Chapter 5 - THE LIE THAT STOLE THREE YEARS
For several seconds, I couldn't hear the traffic.
I could only hear Vincent's words.
Owen told me Daniel died.
I tightened my grip on the grocery cart.
“No.”
Vincent remained on his knees.
“He gave me a hospital report.”
I shook my head.
“Daniel was discharged six weeks after he was born.”
“I know that now.”
“You sent him medical supplies.”
Vincent stared.
“What?”
“The special formula. The breathing monitor. The specialist appointments.”
His expression changed.
“I arranged to cover your hospital expenses. Everything else was supposed to go through Owen.”
I felt sick.
Daniel tugged my coat.
“Mommy, home?”
I bent down.
“Yes, sweetheart.”
Vincent looked at him.
“Can I—”
“No.”
He stopped.
I hated the pain on his face.
I hated myself for noticing it.
“You don't get to walk into his life in a parking lot.”
Vincent nodded.
“Where can we talk?”
I looked around.
Two people had already slowed to stare.
“This isn't the place.”
Vincent rose carefully.
His driver approached.
One look from Vincent sent him back to the car.
I noticed that.
The old Vincent would have issued orders.
This one was trying very hard not to.
“There's a coffee shop across the street,” I said. “Thirty minutes. Daniel stays with my mother.”
Vincent nodded.
“I'll be there.”
I turned to leave.
Then Daniel looked over my shoulder.
“Bye, sad man.”
Vincent's face collapsed again.
He managed a nod.
“Goodbye, Daniel.”
At the coffee shop, I arrived twelve minutes late.
Vincent was already sitting in the back corner.
Two untouched coffees stood on the table.
He rose when he saw me.
I remained standing.
“Start talking.”
He sat again.
“Three days after you left the hospital, Owen told me you had requested no contact.”
“I did.”
“He said you wanted the baby's care handled separately.”
“That was after Daniel came home.”
Vincent looked down.
“Six weeks later, Owen brought me a report saying Daniel had died from complications related to his premature birth.”
I stared at him.
“Why didn't you come?”
Vincent's eyes met mine.
“Because Owen said you blamed me. He said you would have me removed if I tried to attend the funeral.”
“There was no funeral.”
“I know.”
“Did you ever ask for a death certificate?”
He closed his eyes.
“No.”
“Did you ever call the hospital?”
“I tried. They wouldn't release information without authorization.”
“You could have asked me.”
“I did.”
My heart beat harder.
“What?”
“I wrote to you. Several times.”
“I never received anything.”
Vincent reached into his coat.
He removed an old photograph.
It showed a tiny grave marker in a quiet cemetery.
Daniel Alexander Marlowe.
Born November 11.
Died December 23.
I covered my mouth.
Someone had made a grave for my living son.
Vincent's voice was low.
“I went there every year.”
I stared at the photograph.
The tiny headstone stood beneath a bare tree.
Flowers lay beside it.
Not expensive arrangements.
Small bunches of white daisies.
My favorite flowers.
“I thought I'd killed him,” Vincent whispered.
I looked away.
For three years, I had believed he simply didn't care.
And for three years, he had been mourning a child who slept down the hallway from me.
Both truths were unbearable.
“Why didn't you look for me?”
“I did.”
He rubbed his hands together.
“Owen told me you'd moved overseas. He gave me letters supposedly from you. They asked me not to follow.”
I stared at him.
“Do you still have them?”
“Yes.”
“I want to see them.”
“You will.”
I sat back.
“And Camille?”
Vincent's expression changed.
“She disappeared six months after the attack.”
“Was she your mistress?”
“No.”
“Then what was she?”
He looked at me for a long moment.
“Someone I thought was helping me expose Richard Vale.”
I took the old photograph from my purse.
The one from the bracelet box.
I placed it between us.
Vincent leaned forward.
His face hardened when he recognized his father.
Then Eleanor.
Then Camille.
“What is this?”
I turned it over.
He read the inscription.
“Eleanor's daughter,” he whispered.
He stared at the image.
“My stepmother had a child?”
“Apparently.”
Vincent studied Camille's younger face.
Then he looked at me.
“Where did you find this?”
“In your grandmother's bracelet box.”
Vincent sat back.
“Eleanor insisted I give you that bracelet.”
A cold feeling spread through my chest.
“Why?”
“She said Grandmother would have wanted you to have it.”
“Did Eleanor know about the photograph?”
“I don't know.”
I considered everything Owen had done.
He had brought the watch.
He had brought the bracelet.
He had encouraged me to leave Chicago.
He had supposedly delivered my letters.
And he had told Vincent that Daniel was dead.
“Vincent,” I said slowly, “why did Owen want me to disappear?”
He stared at me.
“What did he say?”
“That someone was trying to kill me.”
Vincent's jaw tightened.
“He told me the same thing.”
“What?”
“He said you were being watched. He said contacting you would lead the people behind the attack straight to you.”
I looked down at my hands.
Owen had told us two different versions of the same story.
Both designed to keep us apart.
Both built around fear.
I reached into my purse and removed my phone.
There was one photograph I had never deleted.
Daniel as a newborn.
His tiny hand wrapped around my finger.
I slid the phone across the table.
Vincent stared at it.
His breathing changed.
“He was so small.”
“Yes.”
“Was he in pain?”
“Sometimes.”
Vincent closed his eyes.
“Were you alone?”
“My mother was there.”
He nodded.
Then whispered, “I'm sorry.”
I believed him.
For the first time.
But forgiveness was still far away.
I took my phone back.
“Daniel has a good life.”
“I know.”
“You don't know anything about his life.”
Vincent accepted the correction.
“You're right.”
“He likes dinosaurs. He needs his blue blanket when he's tired. He's afraid of thunderstorms. And there's someone who loves him.”
Vincent looked up.
“Someone?”
“Thomas Reed.”
The name seemed to land heavily.
“Is he your husband?”
“No.”
“Does Daniel call him Dad?”
I held his gaze.
“Sometimes.”
Vincent looked toward the window.
His eyes filled again.
I waited for anger.
Instead, he said quietly, “Then I'm grateful someone was there.”
I couldn't speak.
A moment later, Vincent reached into his pocket.
He placed a small envelope on the table.
“There's something else.”
Inside was a photograph taken from a security camera.
It showed Owen leaving the cemetery beside Eleanor Marlowe.
The timestamp was six months earlier.
And Eleanor was carrying a small blue gift bag.
Vincent turned the photograph over.
“Owen thought I had stopped investigating,” he said.
“Investigating what?”
“The company accounts.”
I looked at him.
He pointed to the bag in Eleanor's hand.
“I had that enlarged.”
My stomach tightened.
Printed on the bag was a small blue butterfly.
The same crooked-winged butterfly from Daniel's nursery.
Vincent's voice dropped.
“Nora, I don't think Owen hid our son to protect him.”
May you like
He looked directly at me.
“I think someone has been using Daniel's supposed death to keep me from discovering what happened to my mother.”
