Chapter 5 - Rachel’s Father
“No.”
The word came from me.
Not Samuel.
Not Vincent.
Me.
I backed away from the metal box.
“My father was not Michael’s twin.”
Nobody said he was.
That somehow made it worse.
Vincent placed the baby photograph on the cabinet.
“Rachel.”
“My father died when I was fifteen.”
“I know.”
“He was forty-two.”
“I know.”
“He grew up in Pennsylvania. He was adopted by my grandparents. That doesn’t mean—”
My voice broke.
Samuel was staring at my face.
Not rudely.
Searching.
That frightened me.
“Stop looking at me.”
He looked away immediately.
“I’m sorry.”
Madison picked up the St. Christopher necklace.
“If Rachel’s grandmother has the other half—”
“She does.”
My knees felt weak.
Vincent pulled an old wooden chair toward me.
I refused it.
“I need to call her.”
This time Vincent didn’t object.
Grandma Evelyn answered on the second ring.
“Rachel?”
“Grandma.”
Something in my voice changed hers.
“What happened?”
“Why do you have half a St. Christopher medal?”
Silence.
I closed my eyes.
“Please don’t lie.”
“I never lied about Daniel.”
“That isn’t what I asked.”
Another silence.
Then she whispered, “Because the other half went with him.”
Samuel sat down.
Vincent looked toward the rain-dark window.
I held the phone tighter.
“Was Dad born at St. Catherine’s on October 14, 1991?”
“No.”
My heart stumbled.
Then Grandma continued.
“He was born there in 1963.”
I frowned.
Everything stopped.
“What?”
Samuel looked up sharply.
Grandma’s voice shook.
“Your father wasn’t the baby in 1991.”
The relief came so fast it almost hurt.
Then confusion followed.
“Then why does the ticket say S. Bennett?”
“Because Stephen Bennett was your grandfather.”
Vincent took the phone gently from my hand and switched it to speaker.
“Mrs. Bennett, did Anthony give Infant B to your husband?”
“Yes.”
Samuel rose.
“So the child was raised by Rachel’s grandparents?”
“For four days.”
That answer changed everything again.
“What happened after four days?” Vincent asked.
“Stephen refused.”
Samuel looked stunned.
“Why?”
“Because he realized the people searching for the child were dangerous.”
Grandma’s voice became thick.
“He had a wife. A teenage son. Rachel’s father, Daniel. Stephen was brave, but he wasn’t reckless.”
“So where did the baby go?”
“I don’t know.”
“You said you knew where the second child went.”
“I knew the first stop.”
The message on the photograph suddenly made sense.
Maria had known Evelyn could trace the route, not necessarily the destination.
Grandma continued.
“Stephen drove the baby to Baltimore. Anthony met him at Penn Station.”
Samuel whispered, “I lived four blocks from there.”
“Yes.”
“Did Anthony bring the child to me?”
“No.”
“How do you know?”
“Because Stephen came home with a receipt from a boardinghouse. Anthony spent the night there with the child.”
Vincent said, “Name?”
“I don’t remember.”
Madison looked around the old Mercy House nursery.
“Could it have been connected to this place?”
“Possibly.”
Grandma took a breath.
“Rachel, there’s something in my apartment you need.”
“What?”
“Your grandfather’s watch box.”
I almost laughed from sheer exhaustion.
“Another watch?”
“No. The watch was lost years ago. The box remained.”
“Where?”
“Top shelf in my closet.”
Vincent ended the call after promising Grandma we would return soon.
But Marco had entered the nursery.
“Sir.”
Something was wrong.
“What?”
“Michael’s at Mrs. Bennett’s apartment.”
Samuel swore.
I was already moving.
Vincent caught my arm.
Not hard.
“Rachel.”
“My grandmother is there.”
“She has two of my men.”
“I don’t care.”
“I do.”
His voice stopped me.
“I’m not losing anyone because everybody decides to run blindly tonight.”
He turned to Marco.
“Call your men.”
“No answer.”
That was worse.
We drove back across the bridge in silence.
No sirens.
No dramatic convoy.
Vincent had learned enough tonight to understand that noise would only warn Michael.
When we reached Grandma’s street, one security man stood outside.
Awake.
Unharmed.
Vincent got out.
“Where’s Michael?”
“He left five minutes ago.”
“You didn’t stop him?”
The guard looked confused.
“Mrs. Bennett told us he was welcome.”
I ran inside.
Grandma sat at the kitchen table.
Michael DeLuca’s coffee cup remained half full.
She looked furious with us.
Not frightened.
“Why didn’t you tell me Michael was coming?”
I stared at her.
“You let him in?”
“Yes.”
“Grandma!”
“He asked to speak.”
Vincent entered behind me.
“What did he want?”
Grandma looked at him.
“The same thing you want.”
“The truth?”
“A chance to decide what to do with it.”
Samuel came through the doorway.
Grandma’s gaze hardened.
Michael had clearly told her something.
“What did he say?”
She pointed toward the bedroom.
“The watch box is gone.”
My stomach dropped.
Vincent became very still.
“You gave it to him?”
“No.”
“He stole it?”
“No.”
Grandma’s expression sharpened.
“I gave him what was inside it.”
Vincent stared.
“Why?”
“Because it belonged to him.”
Samuel stepped closer.
“What was it?”
Grandma looked at him for a long moment.
“A letter from Rose.”
Madison sat down slowly.
“My grandmother wrote Michael?”
“No.”
Grandma looked toward Samuel.
“She wrote both sons.”
Vincent asked, “What did the letter say?”
“I never opened it.”
“But Michael did?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“He cried.”
That did not fit the Michael we had been building in our heads.
Grandma continued.
“Then he asked me one question.”
“What?”
“Whether Anthony ever forgave Samuel.”
Samuel’s face changed.
Grandma nodded toward him.
“I told Michael I didn’t know.”
Samuel swallowed.
“Then?”
“Then Michael said he had spent half his life hating the wrong man.”
The room went quiet.
Madison whispered, “Anthony.”
“Yes.”
Vincent crossed his arms.
“Where did Michael go?”
“He wouldn’t say.”
“Mrs. Bennett.”
Grandma looked him directly in the eye.
“Do not use that voice on me, young man.”
To my shock, Vincent actually backed off half an inch.
She pointed at the kitchen table.
“He left that.”
A folded piece of paper sat beneath the coffee cup.
Vincent opened it.
Not a letter.
A hand-drawn map.
One street had been circled.
St. Bartholomew Cemetery.
Samuel turned pale.
“My father is buried there.”
Vincent looked at the clock.
Nearly four in the morning.
Madison stood.
“If Michael went to your father’s grave after reading Rose’s letter—”
“He learned something,” I said.
Vincent nodded.
Something that had changed who Michael blamed.
We arrived at St. Bartholomew just before dawn.
Michael’s car stood near the iron gate.
We found him kneeling beside a grave.
No weapon.
No fire.
No destruction.
Just Michael with his expensive coat soaking in wet grass.
In front of him was the grave of DOMENICO DELUCA, 1918–1987.
Samuel stopped twenty feet away.
Michael heard us.
He stood slowly.
His eyes were red.
Vincent spoke first.
“What did Rose write?”
Michael looked at him.
“You still think this is about inheritance.”
“I think you entered my safe.”
“I did.”
“You planted the watch.”
“Yes.”
Madison flinched.
“You told me to destroy it.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Michael looked ashamed.
“Because I thought Anthony stole my brother and killed my mother.”
Samuel whispered, “Rose didn’t die in 1991.”
Michael looked toward him.
“No.”
Samuel froze.
Michael held up Rose’s letter.
“She lived another seventeen years.”
Madison stopped breathing.
“My grandmother died in 2008.”
Michael nodded.
“She wasn’t only your grandmother.”
He looked at Samuel.
“She was still waiting for you.”
Samuel closed his eyes.
Michael handed Vincent the final page.
Vincent read it.
Then read it again.
“What?”
I asked.
Vincent looked at Samuel.
“Rose names the man who took the second baby from Anthony in Baltimore.”
Samuel stepped closer.
“Who?”
Vincent’s face went cold.
“Not our grandfather.”
He turned the letter around.
The name at the bottom was clear.
LEONARD CRANE.
Madison stared at it.
“That’s my father.”
And suddenly the person who had supposedly brought Madison into Vincent’s life was no longer Anthony.
May you like
It was her own family.
---
