Chapter 5 - MY MOTHER'S NAME ON THE WALL
I stared at the photograph until the letters blurred.
My mother had worked in medical research accounting.
That much I knew.
She had been meticulous, quiet, and stubborn about anything involving money.
But she had never mentioned Dominic Moretti.
Not once.
“Mom?”
Noah tugged my sleeve.
“Did I do something wrong?”
I knelt beside him.
“No, sweetheart.”
“Because you look sad.”
I pulled him close.
“You found something important.”
He relaxed against me.
Lily came over with her coloring page.
She had drawn four people standing beneath a yellow sun.
Me.
Noah.
Lily.
And a taller figure without a face.
I recognized what she was trying to tell me.
She had been wondering about her father long before tonight.
“Can I finish this later?” she asked.
“Of course.”
She folded the paper carefully and slipped it into my evening bag.
Vincent appeared at the doorway.
He stopped when he saw the photograph.
“Where did that come from?”
“It was on the bookshelf.”
Margaret approached.
“The family room used to be part of the original Moretti Foundation gallery. Some photographs were moved here during renovations.”
Vincent examined the frame.
“That's my father.”
“And my mother.”
He looked at me.
“Evelyn Bennett was your mother?”
“Yes.”
His expression tightened.
“I've seen that name before.”
My heart began beating faster.
“Where?”
“In some old foundation records.”
I stood.
“What records?”
“Financial reports from before I took over.”
“Do you still have them?”
“I believe so.”
I looked at the photograph again.
My mother had been standing beside Dominic Moretti when I was sixteen.
Two years before Vincent and I met.
Two years before the explosion that nearly killed him.
The coincidences were becoming impossible to ignore.
Vincent looked toward the children.
“Claire, there's a private office upstairs. We can speak there.”
I hesitated.
I had spent seven years building a life in which nobody could tell me where to go.
But I needed answers.
“Margaret, would you mind staying with the children a little longer?”
“Certainly.”
Noah looked at Vincent.
“Are you coming back?”
Vincent crouched.
“Yes.”
“Promise?”
He paused.
Something passed across his face.
Then he shook his head slightly.
“I'll do my best. I don't want to promise something I can't keep.”
Noah considered that.
“Okay.”
It was such a small exchange.
Yet I watched Vincent as though seeing him for the first time.
The man I remembered made grand promises easily.
This man seemed afraid to make even a small one.
Upstairs, Vincent led us into a quiet conference room.
Sophia and Dr. Bell followed.
A large window overlooked the Chicago skyline.
Lake Michigan reflected the city's lights.
Vincent placed the photograph on the table.
“I remember my father arguing with someone named Evelyn.”
I gripped the back of a chair.
“When?”
“Shortly before the industrial explosion.”
“What about?”
“Money.”
Sophia looked toward the window.
Dr. Bell lowered himself into a seat.
Vincent continued.
“My father controlled several private research investments. He wanted me to join the business after college.”
“And you refused?”
“At first.”
He gave a humorless smile.
“I wanted to be an architect.”
That surprised me.
In eight years of marriage, he had never mentioned it.
“My father called it a waste of the family name.”
He looked down.
“The day of the explosion, he told me he'd discovered someone stealing from the research accounts.”
My stomach tightened.
“Did he name that person?”
“No. He said he'd explain when I arrived.”
Dr. Bell suddenly looked uncomfortable.
I noticed.
“What do you remember, Doctor?”
He rubbed his hands together.
“Evelyn Bennett filed a formal objection to several transfers.”
“Transfers to whom?”
“A consulting company.”
“What company?”
Dr. Bell hesitated.
“Bellweather Clinical Services.”
I shook my head.
“I've never heard of it.”
Sophia gave a quiet, bitter laugh.
“Of course you haven't.”
Vincent turned toward her.
“What does that mean?”
“Bellweather was a shell company.”
Dr. Bell stiffened.
Sophia looked directly at him.
“Arthur knows.”
The older man's face reddened.
“I discovered that later.”
“Then tell her.”
He stared at the table.
“Bellweather was used to move charitable research funds into private accounts.”
My throat tightened.
“My mother found out?”
“Yes.”
“And she refused to approve it?”
“Yes.”
I looked at Vincent.
“What happened after that?”
He shook his head.
“I don't know.”
But Dr. Bell knew.
I could see it.
“Doctor?”
He looked exhausted.
“Your mother was threatened with dismissal. She refused to withdraw her objection.”
“By Dominic?”
“Yes.”
I thought of my mother.
The woman who saved grocery receipts in shoeboxes.
Who taught me never to sign something I hadn't read.
Who died after a sudden illness while I was still in high school.
For years, I had believed her work was ordinary.
Now I understood she had stood against people who could destroy careers with a telephone call.
“Was she involved in the explosion?” I asked.
Dr. Bell hesitated.
“No evidence showed that.”
“But she was there that day.”
He nodded.
My breath caught.
Vincent looked at me.
“Claire, what happened to your mother?”
“She died of pneumonia two years earlier.”
Dr. Bell slowly raised his head.
“Two years?”
“Yes.”
He looked confused.
“Evelyn Bennett was working for the foundation at the time of the explosion.”
The room fell silent.
I shook my head.
“That's impossible.”
He looked at the photograph.
“Mrs. Moretti, when your mother died, who identified her?”
The question struck me like a blow.
“My aunt.”
“Did you see her?”
I swallowed.
“Yes. At the funeral.”
“In the hospital?”
I shook my head.
My mother had been buried after a closed-casket service.
My aunt told me the illness had left her appearance badly changed.
I had been sixteen.
Distraught.
Exhausted.
Willing to believe anything that would make the pain stop.
“No,” I whispered.
Vincent reached for my hand.
This time, I didn't move.
Dr. Bell opened the old photograph's frame.
A folded piece of paper slipped from behind the backing.
It was a hospital identification card.
The name printed on it was Evelyn Bennett.
But the expiration date was two years after my mother's funeral.
I stared.
Sophia whispered something under her breath.
Vincent turned toward her.
“What?”
She shook her head.
“Nothing.”
But I had heard.
She had said, “He didn't tell her.”
“Who didn't tell me?” I demanded.
Sophia looked at the identification card.
Then at Vincent.
And finally at me.
“Claire,” she said, “your mother didn't die when you were sixteen.”
I could barely breathe.
“Then where is she?”
May you like
Sophia's answer was almost inaudible.
“She was the woman your husband was arguing with when you pulled him from that explosion.”
