“The first is Sofia’s birth certificate,” he said. “Mother listed as Bianca Caruso. Father listed as Damian Caruso. Attending physician, Harold Vance. Witnessing nurse, Luciana Moretti.”
Elena felt the room spin.
“My mother signed it?”
Damian laid the paper down.
“Yes.”
“She told me she wasn’t working that room. She said she only came after.”
Damian’s eyes flicked to her.
“Second document. Hospital discharge. Sofia was released into my custody forty-eight hours later.”
Elena’s voice broke.
“I was still in the hospital then.”
“I know.”
“How?”
Damian held up the third document.
“Because this is your discharge record.”
Elena stared at it.
The paper looked official. St. Agnes logo. Her name. Her date of birth. Her address at the time. Doctor’s signature.
Then she saw the diagnosis.
Fetal demise.
Her breath stopped.
At the bottom of the page was another signature.
Luciana Moretti.
Her mother.
Elena whispered, “She signed both.”
Damian said nothing.
Sofia patted Elena’s cheek, as if trying to pull her back from wherever her mind had gone.
“Mama,” she said softly.
Elena closed her eyes and pressed her forehead to Sofia’s.
The word was quieter this time.
Not a scream.
A claim.
Damian turned away, and for a second Elena wondered if he was giving her privacy or hiding his own face.
Marco’s phone buzzed.
He answered, listened, then looked at Damian.
“Luciana Moretti’s apartment is empty.”
Elena lifted her head. “What?”
Marco glanced at her before continuing.
“Neighbors say she left yesterday morning with two suitcases. Paid cash for a cab. No one knows where she went.”
“No.” Elena stood too quickly, clutching Sofia. “That’s impossible. I talked to her three days ago.”
“What did she say?” Damian asked.
Elena’s mouth opened.
Nothing came out.
Because suddenly the conversation came back to her with brutal clarity.
Her mother’s voice, too soft.
You’re working Saturday?
Yes, Ma. Double shift.
At Belladonna?
Yes.
A pause.
Then her mother saying, Don’t wear that perfume anymore, Elena. It makes you smell like the past.
Elena’s stomach turned.
“She knew I’d be here.”
Damian’s expression hardened.
“What perfume?”
Elena touched her throat.
“Orange blossom. My father used to buy it for my mother. She hated it, so when he left, I kept wearing it because it reminded me of him.”
Sofia pressed her face into Elena’s neck again.
Damian watched.
“She recognized the scent.”
“She was newborn,” Elena said. “Babies don’t remember perfume after two years.”
“Maybe she didn’t remember with her head.”
Elena looked down.
Sofia’s eyes were closing. Her little lashes were wet.
“Maybe she remembered with everything else.”
For one unbearable moment, no one spoke.
Then someone knocked on the office door.
Three short knocks.
Marco’s hand went inside his jacket.
Damian moved between the door and Elena without seeming to think about it.
“Who?” he demanded.
A man’s voice answered.
“Anthony. Kitchen.”
Damian nodded to Marco.
Marco opened the door only wide enough to reveal a young line cook with flour on his sleeve and fear on his face.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Caruso,” Anthony said. “I know you said nobody moves. But a woman left this for Elena earlier. Said I should give it to her after Table Seven finished dinner.”
Elena’s heart lurched.
Anthony held out a small brown paper bag.
Damian took it first.
Elena bristled. “That’s mine.”
“Not until I know it won’t hurt you.”
Damian opened it carefully.
Inside was a cheap silver locket.
Elena recognized it instantly.
Her mother’s.
Her hands began to shake.
Damian opened the locket.
There was no photo inside.
Only a folded strip of paper.
He read it.
Then his face changed.
Not much.
Enough.
Elena stepped forward. “What does it say?”
Damian handed it to her.
The note was written in Luciana’s handwriting.
Elena,
If Sofia found you, then God has finally stopped punishing me in silence. Do not trust Carmela. Do not trust Vance. Do not trust the coffin. Locker 314. Port Authority. Your father did not leave us.
Forgive me if you can.
Mama.
Elena stared at the words until they blurred.
Your father did not leave us.
Her father, Carlo Moretti, had vanished when Elena was seventeen. Her mother said he ran from debts. Elena had hated him for years, then mourned him, then tried to forget him.
Now the dead were rising everywhere.
Damian took the note back and read it again.
“Locker 314,” he said.
Marco nodded. “I’ll send men.”
“No,” Elena snapped. “You are not sending anyone without me.”
Damian turned.
“This is not a field trip.”
“That is my mother’s note. My daughter. My father.”
“And my child is in your arms.”
Elena looked at him, furious through tears.
“Your child?”
The words cut the room open.
Damian looked at Sofia.
Pain flickered across his face for the first time.
