Chapter 11 - The Daughter Who Was Never Supposed to Exist
The investigators recovered Lydia's phone in pieces.
Someone had smashed it, soaked it in water, and stuffed it beneath a loose stone in the pumping station.
They expected to find nothing useful.
But the memory chip had survived.
Detective Bennett called me into a temporary interview room at the estate that afternoon.
"We recovered portions of several videos."
I sat opposite her.
"Is Lydia alive?"
"We don't know yet."
"What about the note?"
"We're checking the handwriting."
She turned a laptop toward me.
A woman appeared onscreen.
She had dark auburn hair, green eyes, and a narrow face.
Lydia Morgan.
Samuel's mother.
She stood inside a small apartment.
The date showed the recording had been made four months earlier.
"If anything happens to me," she began, "please make sure Samuel gets to his brother."
My throat tightened.
She continued.
"Vittorio promised Dante would protect him."
Lydia paused.
Then she looked away from the camera.
"I didn't want to involve the Rossi family."
Her voice broke.
"But Elena found us."
A little boy called from another room.
Lydia turned toward the sound.
"Just a minute, sweetheart."
She faced the camera again.
"There is something else."
I leaned forward.
"Vittorio told me about Isabella."
She took a trembling breath.
"He said Isabella had a daughter before their marriage ended."
Bennett glanced at me.
I kept watching.
"After the accident, everyone believed the child died with her."
Lydia shook her head.
"She didn't."
My heart began pounding.
"Elena found out the girl survived when she was fourteen."
Lydia's voice grew quiet.
"She began searching for her."
The recording cut.
A second recovered clip began.
Lydia sat closer to the camera.
"Her name is Evelyn Hart."
I repeated the name silently.
Evelyn Hart.
My half sister.
Somewhere in the world, there was a woman connected to me by blood.
A woman whose existence had been hidden for decades.
Lydia continued.
"She doesn't know who her father was."
She hesitated.
"I was supposed to tell her."
The recording ended.
Bennett closed the laptop.
"Does the name mean anything to you?"
"No."
"We're running it through the appropriate records."
I stood.
"Why did my father leave Lydia responsible for finding her?"
Bennett considered the question.
"Maybe he trusted Lydia."
"Or maybe he was afraid to contact Evelyn directly."
"Both are possible."
I looked toward the windows.
The estate gardens stretched toward the tree line.
Everything appeared peaceful.
The fountains ran.
The hedges were trimmed.
Servants carried boxes of records to investigators' vehicles.
It looked like a wealthy family's home.
I knew now it had been built around secrets.
My phone rang.
Nico.
"Grace is asking for you."
"Is she all right?"
"She wants you to come back."
His voice changed.
"There's something you should know."
"What?"
"Samuel has been drawing."
I frowned.
"Drawing what?"
"The underground room."
I waited.
"He says there's a woman who used to talk to him through the wall."
"Lydia?"
"He says no."
"Who?"
"An older woman."
I looked at Bennett.
Nico continued.
"He says she knew songs his father used to sing."
A chill ran through me.
My father's first wife had supposedly died decades ago.
But what if the official story was wrong in more ways than I imagined?
"What did Samuel call her?"
Nico hesitated.
"He called her the lady behind the bricks."
I felt the floor shift beneath me.
"Keep Samuel away from anyone connected to Elena."
"Of course."
"And don't tell him what we've found."
"I won't."
I ended the call.
Bennett watched me.
"What now?"
I looked at the evidence box.
"We go back underground."
She frowned.
"Why?"
"Because I think my mother didn't build one secret prison."
I looked toward the west wing.
"I think she built a whole system of them."
That evening, forensic technicians began examining the underground corridors.
They found false walls.
Sealed ventilation shafts.
A concealed elevator behind an unused service closet.
And beneath the oldest section of the estate, an iron gate welded shut from the outside.
A faded sign hung above it.
ARCHIVE STORAGE.
A technician cut through the lock.
Cold air escaped.
Behind the gate stood a narrow passage.
At its end was a wooden door.
Someone had painted a small blue flower above the handle.
I stared at it.
I knew that flower.
My father used to draw it in the margins of his notebooks.
He had once told me it reminded him of someone he loved before I was born.
Bennett pushed open the door.
Inside stood an old bed.
A writing desk.
Stacks of yellowed books.
And hundreds of tiny blue flowers painted across the walls.
On the desk sat a photograph.
A young woman held a baby girl in her arms.
The woman's face was unmistakable.
It was Isabella.
The baby wore a tiny silver bracelet.
On its clasp was engraved a name.
Evelyn.
I picked up the photograph.
Then I noticed the date.
It had been taken the year before my father married Elena.
Behind us, a technician called out.
"Detective?"
Bennett turned.
"What is it?"
He stood beside a locked cabinet.
Inside were dozens of cassette tapes.
Every one was labeled with a date.
And the most recent label was only three weeks old.
May you like
Someone had been using this room.
Someone who knew every secret my mother had buried.
