Chapter 7
“I never fully understood it.”
“Families plural?”
“Yes.”
“Not just newborns?”
“No.”
Damien looked at me.
Something unspoken passed between us.
This was larger than we had thought.
Mom continued.
“Gabriel believed the clinic was only one part.”
“One part of what?” Damien asked.
“I don’t know.”
There it was again.
But now the words no longer frustrated me.
They felt like the edge of something.
A truth none of us could yet see.
Mom reached for the water beside her bed.
I helped her.
After a sip, she leaned back.
“Gabriel told me he had copied records.”
“The ones you hid?”
“Some.”
“Where are the others?”
“I thought he had them.”
“Until he disappeared.”
“Yes.”
Damien stood and walked toward the window.
His reflection hovered over the dark city.
“My father told me Gabriel Russo left the country.”
Mom looked at him.
“Maybe Gabriel wanted him to believe that.”
“You think he escaped?”
“I hope so.”
“You don’t know?”
“No.”
Damien turned back.
“Did Claire know?”
“She believed he was alive for years.”
“Why?”
“Postcards.”
“From where?”
“Different countries.”
“Signed by him?”
“Only with a G.”
Damien almost smiled.
“He signed birthday cards that way.”
“Did you see the postcards?”
“One.”
“Where is it?”
“Claire kept them.”
I remembered the hospital security still.
“Then we need to ask Claire.”
Mom’s face changed.
“Ava.”
“What?”
“She may not want to talk.”
“She searched your room.”
“We don’t know that.”
“Damien’s security footage—”
“Shows a woman entering.”
Mom’s voice remained gentle.
“It does not show why.”
I stopped.
She was right.
I had already turned uncertainty into accusation.
Damien noticed too.
“She could have been looking for something that belonged to her,” he said.
“Or trying to leave something,” Mom added.
I thought of the missing blue scarf.
“What was in your hospital bag?”
“Clothes.”
“Anything from the past?”
Mom hesitated.
That was enough.
“What?”
“A small notebook.”
“What notebook?”
“Elena’s.”
Damien stepped closer.
“You had Elena’s notebook?”
“For years.”
“What was in it?”
“Names. Dates. Questions.”
“Was it taken?”
Mom looked toward the closet beside the bed.
“I thought so.”
I stood and opened the hospital bag.
Sweater.
Toothbrush.
Blue scarf.
I froze.
“Mom.”
“What?”
“The scarf is here.”
She frowned.
“It wasn’t yesterday.”
I lifted it.
Something slid from the folds and dropped onto the floor.
A small notebook.
Everyone stared.
I picked it up.
Dark blue cover.
Worn edges.
“Elena’s?”
Mom nodded slowly.
“That’s it.”
“Then Claire didn’t take it.”
Damien held out his hand.
“May I?”
I gave it to him.
He opened the first page.
Most entries were dates and names.
Medical appointments.
Phone numbers.
Initials.
Then halfway through, the tone changed.
Questions.
Where did they send her?
Who signed release?
Why was Isabella listed twice?
What does R.B. know?
Who is V.M. protecting?
Damien stopped.
“V.M.”
“Vittorio Moretti,” Mom said.
He continued reading.
Several pages later, there was a list of children.
Not names.
Birth dates.
Numbers.
Hospitals.
Some had checkmarks.
Some had question marks.
My birthday was there.
March 19.
Next to it:
A.B. - confirmed with Isabella.
Below it:
Second child - moved under file 314-R.
I stared.
“Three-one-four.”
Damien looked toward me.
“The storage unit.”
“No.”
I pointed.
“314-R.”
Mom’s face went pale.
“What?”
“You recognize it?”
“I recognize the format.”
“What does it mean?”
Mom looked toward the notebook.
“Clinic archive numbering.”
My heart accelerated.
“So 314-R is a file.”
“Yes.”
“For Elena’s daughter.”
“Possibly.”
Damien flipped several pages.
Then stopped.
A folded strip of paper had been tucked into the spine.
He removed it carefully.
On the front was an address.
The same building that now stood over the old clinic basement.
Underneath, a date.
Three days from now.
And one sentence.
If Isabella is ready, bring Ava alone.
We all went still.
The handwriting was not old.
The ink was fresh.
Mom stared at it.
“I didn’t write that.”
“Claire,” I whispered.
Damien turned the paper over.
There was one more line.
You were right. Gabriel is alive.
No one spoke.
Damien read it again.
His expression emptied of everything except disbelief.
Mom covered her mouth.
I looked from the note to Damien.
The man who had walked into Bellini’s knowing almost every visible fact about my life now looked like someone standing at the edge of an impossible door.
“Gabriel is alive,” I said.
Damien’s eyes remained fixed on the paper.
“If this is true.”
“Then your brother is alive.”
“If this is true.”
Mom whispered, “Claire wouldn’t write that without a reason.”
Damien looked at her.
“You trust her?”
“I did once.”
“Do you now?”
Mom’s eyes shifted toward the notebook.
“I don’t know.”
We were silent.
Then I noticed something.
The note said bring Ava alone.
Not Damien.
Not Isabella and Ava.
Ava alone.
“Why me?”
Damien saw it too.
“That’s exactly why you’re not going alone.”
Mom looked at him.
“Damien.”
“No.”
“She specifically asked for Ava.”
“That makes me less comfortable, not more.”
May you like
I folded my arms.
“You don’t decide.”
