Chapter 8 - The Woman Who Borrowed My Name|
The next morning, I took Lily out of dance class until the studio could strengthen its visitor procedures.
She was furious.
Not with me.
With Matteo.
"He's already stopped me from dancing once," she said.
I sat beside her on the couch.
"This isn't forever."
"That's what people say when they don't know how long something will take."
I looked at my daughter.
She was only ten, but disappointment had given her a kind of wisdom I wished she hadn't needed.
"You're right," I said.
"I don't know how long."
She folded her arms.
"Then promise you won't let him win."
I took her hands.
"I promise I won't stop trying."
That was the only promise I could make.
By lunchtime, Detective Torres had identified the woman from the bank footage.
Her name was Natalie Quinn.
She was twenty-eight years old and had worked temporarily for one of the foundation's event contractors.
The photograph had first seemed like evidence against me.
Now it was becoming evidence that someone had deliberately copied my appearance.
Torres didn't share every detail of the investigation.
But she confirmed that Natalie had agreed to speak with detectives after receiving legal advice.
The following afternoon, I was asked to come to the police station to review additional evidence relating to my identity.
I wasn't permitted to sit in Natalie's interview.
That was appropriate.
But afterward, Torres explained what could be disclosed to me.
Natalie had admitted participating in the false payment documentation.
She said she had been recruited through a contractor connected to Marcus Vale.
She had been told that certain scholarship recipients needed replacement paperwork prepared quickly.
At some point, she'd realized she was not simply correcting clerical errors.
She'd continued anyway.
I listened in silence.
"Why?"
Torres watched me carefully.
"She says she needed money for a family emergency."
I looked down at my hands.
I understood what financial desperation felt like.
I understood standing at a grocery checkout wondering whether to put back the milk or the bread.
But I'd never believed desperation gave me permission to steal from another struggling family.
"Did she know about Lily?"
"She knew one of the files belonged to a child named Miller."
My eyes filled.
That was enough.
Somewhere in the city, a woman had worn a copy of my uniform, used my name, and helped take money my daughter had earned.
And she'd done it for a payment that wouldn't have changed her life nearly as much as the scholarship could have changed ours.
"Does she know who gave her the documents?"
Torres nodded.
"She's provided names and communications that we're working to verify."
"Matteo?"
"We're following the evidence, Grace."
I wanted a clearer answer.
But I understood why the detective wouldn't give one.
The next day, Roman asked me to meet him in his office.
I arrived just after noon.
For eighteen months, I'd entered that room carrying cleaning supplies or fresh coffee.
This time, I entered as a mother demanding answers.
Roman stood behind his desk.
He looked exhausted.
On the wall behind him hung a black-and-white photograph of his mother sitting at an old upright piano.
"Detective Torres told me the investigation has widened," he said.
I nodded.
"Your brother's business partner appears to be involved."
Roman looked toward the photograph.
"Marcus Vale and I have known each other for twelve years."
"Did you trust him?"
"Once."
"Did you trust Matteo?"
Roman let out a slow breath.
"With more than I should have."
I sat down.
"Why?"
He looked at me.
"Because he was my brother."
I shook my head.
"That's an explanation, not an excuse."
Roman nodded.
"I know."
For a long moment, neither of us spoke.
Then he opened a drawer and removed an old photograph.
Two boys stood beside a woman outside a small neighborhood theater.
The older boy had Roman's dark eyes.
The younger boy was grinning broadly.
Their mother wore a simple dress and held a paper bag of groceries.
"She worked two jobs while my father was building his businesses," Roman said.
"She used to sneak into the theater during rehearsals because she loved music."
I examined the photograph.
"Was she happy?"
"When she was near a piano."
His mouth tightened.
"My father didn't think music was important."
"What did he think was important?"
Roman looked at me.
"Power."
I knew enough about the Bellini family to understand what he meant.
The family's name was connected to restaurants, real estate, shipping contracts, and stories people rarely discussed openly.
Roman was not simply a wealthy businessman.
He was a man whose criminal connections had made him feared throughout Chicago.
And he had never pretended otherwise.
"Then maybe your brother learned exactly what your father taught him," I said.
Roman's expression darkened.
"Perhaps we both did."
The honesty startled me.
He continued.
"I built the foundation because I wanted something in this family that didn't depend on fear."
I looked at him.
"Then you should have protected it from the people who do."
He lowered his eyes.
"Yes."
That afternoon, the foundation's independent auditors contacted Detective Torres about a newly recovered authorization document.
Roman received a copy through his attorneys.
It carried his name.
His signature.
And an instruction approving special control over a group of scholarship payments.
Roman examined it for a long time.
I watched the color drain from his face.
"Is that forged too?" I asked.
He didn't answer immediately.
Then he looked at me.
"No, Grace."
May you like
My heart stopped.
"That signature is mine."
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