Chapter 8 - 8
Adrian Pascale was dead.
At least, that's what the police initially believed.
The body had been found in an abandoned commercial building near the Chicago River.
It was badly burned.
A wallet containing Adrian's identification had been discovered nearby.
And according to Detective Bennett, someone had deliberately set the fire.
Massimo listened without moving.
Then he asked a question that surprised everyone.
“Did you identify him through DNA?”
Bennett shook his head.
“Not yet.”
“Then don't tell me my brother is dead.”
The detective studied him.
“Why?”
Massimo's expression turned cold.
“Because I've buried one brother who came back to life.”
The room fell silent.
I looked at him.
He was right.
Gabriel's supposed death had been confirmed through dental records.
Now Adrian's identification had appeared beside another body.
Someone in this family had a talent for making people disappear.
And I was beginning to wonder whether anyone was actually dead.
Sarah arrived with new information that afternoon.
The forensic review of Massimo's medical records had uncovered several discrepancies.
Medication orders were missing signatures.
Some examination times conflicted with nursing notes.
And one neurological assessment appeared to have been copied from an earlier report.
“Does that prove someone intentionally interfered with his recovery?” I asked.
“No,” Sarah said. “But it raises serious concerns about the reliability of the records.”
Massimo leaned forward.
“Can we prove who changed them?”
“Not yet.”
I looked at the documents.
“Then we need the hospital's original electronic audit logs.”
Sarah nodded.
“I've already requested preservation through counsel.”
Massimo gave a bitter laugh.
“Eight months.”
His voice cracked.
“Eight months of being told I should accept my condition.”
I sat beside him.
“Your injury is real, Massimo. Whatever happened with the records doesn't change that.”
“I know.”
“But it may change how we understand your recovery.”
He looked at me.
“Do you think I'll walk?”
I hesitated.
I could have told him what he wanted to hear.
I could have promised a miracle.
Instead, I said, “I think we should stop letting other people decide your limits without proper evidence.”
His eyes filled with tears.
He looked away.
I pretended not to notice.
That evening, Sarah arranged a consultation with an independent rehabilitation physician, Dr. Naomi Chen.
Dr. Chen reviewed Massimo's history and examined him thoroughly.
She confirmed that his neurological findings warranted updated imaging and a revised rehabilitation plan.
But she also warned us not to confuse isolated movement with a predictable recovery.
Massimo listened quietly.
When she finished, he asked, “Is there hope?”
Dr. Chen smiled gently.
“There's room to investigate and work toward meaningful goals. That's different from a guarantee.”
He nodded.
For once, he didn't argue.
Later, when we were alone, he looked at me.
“You've changed me.”
I raised an eyebrow.
“I've been here less than a week.”
“That's apparently all it took.”
I smiled.
Then his expression grew serious.
“Emily, there's something I need to tell you.”
My stomach tightened.
“What?”
“I didn't hire you because of your résumé.”
I stared at him.
“What?”
“Your qualifications mattered. But someone sent me your name before the agency did.”
“Who?”
He hesitated.
“An anonymous source.”
My heart began pounding.
“What did the message say?”
Massimo reached for his phone.
He opened an archived email.
The sender's address was a meaningless string of numbers and letters.
The subject line read:
THE ONLY PERSON WHO CAN HELP YOU.
The message contained one sentence.
Hire Emily Fitzgerald, and you'll discover what really happened to your mother.
I stared at the screen.
“When did you receive this?”
“Three months ago.”
My mouth went dry.
“Three months?”
He nodded.
“You knew my name before I applied?”
“Yes.”
“And you didn't tell me?”
“I didn't know whether it was a trap.”
I stepped away.
“You let me walk into this house without telling me someone had already connected me to your mother's death?”
His expression twisted.
“I was trying to find out who sent it.”
“And you used me to do that.”
He didn't answer.
That was answer enough.
I felt something inside me break.
For days, I'd been defending him.
Trusting him.
Beginning to care about him in ways I hadn't intended.
And all along, he'd been keeping the most important piece of information from me.
“You're just like them,” I whispered.
Massimo flinched.
“Emily.”
“No.”
I grabbed my bag.
“Don't.”
He reached toward me.
“Please listen.”
“I listened when you told me you were afraid of being abandoned. I listened when you said you wanted the truth. I listened when you admitted your family might have been involved in my father's death.”
My voice broke.
“And you couldn't give me one honest conversation?”
He looked devastated.
“I was afraid you'd leave.”
“So you made sure I had a reason to.”
I turned toward the door.
“Emily, please.”
I stopped.
For one second, I wanted to go back.
I wanted to believe that the man I'd seen crying over the movement in his foot was different from the Pascales who had destroyed my family.
But trust wasn't something I could give him simply because I wanted to.
“I can't be your therapist anymore,” I whispered.
Then I walked away.
I left the mansion that night.
Sarah arranged a safe place for me to stay while the police continued searching for my mother.
I spent the next two days in a small apartment, barely sleeping.
I ignored Massimo's calls.
Ignored his messages.
And tried not to think about the look on his face when I left.
On the third morning, Detective Bennett called.
“Emily, we have news.”
I sat upright.
“My mother?”
“She's alive.”
I covered my mouth.
“Oh, thank God.”
“We found her near a warehouse outside the city. She's being treated at the hospital.”
I was already reaching for my shoes.
“Is she okay?”
“She's conscious. Dehydrated, frightened, but stable.”
I started crying.
For the first time in days, I could breathe.
Then Bennett continued.
“Emily, there's something you need to know.”
I froze.
“What?”
“Your mother says she wasn't kidnapped by Gabriel.”
I stared at the wall.
“Then who took her?”
Bennett hesitated.
“She says the man with the scar was working for someone else.”
“Who?”
He took a breath.
“Your mother claims she recognized the voice of the person giving him orders.”
My heart hammered.
“Whose voice?”
May you like
Bennett answered quietly.
“Massimo Pascale's.”
