Chapter 5 - THE PRICE OF MY MOTHER'S SILENCE
“My father can't have signed that.”
Ms. Collins looked at me with genuine concern.
“I understand why you're upset.”
“No,” I said. “You don't. My father died three years ago.”
The branch manager immediately closed the file on her screen.
“Then we need to treat this as a suspected identity-fraud matter.”
Adrian leaned forward.
“Can you preserve the original request?”
“Yes. Our compliance department can place a hold while the signature and supporting documents are reviewed.”
“Please do,” I said.
My voice surprised me.
It sounded steady.
The kind of steadiness I hadn't felt since Nathan left.
Ms. Collins began the formal process.
I signed a dispute form, opened a replacement checking account, and changed every password connected to my finances.
Adrian waited nearby.
He didn't offer to take over.
He didn't suggest someone more powerful should handle it.
And although I still didn't trust him completely, I appreciated that.
When we finally stepped outside, Chicago's afternoon light had turned gray.
“Someone is pretending to be my father,” I said.
Adrian nodded.
“And they're trying to reach a trust my mother left me.”
“Possibly.”
I stopped walking.
“Do you already know about the fund?”
He took a moment before answering.
“I knew Elena had arranged something for you. I didn't know where the money was held.”
“Why didn't you mention it?”
“Because I had no proof it still existed.”
I looked at him.
“You're doing it again.”
“What?”
“Deciding which information I'm ready to hear.”
He absorbed that.
Then he said, “You're right.”
I wanted to stay angry.
But he kept admitting when he was wrong, and I didn't know what to do with that.
“Tell me everything you know about the fund.”
He gestured toward his car.
“We can speak there. Or somewhere you choose.”
I glanced at my phone.
Three missed calls from my landlord.
My stomach tightened.
“I need to go home.”
Adrian drove me to my building.
It was a modest brick apartment complex on Chicago's northwest side.
The elevator had been broken twice that month.
The hallway lights flickered.
But until recently, it had felt like the first place that belonged entirely to me.
My landlord, Mrs. Delaney, was waiting beside my door.
She was sixty-three, wore orthopedic shoes, and had a habit of bringing homemade soup to tenants who were sick.
She looked relieved when she saw me.
“Claire, sweetheart.”
“I'm sorry about the rent.”
She shook her head.
“That's not why I'm here.”
Then she noticed Adrian.
Her expression changed.
“Mr. Moretti.”
“You know him?” I asked.
She hesitated.
Adrian answered.
“We've met through a property-management dispute.”
Mrs. Delaney lowered her voice.
“Claire, the new owners sent an inspector today. They want to declare several apartments unsuitable for occupancy.”
I stared at her.
“Why?”
“They claim there are structural problems.”
“Are there?”
“Not that I know of.”
She looked exhausted.
“I've managed this building for twenty-one years. We have inspection records. But the new owners aren't listening.”
Adrian asked, “Did they provide an engineer's report?”
“No. Just a preliminary notice.”
“Then they can't simply remove residents without following the legal process.”
Mrs. Delaney nodded.
“I told them that.”
She reached into her cardigan pocket.
“And then they handed me this.”
It was a glossy brochure.
A proposed luxury residential development.
At the bottom was the company logo.
CRESCENT WHITMORE DEVELOPMENT.
Nathan's father.
Again.
I felt suddenly foolish.
I'd thought Nathan was simply cruel.
Now it seemed his family had been reaching into every corner of my life.
But Mrs. Delaney wasn't finished.
“They offered me a substantial payment to persuade certain tenants to leave voluntarily.”
“Certain tenants?” Adrian asked.
She looked at me.
“You were specifically named, Claire.”
My throat tightened.
“How much?”
“Twenty-five thousand dollars.”
I couldn't speak.
Mrs. Delaney took my hand.
“I refused.”
Tears filled my eyes.
“Why?”
She looked almost offended.
“Because you're having a baby, honey. And because nobody should have to buy the right to stay in a home they've paid for.”
I hugged her.
For the first time all day, I cried.
Not from humiliation.
From gratitude.
Later, inside my apartment, I opened the small wooden box where I kept my mother's belongings.
Adrian stood near the kitchen doorway.
I'd told him he could come inside for fifteen minutes.
No more.
The box contained an old watch, three photographs, a faded recipe card, and a silver rosary.
My mother hadn't been particularly religious.
But she'd carried the rosary during difficult times.
I lifted it carefully.
Adrian stepped closer.
“May I see that?”
I hesitated.
Then handed it over.
He turned the small cross between his fingers.
His face changed.
“This belonged to Sofia.”
I stared at him.
“My mother told me her best friend gave it to her.”
“Sofia considered Elena family.”
He examined the cross.
“There's an inscription.”
I leaned closer.
Tiny letters were engraved along the back.
S.M. — E.H. — ALWAYS HOME
Sofia Moretti.
Elena Hayes.
Always home.
My chest tightened.
Adrian gently returned it.
“She gave that to Elena before her final surgery.”
I placed it beside the photograph.
Then I noticed something tucked beneath the lining of the wooden box.
A narrow strip of blue fabric.
I pulled it free.
It was part of a hospital identification bracelet.
Most of the writing had faded.
But the date remained legible.
October 18.
Sixteen years earlier.
The date of my mother's supposed accident.
Below it was a patient's name.
Not Elena Hayes.
E. MARINO.
I stared at it.
“Who is E. Marino?”
Adrian went completely still.
“Where did you find that?”
“In my mother's things.”
He reached for the back of a chair.
For a moment, I thought he might fall.
“Adrian?”
He looked at the bracelet.
Then at me.
“Elena Marino was the name your mother used when she entered protective medical care.”
I could barely breathe.
“Protective care?”
“She was injured. We thought she'd been moved somewhere safe.”
“You knew she survived?”
“For several days. Then her location was compromised.”
“Why didn't you tell me?”
“Because your father was told she'd died afterward.”
I backed away.
“So everything I've believed was based on someone else's word?”
Adrian's face was pale.
“Yes.”
I looked at the bracelet again.
There was a second line beneath the name.
A number.
And an unfamiliar hospital code.
At the bottom, in tiny handwriting, someone had added a note.
Ask Sister Margaret.
I turned toward Adrian.
“Who's Sister Margaret?”
He looked toward the window.
“Someone who once worked at St. Agnes Medical Center.”
“Is she alive?”
“Yes.”
“Then we're going to see her.”
Adrian hesitated.
“Claire, Sister Margaret hasn't spoken to me in sixteen years.”
“Why?”
May you like
He looked at the bracelet.
“Because she believes I was the one who betrayed your mother.”
