Chapter 7 - The Photograph That Shouldn't Exist
I remembered the scar.
I got it when I was nine.
I fell off my bicycle outside our old house.
Dad carried me inside while Mom called the doctor.
Seven stitches.
A week without martial arts.
And a promise from Dad that he'd buy me a helmet I couldn't possibly lose.
The girl in the photograph had that scar.
Same place.
Same shape.
But the date printed on the back was impossible.
It was taken when I was sixteen.
I stared at Vanessa.
“Who is this?”
She shook her head.
“I don't know.”
“Then why did you give it to me?”
“Because Gabriel told me Thomas was protecting her.”
I looked at Dominic.
He was staring at the picture.
“Where was this taken?”
Vanessa swallowed.
“At the old research facility.”
Claire stepped closer.
“What research facility?”
Vanessa looked at her.
“Moretti Biomedical.”
Dominic went still.
“That division closed before Gabriel died.”
Vanessa nodded.
“That's what the company announced.”
Claire took the photograph.
“Was it actually closed?”
Vanessa shook her head.
“No.”
I felt the room tilt.
“Why does that girl look like me?”
Nobody answered.
Then Dominic spoke.
“My father had a private research program.”
I turned toward him.
“What kind?”
“Medical testing.”
My stomach tightened.
“On children?”
“I don't know.”
Claire's expression hardened.
“We need records before drawing conclusions.”
I looked at the photograph again.
The girl wasn't smiling.
Her eyes were fixed on something outside the frame.
She looked frightened.
And my father stood beside her with one hand on her shoulder.
I remembered something.
A conversation from years ago.
I had been sixteen.
Dad came home late.
His jacket smelled of disinfectant.
I asked why he looked upset.
He told me he'd met someone who reminded him of me.
A girl who needed help.
I had forgotten that conversation.
Until now.
I looked at Claire.
“My father knew her.”
Claire nodded.
“Apparently.”
“Then why does she look like me?”
Vanessa whispered, “Because your father thought she was related to you.”
The room fell silent.
I stared at her.
“What?”
She wiped her eyes.
“Gabriel said the company had used family medical records without permission.”
My stomach dropped.
“Whose records?”
Vanessa looked at Dominic.
“Employees.”
I thought about the years my father worked at Moretti Industrial.
Annual medical exams.
Blood tests.
Insurance forms.
Every document he signed because he believed the company was protecting its workers.
Claire took a breath.
“We need to establish what this program actually did.”
I nodded.
But I couldn't stop looking at the girl's face.
Because the resemblance was too strong to ignore.
That evening, I returned to Maya's apartment.
Mom was resting.
I sat beside her and showed her the photograph.
She looked at it.
Then began crying.
“Mom?”
She covered her mouth.
“Oh, Thomas.”
I felt my heart pounding.
“You know her.”
Mom nodded.
“Who is she?”
She looked at me.
“Her name was Lily.”
“Lily what?”
“I don't know.”
I stared.
“How could you not know?”
“Your father brought her to our house once.”
I stopped breathing.
“When?”
“You were away at a tournament.”
“Why?”
“She was sick.”
I looked at the photograph.
“What kind of sick?”
“She had bruises on her arms.”
Mom's voice broke.
“And she was terrified of doctors.”
I felt cold.
“What happened to her?”
“Your father took her somewhere safe.”
“Where?”
“He wouldn't tell me.”
I stood.
“Mom, please.”
She looked at me helplessly.
“He said knowing would put us in danger.”
I turned toward the window.
For eight years, I had believed my father died because of a workplace accident.
Now I knew he had been investigating illegal dumping, defective equipment, hidden medical testing, and a frightened girl who looked like his own daughter.
How many secrets could one company bury?
My phone rang.
Claire.
“Avery, we found something.”
I gripped the phone.
“What?”
“The police recovered Gabriel's pendant.”
My breath caught.
“Where?”
“Vanessa's apartment.”
“Then we can open the storage box.”
“Yes.”
I closed my eyes.
Finally.
A real answer.
Then Claire continued.
“But there's a problem.”
“What?”
“The box was opened three days ago.”
I stared.
“By whom?”
Claire hesitated.
“Someone using your father's identification.”
My knees weakened.
“My father is dead.”
“I know.”
“Then who?”
Claire's voice turned grim.
“The signature on the access record belongs to Thomas Carter.”
I looked at Mom.
She was staring at me.
And in her eyes, I saw something I hadn't noticed before.
Not surprise.
Recognition.
“Mom,” I whispered.
She began shaking her head.
“No.”
I lowered the phone.
“What haven't you told me?”
May you like
Her face crumpled.
“Avery, your father didn't die where they said he did.”
