Chapter 7 - The Fire Nobody Remembered|
"My mother never disappeared."
I said it firmly.
Harold looked at me with grief in his eyes.
"I know what your mother told you, Claire. But there was an incident in Milwaukee twenty-seven years ago."
My heart hammered.
"What incident?"
He hesitated.
"A fire."
The word made my stomach tighten.
My parents had once mentioned a small fire at an old workshop.
Nothing serious, they'd said.
An electrical problem.
Some damaged equipment.
Insurance had covered most of it.
But now Harold was looking at me as though that fire had changed someone's life forever.
"Tell me," I whispered.
He took a breath.
"Sofia had arranged to meet Margaret again. She wanted to tell her the truth."
I stared at him.
"What happened?"
"She traveled to Milwaukee. She went to the framing shop."
"And?"
Harold lowered his eyes.
"That night, the workshop caught fire."
I felt cold.
"Was anyone hurt?"
"Sofia wasn't. But Margaret was hospitalized briefly for smoke inhalation, and the records Sofia intended to give her disappeared."
I pressed my hands together.
My mother had never told me that part.
I had been a baby then.
I remembered nothing.
Harold continued.
"Sofia believed someone had deliberately started the fire."
Alessandro's expression hardened.
"Who?"
"She suspected someone connected to the Bellini family."
Daniel looked up.
"Why the Bellinis?"
Harold swallowed.
"Because they had been involved in the original adoption arrangement."
A long silence followed.
I looked at Alessandro.
His face had changed.
"Camille's family knew about Margaret?"
Harold nodded.
"For years."
I thought of Camille.
Her expensive dress.
Her contemptuous smile.
The way she'd called me a cleaning girl.
Had she known who my mother was before I arrived at the mansion?
Had she known who I was?
My stomach twisted.
"Mr. Bennett, when did Camille hire the investigator?"
"Three months ago."
"And when did she start coming to the mansion regularly?"
Alessandro answered.
"About five months ago."
I looked toward him.
"She met your grandmother before she died?"
He shook his head.
"No. Nonna passed away two years before I met Camille."
I nodded slowly.
"So Camille wasn't searching for the daughter because she cared about your grandmother."
Alessandro's eyes narrowed.
"She was searching because she knew something had been hidden."
Daniel received a message.
He studied it.
Then looked up.
"We found the freight paperwork."
Alessandro turned.
"Where's the painting?"
"It was transferred to another vehicle before reaching this warehouse."
"Destination?"
Daniel hesitated.
"An abandoned commercial property near the old railroad yards."
Alessandro frowned.
"Who owns it?"
Daniel looked toward me.
"An investment company controlled by Camille's brother, Adrian Hart."
The name meant something.
I remembered seeing Adrian Hart at the mansion.
Tall.
Blond.
Always smiling.
He had once asked me whether I knew how much the artwork in the house was worth.
I'd assumed he was making conversation.
Now I wasn't sure.
Alessandro looked toward Daniel.
"Notify the investigators. I want that property secured."
Daniel nodded.
But before he could make the call, my phone rang again.
This time, it was my mother.
I answered immediately.
"Mom?"
Her voice was shaking.
"Claire, where are you?"
"I'm in Chicago. What's wrong?"
"Your father just remembered something."
My chest tightened.
"About the fire?"
There was a long pause.
"How do you know about that?"
"Someone called me."
My mother began crying.
"Oh, sweetheart."
"Mom, please tell me what happened."
She took a shaky breath.
"That night, a woman came to the shop."
"What woman?"
"She said she worked for Sofia Romano."
I looked toward Alessandro.
He was watching me carefully.
My mother continued.
"She brought a package. She said it contained papers that would explain where I'd come from."
My heart hammered.
"What happened to the package?"
My mother began sobbing.
"Your father hid it."
"Why?"
"Because a man came into the shop afterward. He demanded the papers and threatened us."
I closed my eyes.
"What man?"
My mother whispered a name.
"Richard Hart."
I stared at Alessandro.
"Camille's father?"
My mother made a small sound.
"Yes."
I felt as though the floor had disappeared beneath me.
Camille's family had been involved for decades.
My mother continued.
"Your father hid the package before the fire started. We thought it had been destroyed."
"Was it?"
A pause.
Then she whispered, "No."
My breath caught.
"Where is it?"
"Your father found it last year while cleaning the basement."
I stared at the phone.
"Mom..."
"He was afraid to open it."
"Why?"
"Because we spent twenty-seven years trying to forget what happened."
Tears rolled down my cheeks.
"Where is it now?"
My mother took a shaky breath.
"In your father's workshop."
I closed my eyes.
Then she said something I would never forget.
"Claire, the envelope has your name on it."
My heart stopped.
"My name?"
"Yes."
Her voice broke.
"It says: For Claire Dawson, when she is old enough to understand why her grandmother never stopped looking for her."
I looked toward Alessandro.
He was already reaching for his phone.
May you like
And in that moment, I realized the stolen painting was only half the mystery.
Someone had spent nearly three decades trying to bury the other half.
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