Chapter 3 - The Name His Mother Had Been Forbidden to Speak
"Collins is a common name," Nathaniel said.
He was speaking to Grace, but it sounded more like he was trying to convince himself.
The hospital bracelet lay on his desk between them.
Martin Hale hadn't lifted his head.
"Tell him," Grace demanded.
Martin looked at Nathaniel with an expression that made him suddenly seem much older.
"That bracelet belonged to the baby Victor DeLuca brought home in March of 1985."
Nathaniel stared at him.
"Me?"
Martin nodded.
"The night you were born, your father sent me to St. Agnes Hospital. He told me to collect a child and never ask questions."
"Whose child?"
Martin hesitated.
Nathaniel slammed his palm against the desk.
"Whose child, Martin?"
"A young woman named Diane Collins."
Grace stumbled backward.
"No."
Nathaniel turned toward her.
"Grace?"
"That's my mother's name."
The room went silent.
Martin closed his eyes.
And for the first time that night, Nathaniel looked genuinely frightened.
Grace sat down because her legs would no longer support her.
"My mother was married to Daniel Collins," she said. "They lived in Lowell. She worked at a nursing home, and my father repaired heating systems."
Nathaniel carefully picked up the bracelet.
"Is your mother still alive?"
Grace shook her head.
"She died six years ago."
Something tightened in his chest.
He had spent most of his life missing Elena DeLuca, the woman who raised him.
Now he was learning that another woman might have spent decades living without him.
"Did she ever mention having a child before you?"
Grace looked down.
"She used to talk about a little boy."
Martin gripped the arms of his chair.
Grace continued.
"When I was small, she'd sit at the kitchen table on his birthday. She always baked a chocolate cake."
"What birthday?" Nathaniel asked.
"March eighteenth."
Nathaniel's hand tightened around the bracelet.
"My birthday."
Grace's eyes filled with tears.
"She said she'd lost a baby a long time ago. I thought he had died."
Martin whispered, "That's what she was told."
Nathaniel turned.
"You said my father brought me home. Now you're telling me my mother thought I was dead?"
Martin rubbed his forehead.
"I wasn't there when they took the baby from Diane. Victor said the arrangement had been made. I believed him."
"An arrangement?"
"Victor and Elena couldn't have children. They'd spent years trying. Then Victor learned about a young couple facing financial trouble."
Nathaniel looked toward Grace.
"Your parents?"
Martin nodded.
"Daniel Collins was working at a construction site owned by Victor's company. There was an accident. He suffered a serious spinal injury."
Grace's expression changed.
"My father walked with a cane for the rest of his life."
"Victor offered to pay for the surgery," Martin said.
Nathaniel felt sick.
"What did he demand in return?"
Martin didn't answer.
He didn't need to.
Grace stood slowly.
"My mother loved her children."
"Grace—"
"She would never have sold her baby."
"I didn't say she did."
"But that's what you're thinking."
Nathaniel rose.
"No. I'm thinking somebody used her husband's injury to trap her."
Martin looked away.
Grace pointed toward him.
"And you helped."
Martin's face crumpled.
"I drove the car. I carried the baby. That's what I did."
"You could have asked questions," Grace said.
"Yes."
"Did you?"
"No."
Grace turned toward the door.
Nathaniel followed her.
"Grace, please."
She stopped.
"Don't ask me to feel sorry for him."
"I'm not."
"Because my mother spent every March eighteenth crying over a son she believed was dead. And somebody in this house knew why."
Nathaniel looked back at Martin.
For decades, Martin had been almost another father to him.
Now Nathaniel couldn't bear to look at his face.
"Take him to the sitting room," he told Aaron. "Don't let him leave until we've checked every part of his story."
Martin stood.
"Nathaniel, there are things about Victor you don't understand."
Nathaniel's voice hardened.
"Then you should have told me before I turned forty-one."
By morning, Grace's brother had been transferred to a rehabilitation center whose billing arrangements could no longer be influenced by Brianna.
His name was Owen Collins.
He was twenty-four, and a workplace injury had left him struggling to regain strength and mobility in his right leg.
Grace had spent nearly all her savings on his treatment.
When she called him, he immediately heard the exhaustion in her voice.
"Gracie, what's wrong?"
She closed her eyes.
"Something happened at work."
"Are you hurt?"
"A little. I'm being taken care of."
He paused.
"That's what you say when it's bad."
Despite everything, she smiled.
Then she told him about the bracelet.
About their mother's birthday cakes.
And about Nathaniel.
Owen was silent for almost a minute.
Finally, he asked, "The little boy Mom talked about?"
"Maybe."
"The one she kept the blue sweater for?"
Grace sat upright.
"What sweater?"
"Come on, Grace. The old blue baby sweater in her cedar chest. You remember."
Grace remembered it immediately.
Their mother had kept it wrapped in tissue paper with an unsigned Christmas card.
She had never allowed anyone to throw it away.
Owen continued.
"Mom told me once that she knitted it for someone who was supposed to come home."
Grace pressed her hand over her mouth.
Nathaniel spent the morning examining his father's old belongings.
The jacket containing the hospital bracelet had once belonged to Victor DeLuca.
Years earlier, Nathaniel had discovered it among his father's clothes and had it altered to fit him.
The tailor had preserved its original lining because Elena had embroidered a tiny bluebird inside the collar.
Nathaniel had worn it to his engagement celebration in memory of both parents.
Now he understood that Elena had hidden something beneath the fabric.
She must have known.
But how much?
Aaron entered carrying a folder recovered from Martin's office.
"Boss, there's something you should see."
The folder contained maintenance invoices.
Three weeks earlier, Martin had authorized private contractors to inspect the generator room.
The payment hadn't come from the DeLuca estate.
It had come from Whitmore Development Holdings.
Brianna's father's company.
Nathaniel frowned.
"Her father told me his company was nearly bankrupt."
"According to the records, it's worse than bankrupt. It owes millions."
"To whom?"
Aaron opened another page.
"The DeLuca Family Trust."
Nathaniel looked up sharply.
"My father loaned money to Whitmore?"
"Not exactly. The loans were issued after Victor died."
"But I never approved them."
"Your signature appears on every authorization."
Nathaniel examined one page.
The signature looked nearly perfect.
Almost.
His father had taught him to sign important documents with a deliberate break between his first and last names.
These signatures didn't have that break.
"They're forged."
Aaron nodded.
"And the outstanding debt is secured by several properties belonging to your estate."
Nathaniel looked toward the old photograph.
The missing mother's face.
The unknown child.
The forged trust documents.
Someone had spent years creating a financial trap around him.
And Brianna's engagement had placed her directly inside it.
That afternoon, Brianna asked to speak with Nathaniel privately.
He agreed, but only after confirming that Grace was resting safely.
Brianna entered wearing the same engagement ring he'd given her six months earlier.
For the first time, he noticed how exhausted she looked.
"My father is going to ruin us," she said.
Nathaniel remained standing.
"What does that mean?"
"He borrowed money against properties he didn't own. Martin helped him."
"Why?"
Brianna swallowed.
"Because they believed the trust would eventually belong to someone else."
"Who?"
She stared at the floor.
"My father told me Victor DeLuca had a daughter."
Nathaniel felt a chill.
"A daughter?"
"One who disappeared from the family records."
He remembered the little girl inside Elena's locket.
Dark curls.
A solemn face.
"What's her name?"
Brianna shook her head.
"I don't know. My father called her the rightful heir."
Nathaniel reached into his pocket and placed the silver locket on the table.
"Is this her?"
Brianna's eyes widened.
"Where did you get that?"
"It fell from your purse."
She whispered, "My mother gave it to me when I was sixteen."
"Who is the girl?"
Brianna looked at the photograph.
"I thought it was me."
Nathaniel studied the child's face again.
The resemblance was undeniable.
But the engraving inside the locket was older than Brianna herself.
"Why would my mother have your childhood photograph?"
Brianna began to cry.
"I don't know."
For once, Nathaniel believed her.
That evening, Grace visited her family's small house in Lowell with Aaron accompanying her.
The cedar chest still stood at the foot of her mother's bed.
Inside, beneath folded blankets, lay the blue sweater Owen had mentioned.
Grace lifted it gently.
The wool was faded but carefully preserved.
Beneath it was a child's drawing.
A little house.
Two adults.
And a baby lying in a crib.
Across the bottom, in her mother's handwriting, were the words:
For my little boy, wherever you are.
Grace wiped away her tears.
Then she noticed something sewn into the sweater's collar.
A tiny strip of white cloth.
She carefully unfolded it.
There was a name written in blue ink.
Nathaniel Daniel Collins.
Grace stared at the words.
Her mother's handwriting.
Her father's name.
Nathaniel's first name.
But the most shocking discovery was underneath.
A hospital admission slip, folded into the lining.
It recorded Diane Collins entering St. Agnes Hospital on March 18, 1985.
The admission wasn't for one baby.
It was for twins.
Grace read the notation twice.
INFANT A: MALE.
INFANT B: FEMALE.
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And beside the second entry, someone had written:
Transferred to Whitmore custody.
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