Chapter 4 - THE PHOTOGRAPH TAKEN AFTER THEY VANISHED
“A hospital badge?”
Luca repeated the words carefully.
Evelyn nodded.
“Elliot told me a man visited the home and asked questions about children who didn't have relatives involved in their care.”
Dr. Hale stood very still.
Luca noticed.
“Martin?”
The physician shook his head.
“I wasn't involved with the foundation seven years ago.”
“Then why are you nervous?”
“Because I know someone who may have been.”
Vanessa immediately stepped forward.
“Martin, don't speculate.”
He looked at her.
“I'm not speculating. I recognize the name Samuel Price.”
Richard laughed without humor.
“Half the healthcare industry probably knows someone by that name.”
Dr. Hale ignored him.
“Samuel worked as an administrative consultant for a rehabilitation group I joined several years ago.”
Luca frowned.
“Which group?”
“Lakeshore Recovery Partners.”
Anthony closed his eyes.
Evelyn's expression changed.
“That name appeared on some of the old invoices.”
Luca turned toward Richard.
“You said the placement agency was a subcontractor. Was Lakeshore involved?”
Richard folded his hands.
“I arranged financial support for medical services. The children at the home occasionally needed assessments.”
“Assessments for what?” Evelyn asked.
“Behavioral concerns, learning difficulties, trauma.”
“Without telling me?”
“You weren't responsible for the financial agreements.”
“I was responsible for those children.”
Her voice cracked on the last word.
I felt Adelaide grip my hand.
She had been listening with increasing distress.
I looked toward Luca.
“Your mother needs a break.”
He nodded immediately.
“You're right.”
Vanessa approached the wheelchair.
“I can take her upstairs.”
Adelaide recoiled.
It was a small movement.
But everyone saw it.
Vanessa stopped.
Her face crumpled.
“I would never intentionally hurt you.”
Adelaide looked at her.
Then whispered one word.
“Why?”
Vanessa couldn't answer.
Luca crouched beside his mother.
“Mom, Hannah will take you to Dr. Harris. I'll come as soon as I can.”
Adelaide caught his sleeve.
She pointed toward the brass key.
Then toward him.
“Go.”
He hesitated.
She repeated it.
“Go.”
I understood.
She wanted him to keep looking.
Not because she didn't need him.
Because those three children had needed someone for seven years.
A police officer arrived to take preliminary statements while Daniel arranged a medical transport vehicle.
As we prepared to leave, Evelyn approached me.
“Hannah, may I ask you something?”
“Of course.”
“Did Patricia ever mention the old placement files?”
I thought carefully.
“She asked me once whether Mrs. Moretti kept letters from the children.”
“When?”
“About two weeks ago.”
Evelyn frowned.
“What did you tell her?”
“That Mrs. Moretti kept almost everything.”
Evelyn looked toward Adelaide.
“Especially Christmas letters?”
Adelaide nodded.
Then she reached toward her rosary.
I had placed it on the wooden tray earlier.
She held it close to her chest.
Evelyn's eyes widened.
“Adelaide, is that why you kept the children's letters in the old prayer book?”
Another nod.
Luca stepped closer.
“What prayer book?”
“The one your father gave her for their fortieth anniversary,” Evelyn explained. “It stayed in the chapel for years.”
Adelaide tapped the rosary against her palm.
Then looked toward me.
“Blue,” she whispered.
At first, I thought she meant Elliot's coat.
Then I remembered something.
“Mrs. Moretti has a blue prayer book on the shelf in her sitting room.”
She nodded eagerly.
Vanessa looked toward Mrs. Wilson.
“That room was cleaned yesterday.”
My stomach tightened.
“Cleaned by whom?”
Vanessa hesitated.
“The temporary care team.”
Luca looked at Daniel.
“Check the inventory from yesterday's cleaning. Nothing gets discarded.”
He turned back toward his mother.
“Was there something in the prayer book?”
Adelaide nodded.
“Letters?” I asked.
Another nod.
Luca bent closer.
“From Elliot?”
She shook her head.
“From Mia?”
She nodded.
Evelyn put a hand over her mouth.
“Mia Santos used to write letters to Mrs. Moretti every Friday. She was terrified of being forgotten.”
My chest tightened.
I imagined a child sitting on her bed, writing to someone she hoped would remember her.
And I thought of my own mother.
She worked long shifts when I was little.
Sometimes she came home too tired to cook.
But she never forgot my school plays.
She never forgot my birthday.
Love, I had learned, wasn't always having enough time.
Sometimes it was making sure someone knew they mattered despite everything.
Adelaide touched my cheek.
“Good,” she whispered.
Then her eyes closed.
For one frightening moment, I thought she had fainted.
Dr. Hale moved forward.
“She's exhausted. We should get her evaluated immediately.”
Luca nodded.
The transport team took her carefully.
I accompanied her to the hospital.
Dr. Harris met us there.
She was a practical woman in her fifties who had treated Adelaide for more than a decade.
After examining her and reviewing the available medication information, she spoke privately with us.
“There are discrepancies that need urgent investigation,” she said. “But we cannot assume every symptom was caused by medication without reviewing the complete records.”
“Can she recover?” I asked.
“Her neurological recovery will take time. What concerns me is whether inappropriate sedation interfered with her therapy.”
Adelaide looked toward me.
I held her hand.
“We're going to listen to you.”
She squeezed my fingers.
Dr. Harris ordered appropriate medical monitoring and began arranging an independent medication reconciliation.
Then she asked an unexpected question.
“Has Mrs. Moretti been using her communication notebook regularly?”
“Every day.”
“Good. Keep doing that. And please don't confuse difficulty speaking with an inability to understand.”
I almost cried.
Those were the words Adelaide had needed someone to say for months.
Meanwhile, Luca and Daniel went to the former foundation office.
It occupied the second floor of a modest brick building near the river.
Anthony's brass key opened a dented metal cabinet.
Inside were old ledgers, storage receipts, and a photograph album.
The children's original records weren't there.
But a folder labeled Lakeshore remained.
Among its contents was a payment schedule.
Luca later showed me a photograph of the page.
Three initials appeared repeatedly.
E.T.
M.S.
B.R.
Beside each were monthly amounts.
The payments continued for years after the supposed transfers.
That suggested someone had continued billing for services connected to the children.
But one additional column unsettled Luca more than anything.
It was marked Sponsor.
Every entry carried the same two letters.
A.B.
Luca assumed they stood for Anthony Bellini.
Then he found the accompanying authorization form.
The signature belonged to Adelaide Moretti.
He stared at it.
His mother had supposedly approved the payments.
But there was a problem.
The date was four months after her stroke.
And the signature was almost perfect.
Too perfect.
It matched the signature on a document she had signed years earlier, down to a tiny break in the final letter.
Someone appeared to have reproduced it.
Daniel photographed the records and secured the cabinet.
Then Luca found a sealed envelope tucked beneath the final ledger.
It was addressed in a child's handwriting.
TO MRS. MORETTI, IF ANYONE EVER FINDS THIS.
Inside was a drawing.
Three children stood in front of a blue house.
A woman with gray hair stood beside them.
Above the house, the child had written:
WE ARE STILL HERE.
Luca turned the page.
On the back was a short message.
Mrs. Moretti, the people who moved us said you didn't want us anymore. I don't believe them. Please come before they move Ben again.
It was signed:
Mia, age 11.
And beneath the signature was something Luca couldn't explain.
A recent date.
Not seven years ago.
May you like
Not five.
Six weeks earlier.
