Chapter 7 - The Housemaid Whose Father Kept a Dead Woman's Secret|
My father's name was Thomas Sullivan.
He had been a mechanic.
A quiet man who repaired cars, fixed broken appliances, and sang terribly while washing dishes.
He died when I was fourteen.
A highway accident.
That was what the police told us.
That was what my mother believed.
And now Michael Moretti was claiming my father had been at Caroline's hospital three years ago.
Ten years after his death.
I stared at Luca.
"That's impossible."
His expression changed.
"Claire."
"My father died thirteen years ago."
Luca slowly lowered the phone.
Michael had ended the call.
For a moment, nobody spoke.
Then Luca approached.
"Claire, I'm not accusing you of anything."
My eyes filled.
"Then why would your brother say that?"
"I don't know."
I shook my head.
"My father was a mechanic. He had nothing to do with this family."
Luca studied me.
Then said carefully:
"Let's find out whether someone used his name."
The suggestion calmed me slightly.
Of course.
False identities.
Forged paperwork.
People hiding behind other people's names.
We had already encountered enough of it.
I nodded.
"Okay."
That evening, I called my mother.
She answered after several rings.
"Claire, sweetheart."
Her voice sounded tired.
"Hi, Mom."
"Have you eaten?"
I smiled weakly.
"Yes."
"Are you sure?"
"Mom."
She laughed softly.
Then I took a breath.
"Can I ask you something about Dad?"
The line went silent.
For several seconds, I heard only faint background noise.
Then she whispered:
"What about him?"
My stomach tightened.
"Did he ever work for the Moretti family?"
A long pause.
Then my mother said:
"Why are you asking?"
I closed my eyes.
"Mom."
She began breathing faster.
"Claire, where are you?"
"At work."
"Is Luca Moretti there?"
I felt cold.
"How do you know his name?"
My mother didn't answer.
Instead, she whispered:
"Please tell me you haven't spoken to Michael."
My heart stopped.
"Mom?"
She began crying.
"Oh, Claire."
I gripped the phone.
"Tell me what's happening."
For several seconds, she couldn't speak.
Then she whispered:
"Your father didn't die in the accident."
The room seemed to tilt.
"What?"
"He survived."
I stopped breathing.
For thirteen years, I'd visited a grave.
Placed flowers.
Cried on Father's Day.
Wished he could see me graduate.
Wished he could meet the woman I'd become.
Now my mother was telling me he'd been alive.
I pressed a hand against my mouth.
"Mom, what are you saying?"
Her voice broke.
"Thomas was involved in something dangerous."
I stared.
"What?"
"He worked for a company connected to the Moretti family."
My stomach tightened.
"Doing what?"
"Keeping records."
I closed my eyes.
The same words.
Records.
Money.
Business arrangements.
Every secret in the mansion seemed to lead back to some document someone wanted hidden.
"Why didn't you tell me?"
My mother began crying harder.
"Because your father made me promise."
I swallowed.
"For thirteen years?"
"I was trying to protect you."
I felt anger rise through the grief.
"Mom, I buried him!"
"I know."
"I spent my whole childhood thinking he was dead!"
"I know, sweetheart."
I couldn't breathe.
Then I asked the question that frightened me most.
"Is he still alive?"
A long silence.
Then she whispered:
"I don't know."
My heart broke all over again.
She continued.
"He contacted me occasionally. Sent money when things were difficult."
I thought about the anonymous transfers that sometimes appeared in my mother's account.
The rent payments she claimed came from a charity.
The grocery deliveries she couldn't explain.
My father.
Maybe.
I closed my eyes.
"Where is he?"
She hesitated.
"The last time I heard from him, he was in New York."
"When?"
"Six months ago."
My stomach tightened.
"And you didn't tell me?"
She began crying.
"I'm sorry."
I wanted to scream.
Instead, I sat down.
For years, I'd believed the hardest part of life was not having enough money.
Now I was learning that not knowing the truth could hurt far worse.
"Mom, I need time."
"I understand."
I swallowed.
"I love you."
Her voice broke.
"I love you too."
I ended the call.
Then I sat motionless.
Luca entered quietly.
He stopped when he saw my face.
"Claire?"
I looked up.
"My father was alive."
His expression changed.
"What?"
I told him everything.
He listened without interrupting.
When I finished, he sat across from me.
For a long moment, neither spoke.
Then he whispered:
"I'm sorry."
I looked down.
For the first time, I didn't try to hide my tears.
I cried for the fourteen-year-old girl who lost her father.
For the woman who worked so hard to support her mother.
For all the years built around a lie.
Luca remained beside me.
He didn't touch me.
Didn't tell me to calm down.
Didn't promise to solve everything with money.
He simply stayed.
Eventually, I wiped my cheeks.
"Mr. Moretti?"
"Yes?"
"Why would Michael know about my father?"
Luca took a breath.
"I don't know."
Then he hesitated.
"But I think Caroline did."
My heart raced.
"Why?"
He opened a folder.
Inside was a photograph recovered from Caroline's old files.
A man stood beside her outside a hospital.
Dark hair.
Brown eyes.
A crooked smile.
I stopped breathing.
"Dad."
Luca watched me carefully.
Then turned the photograph over.
On the back, Caroline had written:
Thomas Sullivan knows what happened to Michael.
I stared.
May you like
Then Luca quietly added:
"And Claire, according to the date on this photograph, your father was there the week Caroline died."
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