.
For the first time in years, I had no defense.
“Can you tell her I want to speak with her?”
“I already did.”
“And?”
“She said she would think about it.”
Vanessa laughed bitterly.
“Wonderful. Now we're begging a woman who abandoned her husband.”
I turned toward her.
“Go home.”
“Excuse me?”
“Your driver is outside. He'll take you home.”
“Vincent, my ankle—”
“Dr. Mercer can arrange whatever treatment you need. I'm staying.”
Her face hardened.
“You're making a mistake.”
“Probably,” I said. “I've made several.”
She snatched her purse from the chair.
At the doorway, she stopped.
“You think Claire is some innocent little angel? Ask her why she never filed for child support.”
I looked at her.
“Why would she?”
Vanessa's expression faltered.
Because she had said too much.
Claire had never told me about the twins.
I hadn't known there was any reason for child support.
And Vanessa had supposedly learned about them only minutes earlier.
I stepped closer.
“What else do you know?”
She backed away.
“Nothing.”
“Vanessa.”
“I said nothing!”
She hurried into the corridor.
I didn't follow.
A frightened person could lead me somewhere more useful than an angry one.
Twenty minutes later, Ethan arrived carrying a sealed evidence envelope and his laptop.
He had been my security chief for nine years.
He was a quiet man with prematurely gray hair and an old scar beneath his left ear. He had saved my life twice.
Tonight, he looked as though he wished he had done something more important.
“Boss,” he said, “I recovered four of the six messages. The other two may be in the backups.”
“Show me.”
The first message was sent seven weeks after Claire left.
I went to the doctor today. I'm pregnant. I know things ended badly, but I thought you deserved to hear it from me.
The second came three weeks later.
There are two heartbeats, Vincent.
I shut my eyes.
Two heartbeats.
Two lives beginning while I sat in my penthouse convincing myself their mother had never loved me.
The third message was shorter.
Please stop having your people contact my landlord. I'm trying to work. I haven't done anything to hurt you.
I opened my eyes.
“What people?”
Ethan looked troubled.
“I don't know.”
The fourth message contained a photograph.
Two tiny babies lay inside separate hospital incubators.
Emma wore a pink knitted cap.
Noah wore blue.
His little hand was curled against the glass.
Underneath the photograph, Claire had written:
They came early. I thought you might want to see them.
I reached toward the screen.
My hand stopped an inch away.
I had held guns steadier than I could hold my fingers.
“Find out who contacted her landlord,” I said.
Ethan nodded.
Then he opened another file.
“This came from a security contractor Vanessa hired during the renovation.”
A timestamped access log filled the screen.
The household account had opened Claire's messages.
But the log also showed something else.
Someone had searched the penthouse's private archives for Claire's medical information before she disappeared.
Fourteen months earlier.
Three days before she walked out.
“Who ran that search?” I asked.
Ethan enlarged the record.
The user name was unfamiliar.
But the associated authorization belonged to someone I trusted.
Someone who had been at my side since childhood.
My younger brother.
Adrian Moretti.
May you like
And the search term was more disturbing than the name.
Claire Morgan — pregnancy confirmation.
