Chapter 2 - THE BOY WHO NEVER REACHED HIS GRAVE
I dropped the coffee pot.
It shattered against the diner floor.
Hot coffee spread beneath Roman Moretti's expensive shoes.
He didn't move.
Neither did I.
"You're lying," I whispered.
Roman's expression remained steady.
"I hope the photograph is genuine. But we need to verify it."
I shook my head.
"Owen died seven years ago."
"I understand that's what you were told."
"My mother identified him."
Roman hesitated.
"Are you certain?"
The question brought back memories I had spent years trying to bury.
Mom crying beside the kitchen sink.
Dad refusing to discuss the hospital.
A social worker bringing paperwork.
And a doctor telling us that Owen's condition had deteriorated unexpectedly.
I was eighteen.
I had signed nothing.
Seen nothing.
Questioned everything.
But grief had eventually exhausted me.
Roman picked up the photograph.
"Beatrice recognized the hospital logo on the back."
I looked at him.
"Your mother?"
He nodded.
"She volunteered with an organization that provided services to deaf children."
My chest tightened.
"Owen went to a program like that."
"Which one?"
"Bright Horizons."
Roman's jaw hardened.
He knew the name.
I could tell.
"What?"
He looked toward the window.
"Bright Horizons was funded by a charitable trust associated with my father's businesses."
I stared at him.
"Your father?"
"Yes."
"Is he alive?"
Roman's expression became cold.
"He died five years ago."
Wonderful.
Apparently, dead people were becoming the most popular characters in my life.
I sat opposite him.
"Why would anyone take Owen?"
Roman didn't answer immediately.
Then he said, "We need to find out."
I looked at the photograph again.
Owen was standing beside a brick building.
A small garden appeared behind him.
His expression was serious.
Older.
Different.
But unmistakably my brother.
I touched his face.
"Owen."
My voice broke.
Roman pushed a napkin toward me.
For once, he didn't issue commands.
He waited.
Then my phone vibrated.
An unknown number.
A message appeared.
Stop asking about your brother.
My blood turned cold.
A second message followed.
The Morettis already took one child from your family.
Roman saw my expression.
"What happened?"
I showed him the phone.
His face changed.
Then a third message arrived.
A photograph.
It showed me standing outside Murphy's Diner that morning.
Taken from across the street.
Beneath it were six words.
Don't make us take another one.
Roman rose slowly.
His security chief approached.
But I wasn't looking at either man.
I was staring at the sender's profile photograph.
A woman smiling beside a hospital bed.
A woman I recognized instantly.
My mother.
May you like
Except my mother had died three years ago.
And the photograph had been taken yesterday.
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