Chapter 5 - The Woman Who Tried to Save Him Fifteen Years Ago|
The envelope smelled like old paper and cedarwood.
Inside were three photographs, a medical referral, and a letter that had never been opened.
Vincent watched me carefully as I unfolded it.
The handwriting was delicate and slanted.
Dear Vincent,
If you are reading this, then someone has finally allowed you to ask questions.
My throat tightened.
The letter was dated fifteen years earlier.
Three months after his mother's death.
I continued reading.
Your hearing injury requires proper investigation. The tests I performed do not support the conclusion that your deafness is permanent. I strongly recommend independent evaluation.
I am concerned about the medication you have been given and the pressure being placed on your family to discontinue further examination.
Please remember that losing your hearing does not mean losing your voice.
Dr. Evelyn Hart.
I looked up.
Vincent's face had become completely still.
I handed him the letter.
He read it once.
Then again.
His fingers trembled.
For fifteen years, he had believed there was nothing doctors could do.
For fifteen years, someone had been telling him that the world would remain silent forever.
And all that time, another doctor had questioned the diagnosis.
"Did you know about this?" I asked.
Vincent shook his head.
He typed.
I found the envelope in my mother's old bedroom last year. I never opened it because I thought it was another reminder of what I'd lost.
I touched his arm.
"Can we find her?"
He nodded.
Within an hour, Vincent's trusted security chief, Gabriel Russo, had located Dr. Hart.
She was sixty-one and worked at a small private clinic outside Chicago.
When Gabriel called, she refused to speak over the phone.
Instead, she sent a brief message.
Bring Vincent. No entourage. And do not tell Bellamy.
The following morning, we left the mansion before sunrise.
Vincent wore a black coat and dark glasses.
Two security vehicles followed at a distance.
He had insisted I stay home.
I refused.
"I'm not abandoning you the first time someone offers you the truth."
He studied my face.
Then typed.
You are stubborn.
I smiled.
"People keep telling me that."
For the first time that morning, he smiled too.
Dr. Hart's clinic was tucked between a bookstore and a florist.
There were no marble floors.
No armed guards.
No chandeliers.
Just a quiet waiting room with comfortable chairs and a woman who burst into tears the moment she saw Vincent.
"Oh, my goodness."
She stopped herself.
Then moved in front of him and spoke slowly enough for him to read her lips.
"Vincent."
He looked confused.
She touched her chest.
"Evelyn Hart."
Recognition flickered across his face.
He remembered her.
Not clearly.
But enough.
She showed him an old photograph of herself standing beside his hospital bed.
Twelve-year-old Vincent was smiling.
And holding a small toy airplane.
Dr. Hart wiped her eyes.
"I tried to see you again."
Vincent typed.
Why didn't you?
Her expression hardened.
"Your guardian terminated my involvement."
"Who?" I asked.
"His uncle, Carlo Moretti."
Vincent's face changed.
Carlo had raised him after his mother died.
Carlo had also died five years earlier.
Dr. Hart led us into a private examination room.
She reviewed Vincent's history and the medications he had brought.
When we showed her a photograph of the black device, she went pale.
"Where did you find this?"
"In his ear."
She stared at me.
"Who removed it?"
I raised my hand reluctantly.
She looked horrified.
"You're very fortunate there wasn't more damage. Objects embedded in the ear canal can injure the eardrum and surrounding structures. He needs a full examination immediately."
Vincent watched her face carefully.
I translated her words into text.
After examining his ear, she frowned.
"There is swelling, injury, and evidence of repeated irritation. I'm arranging imaging and a specialist evaluation."
"Can he hear again?" I asked.
Dr. Hart didn't answer immediately.
"That depends on what caused the hearing loss, how much damage has accumulated, and what we find. I won't make promises before testing."
Vincent read my typed explanation.
His expression was almost painfully hopeful.
Dr. Hart continued.
"But I can tell you this: the history you've been given is incomplete."
My heart pounded.
"What do you mean?"
She opened a secure archived record.
"Vincent had a severe hearing injury after the crash, but his hearing loss was not initially total."
I stared at her.
"He could still hear?"
"Yes. He had significant impairment, but he responded to sound during early examinations."
Vincent leaned forward.
Dr. Hart pointed to a note.
"I recommended further evaluation. Then his uncle removed him from my care."
"Why?"
"I was told the family preferred private treatment."
She paused.
"Three months later, I heard he'd become profoundly deaf."
Vincent looked down at his hands.
I couldn't imagine what he was feeling.
Years of silence.
Years of isolation.
Years of believing his own body had betrayed him.
Dr. Hart reached for another folder.
"There's something else."
She removed a photograph from the night of the crash.
It showed a black Mercedes resting against a concrete barrier.
The windshield was shattered.
Rain glistened on the pavement.
But something about the image troubled me.
"Where's the other car?"
Dr. Hart looked up.
"What other car?"
I pointed to the side of the Mercedes.
A long dent ran along the passenger door.
"That doesn't look like damage from the barrier."
She studied the photograph.
Then whispered, "You're right."
Vincent took the picture.
His breathing grew shallow.
He pointed to a reflection in the damaged window.
A man's face.
Only partially visible.
But recognizable.
Even after fifteen years.
Vincent typed one name.
CARLO.
I looked at Dr. Hart.
"His uncle was at the crash?"
She shook her head slowly.
"According to the police report, Carlo arrived an hour later."
Vincent enlarged the photograph.
There was no mistaking the man's distinctive scar.
His uncle had been there.
Someone had lied.
Then Dr. Hart pointed to another detail.
A small figure standing behind Carlo.
A teenage boy.
Dark hair.
A familiar smile.
My heart froze.
"Lorenzo."
Vincent stared at the image.
Then he closed his eyes.
May you like
And when he opened them again, he typed a sentence that made my blood run cold.
I remember him laughing while my mother screamed.
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