Chapter 9 - The Child in the Photograph
I had spent my entire life believing my father was a decent man who had made a few bad financial decisions.
Now I was staring at a photograph suggesting he had been involved in something far worse.
A secret child.
An international financial conspiracy.
And people who had been willing to kill to keep both hidden.
Detective Shaw enlarged the photograph.
"Do you recognize anyone else?"
"Lucia Ferretti."
"How?"
"From online photographs."
"Are you certain?"
"I think so."
Shaw nodded.
"The image will need authentication."
I pointed at the handwriting.
"What child?"
"We don't know."
"Is it a reference to me?"
"Possibly."
I felt my stomach tighten.
"Or Caleb?"
"That's another possibility."
I looked at the photograph again.
My father was standing beside Antonio Rinaldi.
Lucia was younger than I'd expected.
Maybe in her twenties.
Vittorio had one hand on Antonio's shoulder.
They looked like business partners celebrating a successful transaction.
Not four people whose secrets had eventually destroyed lives.
"Can I see Dominic?" I asked.
Shaw shook her head.
"He's receiving medical attention."
"Is he seriously hurt?"
"No."
"Then I need to talk to him."
"Not yet."
I exhaled sharply.
"Why?"
"Because he may have information that needs to be collected independently."
"You think he'll lie?"
"I think everyone involved has reasons to protect something."
I looked at her.
"Including you?"
Her expression hardened.
"Be careful."
"With what?"
"Accusing people."
I held her gaze.
"I'm learning from the best."
Dominic called two hours later.
I answered before the first ring finished.
"Are you okay?"
A pause.
"That's the first question you've asked me that wasn't about a contract."
"Dominic."
"I'm fine."
"You were attacked."
"Yes."
"By whom?"
"I didn't see his face."
"What happened?"
"Someone shut off the warehouse lights."
"Then?"
"I heard a door close behind me."
"Did he have a weapon?"
"Yes."
My throat tightened.
"What kind?"
"A metal bar."
"Did he hit you?"
"Once."
"Where?"
"My shoulder."
"And then?"
"I got away."
I leaned against the kitchen counter.
"That's a remarkably short version of almost being murdered."
He sighed.
"Would you prefer the long version?"
"I'd prefer the truth."
Silence.
Then he said, "I saw Vittorio."
I froze.
"You saw him?"
"Not clearly."
"Dominic."
"A man came out of the office while I was struggling with the attacker."
"Did you recognize him?"
"I recognized his voice."
My heart pounded.
"Was it the same voice from the phone?"
"Yes."
"Then he's alive."
"Someone wants me to believe he is."
I frowned.
"What does that mean?"
"It means a voice can be imitated, and a silhouette isn't proof."
He sounded calm.
Too calm.
Then he said something that changed everything.
"Mara, I need you to think carefully about your father."
"Why?"
"Did he ever mention a girl named Sofia?"
I closed my eyes.
"No."
"Are you sure?"
"Dominic, I remember my father."
"He was loving."
"He told terrible jokes."
"He bought grocery-store flowers for my mother every anniversary."
"He never mentioned another daughter."
Dominic was quiet.
Then he said, "Sofia wasn't necessarily his daughter."
I swallowed.
"Then whose?"
A long silence.
"Mine."
I stared at the wall.
"What?"
"I have a daughter."
The world seemed to stop.
"How old?"
"Twenty-three."
"Where is she?"
"I don't know."
I pressed a hand against my chest.
"You don't know where your own daughter is?"
"I didn't know she existed until nine months ago."
I could barely understand the words.
Dominic continued.
"Her mother was a woman I knew when I was younger."
"What happened to her?"
"She disappeared."
"Disappeared?"
"After my father's death."
I looked at the photograph again.
"Was her name Lucia?"
"No."
"Who was she?"
Dominic took a breath.
"Isabella Ferretti."
I stared at the phone.
"Lucia's sister?"
"Yes."
My head began spinning.
"What happened to Isabella?"
"According to the records, she died in Italy."
"When?"
"Twenty-two years ago."
I sat down.
"And the child?"
"Someone took her."
"Who?"
"That's what I'm trying to discover."
I looked at the photograph.
Lucia.
Vittorio.
Antonio.
My father.
A hidden child.
A false contract.
A poisoned bottle.
And a man whose relatives seemed to disappear every time they became inconvenient.
"Dominic."
"Yes?"
"Why didn't you tell the police about Sofia?"
A long silence.
"Because I'm afraid the people who took her are still close to me."
I shut my eyes.
Then I asked the question that had been forming since he mentioned her.
"Is that why you were willing to sign the Vetro agreement?"
He didn't answer immediately.
"Partly."
"Did someone promise to tell you where she is?"
"Yes."
"Who?"
His voice became flat.
"Celeste."
An hour later, Detective Shaw called.
They had located one of the photographers who had worked at the shipping warehouse twenty-three years earlier.
The man had preserved an original contact sheet.
It showed additional frames from the same day.
In one, Isabella Ferretti stood beside my father.
In another, she held a baby.
And in the last, my father was looking directly into the camera.
His expression was terrified.
On the back of the final print, someone had written a date.
October 17, 2003.
The same day Antonio Rinaldi died.
May you like
And beneath it was a single sentence.
The child was moved before the crash.
