Chapter 8 - The Man My Mother Remembered
I watched the video eleven times.
On the twelfth, Matteo gently lowered the tablet.
"Clara."
"Again."
"We've seen it."
"Again."
He hesitated.
Then pressed play.
My mother sat beside the lobby window.
Her blue cardigan buttoned all the way to her throat.
The stranger approached from the elevator.
He said something.
She looked up.
Her face changed.
Her hand flew to her mouth.
Then she started crying.
I had seen my mother cry plenty of times.
When we couldn't afford rent.
When our old dog died.
When her hands became too stiff to bake.
But these tears were different.
They were full of something I had never seen in her face before.
Recognition.
Hope.
The man bent down.
He touched her cheek.
She gripped his hand.
And suddenly I understood why she'd followed him.
She believed he was my father.
Maybe he was.
Maybe he wasn't.
But she believed it.
"Could that really be Daniel?" I asked.
Matteo studied the screen.
"It could."
"You don't sound convinced."
"Twenty-six years is a long time."
"So?"
"So people can change."
I looked at him.
"And photographs can lie?"
"Yes."
Leo entered the study carrying a folder.
"I ran facial comparison against the old Hawthorne records."
My heart pounded.
"And?"
"Strong resemblance."
"How strong?"
"Strong enough that I'm not dismissing it."
I stared at him.
"That's not the same as saying he's my father."
"No."
I rubbed my face.
"Fantastic."
Matteo stood.
"Come with me."
I looked up.
"Where?"
"Somewhere private."
"You're going to have to narrow that down."
He paused.
"There's something else about Daniel you deserve to know."
The room seemed to contract.
"What?"
"He wasn't just your mother's husband."
I stood.
"Was he a criminal?"
Matteo hesitated.
"He worked with federal investigators."
I stared.
"What?"
"Your father was cooperating with a federal corruption investigation before the fire."
I felt the floor disappear beneath me.
"Against your family?"
"Against several people."
"Your father?"
"Yes."
I pressed my palms against the desk.
"My father was an informant?"
"Possibly a protected witness."
I laughed bitterly.
"Is there anyone in my family who wasn't secretly involved in a federal conspiracy?"
Matteo didn't smile.
"I wish there were."
I looked toward the harbor.
A ferry moved across the black water, its lights trembling on the waves.
Somewhere out there, my mother was with a man she believed was her husband.
And someone wanted me dead.
I thought about the years she'd spent alone.
The birthdays.
The holidays.
The nights she fell asleep watching old movies because silence made her sad.
If Daniel had been alive all that time, why hadn't he come home?
Why had he let us struggle?
"Where was he?" I whispered.
Matteo said nothing.
"Twenty-six years."
I turned around.
"Where was he while Mom worked herself into the hospital?"
"Clara—"
"Where was he when I turned ten? Fifteen? Twenty?"
My voice cracked.
"Where was he when she cried because she couldn't afford my college textbooks?"
Matteo's face softened.
"I don't know."
For once, I believed him.
That made it worse.
I sank into the chair.
And then the tears came.
Not the pretty movie kind.
The ugly, furious kind.
I cried because I'd spent my entire life believing one version of my family.
I cried because my mother was missing.
I cried because I was exhausted.
And because somewhere between a spilled whiskey tray and a murder accusation, my life had stopped belonging to me.
Matteo remained where he was.
He didn't touch me.
Didn't tell me to calm down.
Didn't offer some ridiculous promise that everything would be fine.
He simply waited.
Eventually I wiped my face.
"Do you have tissues?"
He opened a drawer and handed me a box.
I looked at the label.
"Of course you have ridiculously expensive tissues."
A faint smile appeared.
"They were on sale."
I snorted.
He sat opposite me.
"Clara, there is something I need to ask."
"That sounds dangerous."
"It might be."
"Go ahead."
"When your mother gave you the music box, did she say anything unusual?"
I frowned.
"She said it belonged to someone who loved me."
"Anything else?"
"She said if I ever lost it, I shouldn't go looking."
Matteo's expression changed.
"Those exact words?"
"Yes."
"Why didn't you mention that earlier?"
"Because I thought she was being sentimental."
He leaned back.
"She knew."
"Knew what?"
"That someone would eventually come for it."
I thought about the stolen box.
The hidden envelope.
The photograph.
Then something clicked.
"Wait."
Matteo looked at me.
"What?"
"My mother used to make me practice a phone number."
He went still.
"What number?"
"I don't remember all of it."
"Try."
I closed my eyes.
I was six.
Sitting at the kitchen table.
Mom was stirring soup.
She'd told me that if I ever got lost, I should remember a special number.
Not 911.
A different number.
A number she called our rainy-day number.
I whispered the first digits.
"Six-one-seven."
Matteo leaned forward.
"Go on."
"Five-five-five."
I frowned.
"The last four were a year."
"What year?"
I opened my eyes.
"Two thousand."
Leo swore softly.
Matteo stood.
"What?" I demanded.
He looked at Leo.
"Get a secure line."
"Boss?"
"Now."
I stared at them.
"What is happening?"
Matteo turned toward me.
"That number belonged to a private answering service."
I frowned.
"So?"
"Your mother used it to communicate with people investigating Hawthorne."
My heart hammered.
"Who?"
He didn't answer.
"Matteo."
He looked almost reluctant.
"An FBI task force."
I stared.
"The FBI?"
"Yes."
"You mean my mother might have been working with the FBI?"
"She was."
I sat very still.
Then my phone vibrated.
Another unknown message.
No photograph this time.
Just six words.
Ask Clara about the rainy-day number.
I showed Matteo.
His expression changed immediately.
Then a second message arrived.
We know she remembers.
My phone rang.
Unknown caller.
Matteo held out his hand.
I shook my head.
"No."
"Clara."
"I'm answering."
I accepted the call.
"Hello?"
A man breathed on the other end.
Then a voice said softly:
"Happy birthday, sweetheart."
The room stopped moving.
I knew that voice.
Not from memory.
From a recording my mother played every Christmas.
A recording of my father singing before I was born.
"Dad?" I whispered.
The man inhaled sharply.
Then said the last thing I expected.
"Clara, whatever Matteo Conti tells you, don't trust him."
May you like
A pause.
"He's the reason your mother had to disappear."
