Chapter 4 - Elena Knew My Father
By noon, I had made three decisions.
First, I was not going back to my apartment.
Second, I was going to tell hospital administration enough to justify a temporary leave without explaining the words written on my mirror.
Third, I was going to find Elena.
Vincent hated the third decision.
“No.”
We were standing in a private family room while Noah slept upstairs under observation.
“You don’t get to say no.”
“She won’t talk to you.”
“She doesn’t know me.”
“That’s exactly why she may talk.”
Vincent’s jaw flexed.
“Elena is unpredictable.”
“People usually say that when they mean a woman refuses to obey them.”
His mouth almost twitched.
“Sometimes.”
I folded my arms.
“Give me her number.”
“No.”
“Then I’ll call from the one I saw on your phone.”
His eyes narrowed.
“You memorized it?”
“I’m a doctor. We memorize things.”
For ten seconds, neither of us moved.
Then Vincent handed me his phone.
Elena answered on the second ring.
“Vincent, I told you—”
“This isn’t Vincent.”
Silence.
“My name is Rachel Foster.”
Another silence.
Longer.
Then a quiet intake of breath.
“Oh God.”
That reaction told me more than Vincent had.
“You know who I am.”
“I know your name.”
“You knew my father.”
“No.”
“You’re lying.”
A tired laugh.
“You sound exactly like him.”
My throat tightened.
“Where are you?”
Vincent shook his head violently.
I turned away from him.
“Rachel,” Elena whispered, “if you’re with Vincent, you are not safe.”
I looked back at him.
He stared at the floor.
“Are you saying he’s dangerous?”
“I’m saying danger follows that family.”
“That’s not the same thing.”
“No. It isn’t.”
“Then meet me.”
“No.”
“Someone broke into my apartment.”
Silence.
“They took a photograph of my father.”
Elena’s breathing changed.
“What photograph?”
“Me and him. Cape Cod. I was five.”
“Was he wearing a red baseball cap?”
I gripped the phone.
“Yes.”
She started crying.
Not loudly.
The kind of quiet crying people do when grief is old.
“Where are you?”
An hour later, Vincent drove me to a small church in Cambridge.
He stayed outside.
Not because he wanted to.
Because Elena refused to enter if he came with me.
She was waiting in the third pew.
She looked younger than I expected.
Maybe thirty-five.
Dark hair pulled into a low knot.
No makeup.
A long gray coat.
She stood when I approached.
Her eyes moved over my face.
“You have his eyes.”
I stopped.
“You knew my father.”
“Yes.”
“How?”
She reached into her bag.
For one frightening second, I thought of weapons.
Instead, she handed me a photograph.
My father stood beside a woman with dark hair.
She was pregnant.
Behind them was the same marina from Vincent’s photograph.
“Who is she?”
“My mother.”
I looked at Elena.
Then at the picture.
“Your mother knew my father.”
“She loved him.”
The words hit me wrong.
“My father was married.”
“I know.”
“To my mother.”
“I know.”
I stood.
Elena grabbed my wrist.
“Not like that.”
I pulled free.
“Then explain.”
She looked toward the altar.
“My mother, Sofia, was Carlo Castrovani’s younger sister.”
Vincent’s aunt.
That meant Elena and Isabella were Vincent’s cousins.
Not sisters.
Another lie.
“They told me you were Isabella’s sister.”
“Safer than saying cousin.”
“Why?”
“Because family relationships matter in that world.”
I sat slowly.
Elena continued.
“Sofia wanted out. She hated Carlo. Hated what he did. Your father helped her escape after she discovered something.”
“What?”
“A medical program Carlo funded.”
My pulse quickened.
“Halpern.”
“Yes.”
“What were they doing?”
Elena closed her eyes.
“Trying to identify children with a rare inherited disorder.”
“For treatment?”
“At first.”
“And later?”
She looked at me.
“For selection.”
I stared.
“Selection for what?”
“Carlo believed the disorder could be used to identify family lineage.”
“That doesn’t make sense.”
“It does if you understand what he was trying to prove.”
“What?”
“That he had another child.”
My stomach tightened.
“Another child with who?”
“Sofia.”
I froze.
Elena’s voice dropped.
“Carlo wasn’t only my mother’s brother.”
I felt sick.
“No.”
“She was adopted.”
The breath left my lungs.
Elena continued before I could speak.
“Carlo’s father had an affair. Sofia came into the family as an infant. Nobody outside the house knew. Carlo and Sofia grew up believing they were siblings. By the time they learned the truth, Carlo was seventeen and obsessed with her. Sofia ran away before anything happened between them. Years later, he found her. He became convinced she had had his child.”
“Did she?”
“Yes.”
“Who?”
Elena looked at me.
“Your father helped hide that child.”
The church bells began ringing the hour.
I barely heard them.
“Who was the child?”
Elena’s eyes filled.
“Your mother.”
I stood so fast the pew shook.
“No.”
“Rachel—”
“No.”
“Your mother’s birth certificate was changed.”
“No.”
“Thomas Foster knew the truth. That’s why he worked with Halpern. Not for Carlo. Against him.”
My hands began shaking.
“What does this have to do with Noah?”
Elena looked toward the church doors.
Then she whispered, “Because Noah has the same disorder.”
I stared at her.
“And because Isabella believed Noah is your mother’s grandson.”
My mind stopped.
“My mother only has two children.”
“You and your brother.”
“Yes.”
“And your brother?”
I went cold.
Daniel.
Thirty-one.
Married for less than a year.
Living in Seattle.
“No.”
Elena reached into her bag again.
This time she removed a sonogram.
A date.
A name.
Patient: Claire Foster.
I stared.
“That’s not—”
“Daniel’s wife.”
My brother had married Claire eighteen months ago.
She had told us she suffered a miscarriage at twelve weeks.
I looked at Elena.
“She didn’t miscarry.”
“No.”
“Where is Claire?”
Elena’s voice broke.
“Missing.”
My stomach turned.
May you like
“And you think Noah is her baby.”
“I think Noah is your nephew.”
