Chapter 5 - THE DEAD MAN IN BOSTON
Dead men don't follow women through parking garages.
Which meant either Samuel DeLuca had risen from the grave, or my family had buried a lie instead of a body.
We moved inside.
It was the first time I crossed the threshold of Evelyn's Boston home.
Children's drawings covered one wall.
A toy train sat beneath the coffee table.
Two tiny jackets hung by the door.
Evidence of an entire life that had happened without me.
Then a small voice came from the hallway.
“Mommy?”
My daughter stood there holding a stuffed rabbit.
Evelyn immediately softened.
“Hi, sweetheart.”
The little girl stared at me.
I couldn't move.
“This is Mr. Moretti,” Evelyn said.
Mr. Moretti.
It was reasonable.
It still hurt.
The little girl walked toward me.
“I'm Grace.”
I knelt.
“Hello, Grace.”
“You're in Mommy's picture.”
“So I've heard.”
She considered that seriously.
Then pointed toward the living room.
“My brother's Noah.”
Noah.
My son's name.
I felt something break open inside my chest.
Before I could say more, Nathaniel gently guided Grace back toward the playroom.
Evelyn watched my face.
“I named them Grace and Noah because I needed both.”
I understood.
Grace to survive.
Noah for a new beginning.
Marcus cleared his throat.
“Samuel.”
Right.
The dead man.
Nathaniel spread documents across the dining table.
Samuel DeLuca had died in an alleged car explosion near Lake Geneva.
No body was publicly identified.
The Moretti organization had accepted dental records supplied through a private pathologist.
I knew the pathologist.
Dr. Leonard Shaw.
My mother's cousin.
Evelyn looked at me.
“How many people in your family can manufacture a death certificate?”
“More than I want to admit.”
We spent the next hour tracing Samuel's appearances.
Boston.
New York.
Providence.
Each time, shortly after one of the twins had a medical appointment or Evelyn changed routines.
Then Marcus found something else.
A shell corporation had been paying for Samuel's hotels.
Vittoria Consulting.
I stared at the name.
Vittoria.
My mother's Italian name.
Victoria Moretti.
But the account hadn't been created by her.
The authorized signer was Vincent.
“Your brother again,” Nathaniel said.
I called Vincent.
No answer.
Again.
Nothing.
Then Marcus's phone buzzed.
A message.
He showed me.
It was from Vincent.
DON'T TRUST MOM. DON'T TRUST SAMUEL. AND DON'T COME BACK TO CHICAGO UNTIL I FIND OUT WHO'S USING MY NAME.
Attached was a photograph.
Samuel stood inside my mother's kitchen.
The timestamp was from the previous night.
But the most terrifying part wasn't Samuel.
It was the person sitting across the table from him.
May you like
My mother was smiling.
And between them lay a recent photograph of Grace and Noah.
