Chapter 8 - The Woman Behind Every Lie
Everything suddenly fit together in the worst possible way.
Carlo had spent decades searching for Sofia’s descendants.
At the same time, his secret daughter Marianne had used Halpern’s genetic database to build a network of her own.
She was not trying to finish Carlo’s work.
She was trying to own it.
“Where is she?” I asked.
Isabella shook her head.
“I don’t know.”
“You staged your death to escape her.”
“Yes.”
“And Claire?”
“I helped Claire disappear after Marianne’s people took Noah.”
Claire wiped her face.
“They told me he died ten minutes after birth.”
My stomach turned.
“Isabella found him?”
“Yes.”
“I found a transfer order,” Isabella said. “He was being moved to a private clinic in New Hampshire.”
“So you stole him.”
“I rescued him.”
“And brought him to Vincent.”
Her face broke.
“I thought his home was the safest place in the world.”
“But you didn’t tell him.”
“If he knew, Marianne would have known.”
“How?”
Isabella looked at me.
“Because someone inside Vincent’s organization reports to her.”
That explained the attackers.
The break-ins.
The impossible knowledge.
Vincent’s security had been compromised.
I looked toward the windows.
“Does Marianne know we’re here?”
“Probably.”
A sound came from outside.
One sharp whistle.
Isabella’s face drained.
“Get down.”
Gunfire tore through the lodge.
I dropped beside Claire.
Security returned fire.
The windows shattered.
Smoke filled the room.
Then the front door burst open.
Vincent.
He crossed the room like a man who had forgotten fear existed.
His eyes found Isabella.
Everything stopped.
For one second, husband and wife simply stared at each other.
Then he reached her.
“You’re alive.”
She touched his face.
“I’m sorry.”
He pulled her against him.
It should have been a reunion.
Instead, Isabella whispered, “One of your men is hers.”
Vincent froze.
A gun cocked behind him.
His security chief, Matteo, stood in the doorway.
Weapon raised.
“Move away from her.”
Vincent turned slowly.
Matteo had worked for him for nine years.
I had seen him carry Noah.
I had watched him joke with nurses.
His expression was calm.
Too calm.
“You,” Vincent said.
“I’m sorry.”
“No, you’re not.”
Matteo glanced at me.
“Dr. Foster, put the files on the floor.”
I clutched my bag.
“No.”
He smiled.
“That courage is going to get someone killed.”
“Probably you.”
Daniel’s voice came from behind him.
Matteo turned.
Daniel swung a fire extinguisher into his shoulder.
The gun fired into the ceiling.
Vincent tackled him.
Within seconds, three guards had Matteo pinned.
I ran to Daniel.
“You idiot.”
“You’re welcome.”
Police moved in.
The attack ended.
Matteo refused to talk until officers found the burner phone in his jacket.
There were hundreds of messages.
Instructions.
Payments.
Photographs.
One name repeated again and again.
M.
And one meeting location.
Boston.
Forty-eight hours later.
Marianne was coming to us.
Vincent wanted to move Noah out of the country.
I refused.
“We treat him first.”
“We can treat him anywhere.”
“Not with a transatlantic flight and an active metabolic condition.”
“We have private medical transport.”
“No.”
He looked at me.
“You really enjoy that word.”
“Yes.”
Isabella stood beside him.
“She’s right.”
Vincent looked betrayed.
“Not you too.”
Isabella almost smiled.
For the next two days, Noah stabilized.
No pain crises.
No hypoglycemia.
He laughed.
He ate.
He slept.
Claire held him for the first time since birth.
Daniel sat beside them crying openly.
I stepped into the hallway.
Vincent was there.
“You did that,” he said.
“No. His parents did.”
“You found the diagnosis.”
“Because your wife found the records.”
He leaned against the wall.
“You hate compliments.”
“I hate being credited for things that aren’t mine.”
He studied me.
“That’s why you’re dangerous.”
“To who?”
“People like me.”
I smiled despite myself.
Then his face changed.
“Rachel.”
“What?”
“If something happens tomorrow—”
“No.”
“Listen.”
“I’m not interested in dramatic speeches.”
“I am.”
I looked at him.
He stepped closer.
“I know I brought you into this because I wanted a doctor for Noah.”
“You brought me into this because your dead wife left instructions.”
“She wasn’t dead.”
“Details.”
He almost smiled.
Then he said, “But somewhere along the way, I stopped thinking of you as the doctor.”
My heart shifted.
“Vincent.”
“I know.”
“Your wife is alive.”
“Yes.”
We both looked toward the room where Isabella sat with Claire.
“That matters.”
“It does.”
He nodded.
Then he stepped back.
No argument.
No persuasion.
And somehow that made it harder.
The next morning, the trap was set.
Matteo’s phone sent one final message.
The files are here.
Rachel Foster is alone.
Marianne replied.
May you like
Good.
I’m coming home.
