Chapter 9 – [THE FACE IN THE PHOTOGRAPH]

Answer one: Rebecca’s presence at the estate wasn’t a coincidence. Her mother had known Sarah Moretti and had played a crucial role in protecting Lily’s secret twelve years ago.

Open two: What exactly did Margaret Hayes do for Sarah? And why did she never tell Rebecca?

I stared at the letter, my hands shaking so violently the brittle paper nearly tore.

My mother. My quiet, hardworking mother who complained about her arthritis and clipped grocery coupons. She knew Sarah Moretti.

“Rebecca?”

I jumped. Luca was standing in the doorway of the foyer, watching me. He saw the shock on my face and immediately crossed the room.

“What is it? Are you hurt?” he asked, his protective instincts instantly flaring.

I couldn’t speak. I just handed him the letter.

Luca read it quickly. His brow furrowed in deep confusion. He read it again, slower this time.

“Your mother is Margaret Hayes?” Luca asked, his voice dropping.

“Yes,” I whispered. “But she’s a grocery clerk. She never worked for your family. She never even mentioned your name until I got this job.”

Luca looked at the date on the letter. Twelve years ago. The exact year Lily was born.

“Arthur,” Luca called out, his voice sharp and commanding.

Arthur immediately limped over. “Yes, Boss?”

“Send a car to Margaret Hayes’ address in the suburbs. Bring her here. Now.”

“Luca, no,” I panicked. “She’s sick. Her arthritis is severe, she can barely walk on cold mornings. You can’t drag her into this.”

“I’m not dragging her into anything, Rebecca,” Luca said gently, placing a hand on my shoulder. “I’m bringing her somewhere safe. If Peterson knew she was the one who hid the hospital records, he might have sent men to her house.”

The realization hit me like a physical blow. My mother could be in danger.

“Go,” Luca told Arthur. “Take five men. Do not let her out of your sight.”

The next hour was the longest of my life. I paced the drawing room, unable to sit, unable to drink the tea Eleanor offered.

Finally, the sound of heavy tires crunched on the gravel driveway.

I sprinted to the front doors.

Arthur stepped out of the armored SUV, turning to help a frail woman out of the backseat.

“Mom!” I cried, running down the stone steps.

My mother looked bewildered, clutching her worn wool coat around her thin shoulders. Her hands, gnarled from years of severe arthritis, shook as I wrapped my arms around her.

“Rebecca, honey, what is going on?” she asked, her voice trembling. “These men just showed up and said you were in danger.”

“I’m safe, Mom. We’re safe,” I sobbed, pulling back to look at her. “But you have to tell me the truth.”

I led her inside, into the warmth of the drawing room. Luca stood by the fireplace, his presence commanding but respectfully quiet.

I handed my mother the yellowed letter.

When she saw Sarah’s handwriting, her face drained of all color. She collapsed into one of the velvet armchairs, covering her mouth with her trembling hands.

“You found it,” my mother whispered.

“Mom, how did you know Sarah Moretti?” I asked gently, kneeling beside her chair.

My mother closed her eyes, tears spilling over her lashes.

“I wasn’t always a grocery clerk, Rebecca,” she said quietly. “Twelve years ago, I was a records archivist at Chicago General Hospital.”

Luca stepped forward, his eyes widening. “You were at the hospital when Sarah gave birth.”

My mother nodded slowly.

“Sarah came to me the night Lily was born,” she explained, her voice cracking. “She was terrified. She told me that her husband wasn’t dead. She told me about ‘The Architect.’ She knew that if his name was on the birth certificate, or if the genetic testing records remained in the hospital system, he would eventually find Lily and take her.”

“So you deleted them,” Luca breathed.

“I didn’t just delete them,” my mother said, looking up at him. “I forged an entirely new set of records. I listed the dead war hero as the father. I completely erased ‘The Architect’s’ connection to the child.”

“That’s a federal crime,” I whispered, stunned. “You could have gone to prison.”

“I did it to save a baby,” my mother said fiercely. “But Peterson found out someone had tampered with the files. He sent his men to the hospital a week later to find out who did it.”

She looked down at her hands. The twisted, painful joints.

“They didn’t find the real records,” my mother whispered. “But they made sure I would never type on a keyboard again.”

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