Chapter 3 - THE GIRL IN THE GRAY COAT
“That's Clara's necklace.”
Mr. Bellini stared at the silver locket resting against my collarbone.
I instinctively covered it with my hand.
“It's mine.”
My voice sounded smaller than I intended.
The older man's eyes narrowed.
“Where did you get it?”
“My mother gave it to me.”
“What is your mother's name?”
Luca stepped between us.
“You don't question my employee. Not after what happened tonight.”
Mr. Bellini ignored him.
“Answer me, young lady.”
“My mother's name is Margaret Carter.”
For one brief moment, something changed in his face.
Recognition.
Then fear.
He lowered himself into his chair.
Luca noticed.
“What do you know about Margaret Carter?”
“Nothing worth discussing.”
“Then why do you look as though you've seen a ghost?”
Mr. Bellini remained silent.
Nicholas tugged my sleeve.
“Miss Emily, is that your mommy's necklace?”
I looked down at him.
“Yes, sweetheart.”
“Does it have a picture?”
I nodded.
He gave a small, hopeful smile.
“Mine has Mommy's picture too.”
That almost made me cry.
Instead, I opened my locket.
Inside was a faded photograph of a little girl standing beside a woman with dark hair.
On the opposite side was a tiny dried blue flower.
The photograph was old enough that the faces had begun to blur.
Adrian leaned forward.
“May I?”
I hesitated.
Then held it where he could see.
He studied the photograph without touching it.
“Mr. Moretti, would you look at the girl in this picture?”
Luca bent closer.
His brow furrowed.
“She looks like Emily.”
“Because she's me,” I said.
Adrian shook his head.
“Perhaps. But I'd like to know when the photograph was taken.”
“I was told I was about six.”
“And the woman?”
“My mother.”
Adrian glanced toward Luca.
Then toward the wider photograph of Amelia and Nicholas.
The resemblance was unsettling.
Not between Amelia and me.
Between the young woman beside the snowman and the woman in my locket.
The same dark hair.
The same narrow chin.
The same unusual silver necklace.
Luca looked directly at me.
“Emily, has your mother ever mentioned the Moretti family?”
I laughed nervously.
“No.”
Then I stopped.
Because that wasn't entirely true.
When I was seventeen, my mother had found a Chicago newspaper folded beneath my schoolbooks.
There had been an article about a Moretti charity gala.
She'd stared at the photograph of Luca's father for a long time.
Then she'd told me never to accept favors from powerful men.
I'd forgotten the conversation.
Until now.
“My mother once warned me about wealthy families,” I admitted.
Luca watched me carefully.
“Did she say why?”
“No.”
Vanessa moved toward the fireplace.
“Luca, this is getting out of hand.”
He turned.
“You had my wife's belongings. You knew about Clara. You lied about Switzerland. And now you're telling me to stop asking questions?”
“I was trying to keep this from happening.”
“What?”
Vanessa glanced toward me.
“Her finding out in front of strangers.”
My stomach tightened.
“Finding out what?”
Mr. Bellini rose again.
“Vanessa, enough.”
She stared at him.
“You told me she was living somewhere safe.”
“She was.”
“You told me she had a different life.”
“She did.”
“And you told me Amelia had agreed to leave her alone.”
Luca caught her arm gently but firmly.
“Who are you talking about?”
Vanessa looked at me.
Her eyes filled.
“Emily.”
The room seemed to tilt.
I shook my head.
“No.”
I didn't even know what I was refusing.
But I knew I didn't want whatever answer was coming.
Adrian closed his notebook.
“Perhaps we should proceed carefully. We have several pieces of information, but they don't yet establish Emily's identity.”
His caution gave me something to hold on to.
I wasn't a mystery.
I was Emily Carter.
I had a mother who loved me.
A small apartment on the west side.
Bills I couldn't pay.
And a little boy upstairs who needed somebody to defend him.
I wasn't interested in becoming someone's scandal.
“I'm going home,” I said.
Luca turned toward me.
“Emily—”
“My mother needs her medicine in the morning. And I need to think.”
He looked at the bloodstained napkin around my finger.
“You need a doctor first.”
“It's a small cut.”
“It was caused in my house. While you were protecting my son.”
He signaled Marco.
“Arrange medical care and a driver.”
Vanessa looked down.
For the first time that evening, she appeared ashamed.
“Emily,” she whispered, “I shouldn't have hurt you.”
I stared at her.
“You didn't just hurt me.”
Her eyes lifted.
“You frightened Nicholas. You made him apologize for loving his mother.”
Vanessa swallowed.
“I know.”
“No, ma'am. I don't think you do.”
Nicholas suddenly wrapped his arms around my waist.
“Are you leaving forever?”
I knelt.
“No, sweetheart.”
“Promise?”
I hesitated.
Because I didn't know whether I could return.
Then I touched his cheek.
“I promise I'll tell you myself if anything changes. I won't just disappear.”
He nodded solemnly.
“Okay.”
Luca looked away.
He understood what that promise meant.
Someone had disappeared from his son's life before.
And now another woman might be about to do the same.
Before I left, Adrian approached with the wider photograph.
“Emily, there's something you should see.”
He turned it over.
On the back, in Amelia's handwriting, were three names.
Amelia.
Nicholas.
Clara.
Beneath them was a date from almost three years earlier.
But the fourth line had been scratched out.
Adrian tilted the photograph beneath the chandelier.
A few letters remained visible.
MARG—
My breath caught.
“Margaret?”
He nodded.
“Possibly.”
I looked at him.
“Why would my mother's name be on Amelia Moretti's photograph?”
“I don't know.”
Then he handed me a small card.
“My office number. Please ask your mother whether she recognizes the woman in the gray coat.”
I slipped it into my pocket.
The drive to my mother's apartment passed in silence.
After a doctor treated my finger at a nearby clinic, Marco took me home.
He waited downstairs while I climbed the familiar narrow staircase.
My mother was sitting in the kitchen.
She wore her old blue cardigan.
Her medicine organizer stood beside a half-finished cup of tea.
When she saw my bandaged finger, she rose immediately.
“What happened?”
I explained the scissors.
The dinner.
The mitten.
And finally the name Clara.
Her face changed.
I took out the photograph.
“Mom, do you know this woman?”
She stared.
Her fingers began trembling.
Then she slowly sat down.
“Where did you get that?”
“From a Swiss businessman.”
My mother covered her mouth.
“Emily, I asked you never to get involved with those people.”
“Who are they?”
She closed her eyes.
“The family I spent twenty years trying to keep away from you.”
I felt my stomach drop.
“Why?”
She looked toward the silver locket at my throat.
Then whispered, “Because I promised someone I would never let them take you back.”
I stared at her.
“Take me back where?”
Tears slid down her cheeks.
She reached across the table for my hand.
“Sweetheart, I need to tell you something about the day you came to live with me.”
I couldn't move.
My mother squeezed my fingers.
“You were seven years old. You had a gray winter coat and one red mitten.”
My breath stopped.
May you like
Then she said the sentence that changed everything.
“Emily, when I first met you, your name was Clara Moretti.”
