Chapter 3 - The Photograph That Should Never Have Existed
Norah carried the photograph to Vincent’s estate that afternoon.
She stood outside the iron gates holding the envelope with both hands.
The guards recognized her.
The gates opened immediately.
She hated how easily that happened.
Inside, the estate looked less like a home and more like a fortress pretending to be one.
Stone walls.
Black windows.
Cameras.
Men positioned everywhere.
Vincent found her in the entrance hall.
“What happened?”
She gave him the photograph.
His face changed before he even looked at it.
“Where did you get this?”
“Someone mailed it.”
“When?”
“An hour ago.”
He turned it over.
Nothing.
“Who sent it?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did they call you?”
“Yes.”
“What did they say?”
“That I should stop asking questions about my mother.”
Vincent’s expression hardened.
“I’ll handle it.”
“No.”
He looked at her.
“This is my mother.”
“I know.”
“You don’t get to decide what happens next.”
“I’m trying to keep you alive.”
“Why?”
Vincent stepped closer.
“Because people who threaten you usually have a reason.”
Norah met his gaze.
“And what is your reason?”
He did not answer.
She stepped back.
“You knew my mother.”
“I knew of her.”
“Your father recognized her.”
“I know.”
“What happened twenty years ago?”
Vincent looked toward the stairs.
“You should stay here tonight.”
Norah laughed bitterly.
“That is not an answer.”
“No.”
“Then give me one.”
Vincent closed his eyes.
“My mother died when I was thirteen.”
“My mother died when I was nine.”
“They knew each other.”
“How?”
“I don’t know.”
“Then find out.”
“I will.”
Norah stared at him.
“You really hate admitting when you don’t know something.”
“I hate not being able to protect people.”
That answer silenced her.
A sound came from upstairs.
Arthur.
He was shouting.
Vincent ran.
Norah followed.
Arthur was standing in the hallway, shaking.
He pointed toward an old portrait.
“No.”
Vincent approached carefully.
“What is it?”
Arthur whispered:
“She came back.”
“Who?”
“Elena.”
Norah stared at the portrait.
There was no Elena.
Only a landscape.
Arthur looked at Norah.
“You must not let him open the box.”
“What box?”
“The blue box.”
Vincent turned toward Hayes.
“Find every blue box in this house.”
An hour later, a forgotten storage room was opened.
Inside were old photographs, ledgers, newspaper clippings, and a metal trunk.
Blue.
Norah’s pulse accelerated.
Vincent opened it.
Inside lay a stack of documents.
The first was an old marriage certificate.
Arthur Costa.
Elena Gallagher.
Norah stared.
“No.”
Vincent looked stunned.
His father had been married to Norah’s mother.
Before Vincent was born.
Before Elena disappeared from his life.
Norah took the certificate.
Her hands trembled.
“My mother never told me.”
Vincent picked up another document.
A birth record.
The mother’s name had been blacked out.
The father’s name was blank.
Below it was a hospital bracelet.
Baby girl.
Date: March 14.
Norah stopped breathing.
Her birth date was March 14.
Vincent looked at her.
“You were born at St. Agnes.”
“So?”
“My father owned a medical clinic nearby.”
“No.”
“Norah—”
“Don’t.”
She backed away.
“You think I’m related to your family.”
“I don’t know.”
“But you’re thinking it.”
Arthur appeared in the doorway.
He looked at Norah for a long time.
Then he whispered:
“Your eyes.”
Norah cried.
She had spent nineteen years believing she knew the story of her mother’s life.
Now every piece was cracking.
Vincent took a step toward her.
She flinched.
He stopped.
“I’m not going to hurt you.”
“I know.”
“Then why did you move away?”
“Because everything I thought I knew about you is changing.”
He nodded.
“That makes two of us.”
That night, Vincent discovered something worse.
The old ledger contained payments to a private investigator.
One name appeared repeatedly.
Elena Gallagher.
Beside it was a final note.
SHE KNOWS ABOUT THE CHILD.
Vincent read it twice.
Then a third time.
His father’s face appeared in his mind.
The girl.
The blue box.
The child.
He suddenly remembered something from childhood.
A little girl.
A red ribbon.
A woman crying in a kitchen.
A baby being taken away.
He had been too young to understand.
Now the memory came back in fragments.
Vincent called Hayes.
“Find the investigator.”
“He died fifteen years ago.”
“Family.”
“His daughter lives in Chicago.”
“Bring her here.”
“And boss?”
“Yeah?”
“You need to see this.”
Hayes handed him a second ledger.
Inside were payments made after Elena’s disappearance.
One recipient appeared every month.
For eighteen years.
Norah Gallagher.
Vincent looked at her name.
He realized something terrifying.
Someone had been secretly paying for Norah’s survival her entire life.
Someone who wanted her alive.
Someone who never wanted her to know why.
The next morning, Norah was taken from the Copper Kettle.
Vincent arrived ten minutes too late.
A broken coffee cup lay on the floor.
Her apron was on the counter.
And on the kitchen wall, someone had written a message in black marker:
BRING US THE GIRL.
May you like
Vincent stared at it.
For the first time in years, fear became visible on his face.
