Chapter 4 - THE WOMAN WHO KNEW WHY MY MOTHER DIEDMy mother died when I was five years old.
At least, that was what I'd been told my entire life.
Her name was Eleanor Bennett.
She had been a registered nurse at Saint Matthew's Medical Center in Manhattan.
According to the official records, she died in a highway collision during a winter storm in 1999.
I remembered almost nothing about her.
A soft voice.
The smell of lavender soap.
A gold pendant shaped like a tiny star.
And a lullaby she used to sing when thunderstorms frightened me.
My father raised me until I was seventeen.
He never liked discussing her death.
Whenever I asked questions, he said the same thing.
"Your mother loved you more than anything. Remember that."
He died of cancer the summer before I entered college.
After that, I was alone.
I'd never imagined that the Moretti family's secrets could have anything to do with my mother's death.
Until Thomas said there was a woman at the gate waiting to explain it.
"Who is she?" I asked.
Thomas hesitated.
"Her name is Dr. Margaret Reeves."
I had never heard the name.
Lorenzo, however, seemed to recognize it.
His face changed.
"Margaret Reeves?"
Thomas nodded.
Lorenzo sank back into his chair.
"Dear God."
Vincent turned to him.
"Who is she?"
Lorenzo didn't answer.
I stepped closer.
"Lorenzo?"
He looked at me with an expression I couldn't understand.
"Claire, I owe you an apology."
My heart began pounding.
"For what?"
He glanced toward Vincent.
"Bring them inside."
Thomas left immediately.
Sophia remained near the fireplace, looking increasingly nervous.
I studied her.
"You knew about this woman?"
She shook her head.
"Daniel told me he was bringing someone. That's all."
"Did he tell you why?"
"No."
I didn't believe her.
But before I could ask another question, the library doors opened.
A tall man entered wearing a navy suit and an expression so cold it made Vincent's arrogance look almost boyish.
His dark hair was cut shorter than Vincent's.
His jaw was slightly narrower.
A faint scar ran above his right eyebrow.
Otherwise, the resemblance was extraordinary.
Two versions of the same face.
One raised in wealth.
The other hardened by something much darker.
Daniel Hart.
Or Daniel Moretti.
He stopped several feet from Lorenzo.
Neither man spoke.
Then a woman entered behind him.
She appeared to be in her late sixties, with silver hair gathered into a neat bun and a cane in her right hand.
Her eyes moved around the room.
When they reached me, she stopped.
"Oh," she whispered.
Her hand flew to her mouth.
I frowned.
"Do I know you?"
She stared at me with tears gathering in her eyes.
"You look just like Eleanor."
My chest tightened.
"How do you know my mother?"
The woman began crying.
Daniel gently guided her toward a chair.
"Margaret was a physician at Saint Matthew's Medical Center," he said. "She worked with your mother."
I looked at Lorenzo.
He wouldn't meet my eyes.
"Why is she here?"
Daniel turned to me.
"Because your mother discovered what happened to me."
Everything inside me seemed to stop.
"What?"
Margaret opened her handbag and removed a small photograph.
She handed it to me.
Two young women stood outside a hospital.
One was Margaret.
The other was a beautiful brunette with my eyes.
My mother.
I recognized her immediately from the photographs my father kept in a wooden box.
"She was my closest friend," Margaret said.
Her voice shook.
"And she died because she refused to keep quiet."
I couldn't speak.
Daniel moved toward the window.
"Thirty-eight years ago, my adoption wasn't handled legally."
Lorenzo lifted his head.
"What are you saying?"
"I was taken from the hospital."
The room went silent.
Daniel continued.
"The hospital administrator told you I died. Then he arranged for me to be transferred to a private adoption agency."
"Why?" Vincent asked.
Daniel gave him a bitter smile.
"Money."
Lorenzo looked stunned.
"That's impossible."
"No," Margaret said quietly. "It's exactly what happened."
She looked at me.
"Your mother discovered irregularities involving newborn records. She was only twenty-three, newly hired, and determined to become a pediatric nurse practitioner."
I held the photograph so tightly my fingers hurt.
"Why didn't she report it?"
"She did."
Margaret closed her eyes.
"Unfortunately, the person she reported it to was involved."
Lorenzo leaned forward.
"Who?"
"The hospital's chief administrator, Charles Whitcomb."
I saw recognition in Lorenzo's face.
"Whitcomb died years ago."
"Yes," Margaret said. "But before he died, he confessed parts of what he'd done."
Daniel opened a leather folder and placed several documents on the desk.
A handwritten statement.
An adoption record.
A hospital transfer sheet.
And a photograph of a newborn.
"These are copies," he said. "The originals are secured with my attorney."
Lorenzo examined the papers.
His hands trembled.
"Why would anyone steal my son?"
Margaret hesitated.
"Because someone believed your family's money made you an attractive target."
Lorenzo looked confused.
Daniel leaned toward him.
"Whitcomb's confession claims that a private adoption broker sold me to an affluent couple who had been unable to have children."
Vincent frowned.
"The Harts?"
"Yes."
"Did they know?"
Daniel's expression softened.
"Not at first."
For the first time, I saw something other than anger in his eyes.
"My adoptive parents were good people. They loved me. They thought the adoption was legal. When they discovered suspicious documents, they tried to find my birth family."
"What happened?" I asked.
"My adoptive father died before we found enough evidence. My mother spent years looking."
He looked toward Lorenzo.
"Meanwhile, I watched you on television giving interviews about your perfect family."
Lorenzo looked devastated.
"I didn't know."
Daniel shook his head.
"Maybe. Maybe not."
Margaret shifted in her chair.
"There's something else."
She looked directly at me.
"Claire, Eleanor found evidence that the hospital had falsified Daniel's records. She made copies and planned to take them to a federal investigator."
I swallowed.
"Then she died."
Margaret nodded.
"Three days before the meeting."
I stared at her.
"Was the crash an accident?"
She looked away.
"I don't know."
Those three words hurt more than a lie.
Because I wanted certainty.
I wanted someone to tell me my mother hadn't been murdered for trying to help a stolen child.
I wanted the world to make sense.
Instead, I was standing in a mansion surrounded by strangers who knew more about my childhood than I did.
"Why didn't you tell me before?" I asked.
Margaret began crying.
"I was afraid."
"Of whom?"
She looked toward Lorenzo.
He stiffened.
"Margaret?"
She lowered her eyes.
"Not you, Lorenzo."
"Then who?"
She hesitated.
"Your brother."
Vincent frowned.
"My uncle?"
Lorenzo looked confused.
"My brother died twelve years ago."
Margaret nodded.
"Yes. Anthony Moretti."
A silence fell over the room.
Anthony Moretti had been Lorenzo's younger brother.
He'd served as the company's chief financial officer before dying from a stroke.
Vincent had adored him.
I'd heard stories about Uncle Anthony for years.
Brilliant.
Generous.
A devoted family man.
The man who taught Vincent how to negotiate his first business deal.
"Anthony had nothing to do with this," Vincent said immediately.
Margaret looked at him sadly.
"Vincent, your uncle was one of Whitcomb's financial backers."
Vincent shook his head.
"No."
Daniel opened another document.
"These payments came from a company Anthony secretly controlled."
Lorenzo stared at the bank records.
His face slowly drained.
"Anthony handled the family's private investments."
"Exactly," Daniel said.
"And he knew Isabella was looking for me."
Lorenzo covered his face.
I remembered something from the financial records.
The trust linked to Isabella Moretti.
The shell companies.
The strange payments.
"Daniel," I asked, "did Anthony arrange the transfers we've been investigating?"
Daniel looked at me.
"No."
"Then who did?"
He glanced toward Sophia.
"My wife."
Sophia flinched.
Vincent's expression hardened.
"You just admitted it?"
Daniel faced him.
"I know she accessed company accounts. I know she transferred money. But she didn't keep it."
I crossed my arms.
"Where did the money go?"
Daniel hesitated.
"To acquire evidence."
I stared at him.
"Forty-eight million dollars?"
He looked uncomfortable.
"Not all of it."
"Then what happened to the rest?"
He didn't answer.
I understood immediately.
Daniel knew more than he was saying.
Perhaps he hadn't orchestrated everything.
But he had definitely participated.
Lorenzo stood.
"If Anthony was involved, why did you infiltrate the company instead of coming to me?"
Daniel's expression hardened.
"Because I wanted to know whether you were like him."
"And?"
Daniel looked around the grand library.
"I haven't decided."
I stepped between them.
"Then let me make something clear."
Everyone looked at me.
"I am not interested in protecting the Moretti name. I am interested in finding out who stole money, who forged my signature, and what happened to my mother."
Daniel studied me.
"You're tougher than Vincent described."
I looked at my husband.
"Vincent talks about me?"
Daniel smiled faintly.
"Mostly when he's complaining."
I almost laughed.
Then my phone vibrated.
An unknown number.
A photograph appeared.
It showed a handwritten note.
I recognized the handwriting immediately.
My mother's.
I'd kept her birthday cards for nearly thirty years.
Underneath the photograph was a message.
Claire, if you want to know who arranged the accident that killed Eleanor Bennett, ask Lorenzo what happened on December 14, 1999.
My blood went cold.
December 14.
The night my mother died.
I looked at Lorenzo.
"What happened on December fourteenth?"
He stared at me.
His expression changed.
"Claire, where did you hear that date?"
I held up my phone.
His face crumpled.
Then he whispered something I would never forget.
"That's the night your mother came to my house."
I felt the room tilt.
"What?"
Lorenzo looked toward the portrait of Isabella.
"Eleanor came here because she'd discovered something about Daniel."
He swallowed.
"She begged me to protect her."
My voice came out barely audible.
"And did you?"
Lorenzo's eyes filled with tears.
"No."
I stared at him.
"Why not?"
He closed his eyes.
"Because I thought she was trying to blackmail me."
I stepped backward.
My hands began shaking.
"You sent her away?"
He nodded.
"In the middle of a snowstorm."
I could barely breathe.
"And then she died."
Lorenzo didn't answer.
He didn't have to.
I looked around at the people in the room.
My cheating husband.
His secretly married mistress.
His long-lost brother.
The father-in-law I trusted.
And a woman who had waited twenty-seven years to tell me the truth.
I picked up my handbag.
"Claire," Lorenzo whispered.
I turned toward him.
"You knew my mother came here the night she died?"
"Yes."
"And you never told me?"
He lowered his head.
I felt something inside me break.
Not loudly.
Not dramatically.
It was the quiet destruction of trust.
I walked toward the library door.
Vincent followed.
"Claire, please."
I stopped.
"Don't touch me."
He froze.
I looked back at Lorenzo.
"You asked me to investigate your company because you trusted me."
"I do trust you."
"Then you should understand why I can no longer trust you."
I opened the door.
But before I could leave, Daniel spoke.
"Claire."
I turned.
He held up a small gold pendant.
A tiny star.
The same pendant my mother had worn in my childhood memories.
My breath caught.
"Where did you get that?"
Daniel's expression softened.
"It was found in the box of evidence my adoptive mother left me."
He stepped closer.
"Your mother sent it to her before she died."
I reached toward it.
Inside the pendant was a folded piece of paper, impossibly small.
Daniel opened it carefully.
A single sentence appeared.
Written in my mother's handwriting.
If anything happens to me, the truth is beneath Isabella's garden.
And suddenly, every person in that room understood the same thing.
May you like
My mother hadn't simply left behind a warning.
She had left behind a location.
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