Chapter 8 - THE FATHER WHO STOLE FOUR YEARS
“My father taught me how to bury a man. Apparently, he also taught everyone how to bury the truth.”
Dominic set the photograph on the table.
His face had lost all color.
Franklin Moretti.
The man everyone believed had died eight years earlier.
The man whose funeral Dominic had attended.
The man who had taught his sons that loyalty mattered more than blood.
He was alive.
Or at least he had been alive four years ago.
The investigator examined the photograph.
“Mr. Moretti, are you certain this is your father?”
Dominic gave a bitter laugh.
“I spent thirty years trying not to become him. I'm certain.”
I looked at the address written on the back.
A modest residential street in Evanston.
Not a private island.
Not a guarded fortress.
Just an ordinary neighborhood.
Somehow, that made it more disturbing.
Dominic noticed my expression.
“What?”
“Your father didn't disappear because he couldn't afford to be found.”
“No.”
“He disappeared because people helped him.”
Dominic looked toward the blue ledger.
“Caleb.”
“Maybe,” I said. “But the handwriting changes halfway through. We still don't know who wrote those entries.”
The investigator photographed the evidence.
Then he sealed the original ledger for forensic examination.
Dominic watched without protesting.
I knew that must have been difficult.
For most of his adult life, he had solved problems with money, threats, and loyal men.
Now he was allowing strangers to examine the secrets of his family.
And hoping they'd tell him the truth.
We returned to the hospital under police escort.
Dominic's doctors had recommended continued observation and additional neurological testing.
His seizures were real.
The medication discrepancies were being investigated.
And the evidence suggested that someone had used his condition to keep him dependent and isolated.
But no responsible doctor was promising a simple cure.
Dominic understood that.
What hurt him more was realizing how often he'd mistaken dependence for loyalty.
That afternoon, Rosa brought Lily to visit.
The social worker had approved a temporary supervised arrangement while the court reviewed her care.
Lily entered carrying a folded piece of paper.
“Uncle Dom?”
He looked up.
“Yes, little bird?”
“I made you something.”
She handed him a drawing.
It showed a house with three figures standing outside.
One was Lily.
One was Rosa.
The third was a very tall man holding an enormous flashlight.
Dominic smiled.
“Why am I carrying a flashlight?”
“Because Penny broke the other light.”
I laughed.
Dominic looked at me.
“Apparently, you're famous.”
Lily smiled shyly.
Then she asked, “Can you keep the light on when I sleep?”
His expression softened.
“As long as you want.”
She nodded.
“Not flashing, though.”
“Never flashing.”
That small exchange nearly broke my heart.
Children shouldn't have to negotiate the conditions under which they feel safe.
But Lily had spent four years learning that adults could change her entire world without telling her why.
Rosa took her downstairs for lunch.
After they left, Dominic looked at the drawing.
“I want to get this right.”
“What?”
“Being someone she can depend on.”
I pulled a chair closer.
“Then don't promise things you can't control.”
He looked at me.
“What should I promise?”
“That you'll listen. That you'll tell her the truth in words she understands. And that she won't be punished for being frightened.”
Dominic nodded.
“I can do that.”
Then he picked up the photograph of Benjamin.
“And him?”
I looked at the little boy's face.
“Start by being a person his mother can trust to keep him safe.”
Dominic stared at me.
“You make that sound simple.”
“It isn't.”
He almost smiled.
For several seconds, we sat quietly.
Then Ethan entered.
“The police located the house in Evanston.”
Dominic straightened.
“And?”
“It's registered to a retired man named Frederick Lane.”
“Frederick?”
Ethan nodded.
“Neighbors describe him as quiet. He walks every morning and volunteers at a neighborhood church.”
Dominic closed his eyes.
“Of course he does.”
“There's more,” Ethan said.
“Go on.”
“Caleb Mercer visited the house twice last week.”
Dominic looked toward me.
I felt my stomach tighten.
“If Franklin is behind this, Caleb may have been taking orders all along.”
Ethan hesitated.
“Police have requested a warrant. But someone else was seen leaving the house yesterday.”
“Who?”
“A woman. Around forty. Dark hair. Driving a gray sedan.”
Dominic stood too quickly.
“Julia.”
Ethan nodded.
“We believe so.”
Dominic reached for his coat.
I stopped him.
“No.”
“Penny—”
“You're not rushing into a house where the people who separated you from your son might be waiting.”
His jaw tightened.
“She's there.”
“Then let the investigators do their job.”
“She's the mother of my child.”
“And you're still recovering from a seizure.”
He stared at me.
For a moment, I thought he'd argue.
Instead, he sat down.
“Fine.”
The word sounded painful.
But he meant it.
Two hours later, detectives contacted Ethan.
Franklin Lane had agreed to speak with investigators.
He admitted his legal name had once been Franklin Moretti.
He also confirmed that Julia had visited him.
But he claimed she left unharmed.
Dominic watched the recorded interview from his hospital room.
His father looked older.
Thin.
Silver-haired.
But the cold eyes were unchanged.
Franklin sat across from two detectives in a plain interview room.
“I didn't kill Anthony,” he said.
One detective asked, “Then why were you at the warehouse?”
Franklin folded his hands.
“Because my son was about to ruin everything I built.”
Dominic leaned toward the screen.
“What does that mean?” I whispered.
Franklin continued.
“Anthony discovered something about Caleb. He thought he could expose it without destroying the family.”
“What had Caleb done?” the detective asked.
Franklin smiled faintly.
“Caleb was never the mastermind.”
Dominic went rigid.
The detective leaned forward.
“Who was?”
Franklin looked directly at the camera.
“Ask Dominic who signed the original transfer authorizations.”
Dominic frowned.
“I never signed anything.”
Franklin's smile disappeared.
“You signed everything. You just didn't know what you were signing.”
The detective slid a copy of a document across the table.
Franklin pointed to the signature.
Dominic Moretti.
The date was four years earlier.
The same week Anthony died.
Dominic stared at the screen.
“That isn't my signature.”
I looked closer.
It resembled his handwriting.
But something was wrong.
The final stroke was too smooth.
Too deliberate.
Then I remembered my father's electrical drawings.
Someone had copied his work and changed the connections.
Maybe the same thing had happened to Dominic's records.
The interview continued.
Franklin admitted he'd arranged an elaborate false death years earlier to escape prosecution and enemies.
He claimed Caleb had helped him disappear.
In exchange, Franklin provided money and protection for Lily after her mother's death.
But he insisted that Anthony's death hadn't been planned.
“Then why hide afterward?” the detective asked.
Franklin stared at the table.
“Because the truth would have cost me both sons.”
Dominic laughed bitterly.
“You already lost us.”
The detective asked about Julia.
Franklin's expression finally changed.
“She came to me because she found evidence Anthony was carrying that night.”
“What evidence?”
“A recording.”
“Where is it?”
Franklin shook his head.
“She took it.”
“And where is Julia now?”
Franklin looked toward the camera.
“I don't know.”
Then he added something that made Dominic go completely still.
“But tell my son this.”
The detective waited.
Franklin leaned forward.
“The man who poisoned Dominic's medicine wasn't Caleb Mercer.”
I felt my skin turn cold.
Franklin continued.
“It was the person Dominic trusted to keep him alive.”
Dominic slowly turned toward the hospital doorway.
Dr. Samuel Bennett stood there.
In one hand, he held Dominic's medication chart.
May you like
In the other was a small blue pill organizer.
And for the first time since I'd met him, the doctor's expression held something that looked unmistakably like guilt.
