Chapter 5 - The Woman Who Was Supposed to Be Dead
I read the date three times.
My mother had supposedly died on October 17, 1999.
The date beside the Pennsylvania address was April 6, 2000.
Nearly six months later.
That was impossible.
I knew where my mother was buried.
I had stood beside her grave.
I had paid for the headstone myself after I made my first real money.
ROSA MORETTI.
BELOVED MOTHER.
1958–1999.
My hands began shaking.
Miguel noticed.
“Sir?”
I folded the letter.
“Get the car.”
“Where are we going?”
I handed him the address.
He read it.
“Pennsylvania?”
“Yes.”
“Tonight?”
“Yes.”
Elena spoke from the table.
“Mr. Moretti.”
I turned.
She looked exhausted but determined.
“What if Harland expects you to go?”
That stopped me.
Elena glanced toward the letter.
“He knew the folder existed.”
Maybe.
“He knew the archives were burning,” she continued. “Maybe he wanted you angry.”
She was right.
I had spent decades believing anger made me decisive.
Sometimes it simply made me predictable.
I sat down.
Nora climbed onto the chair beside me.
She didn’t understand the conversation.
She simply knew adults were frightened.
Children always know.
I looked at Miguel.
“Send someone else.”
“Who?”
“Someone Harland doesn’t know.”
Miguel thought.
“My brother.”
“Police?”
“Retired state investigator.”
“Does Harland know him?”
“No.”
“Call him.”
Miguel stepped away.
I unfolded my mother’s letter again.
The handwriting was unmistakable.
But handwriting could be copied.
Signatures could be forged.
I had learned that tonight.
I needed proof.
I went upstairs to my private office.
Nora followed.
So did Elena, despite my protests.
“I can walk,” she insisted.
“You’re supposed to be resting.”
“I’ve spent three years doing what Harland told me. I would like one evening where I decide for myself.”
That almost made me smile.
“Fine.”
Nora sat on my office rug while Elena rested on the sofa.
I opened a locked drawer.
Inside was a small wooden box.
I had not opened it in years.
My mother’s rosary.
A MetroCard.
Two photographs.
Three letters.
I compared the handwriting.
Same backward slant on the R.
Same narrow loops in the L.
Same way she crossed lowercase t’s too far to the right.
The letter was real.
I called the cemetery.
An overnight administrator answered after several transfers.
I gave him my mother’s information.
He confirmed the burial.
October 20, 1999.
“Who authorized the burial?” I asked.
“One moment.”
Keyboard clicking.
Then silence.
“Sir, that file is unusual.”
“How?”
“The burial was handled through a charitable assistance program.”
“I know.”
“No, I mean the identification was indirect.”
My chest tightened.
“What does that mean?”
“The body came through the county medical examiner’s office. Identification was confirmed by an employer representative.”
“Name?”
More typing.
“Harold Harland.”
I gripped the phone.
Harold.
Harland’s full name.
He had always gone by Henry professionally.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“What about family identification?”
“None listed.”
I hung up.
Elena had heard enough.
“Oh my God.”
I barely heard her.
Harland had identified my mother’s body.
I didn’t know him then.
At least, I hadn’t known that I knew him.
I searched public records.
Harold Harland had been operations supervisor at Jackson Industrial Laundry in 1999.
The building where my mother worked.
I stared at the screen.
Twenty-seven years.
He had been standing inside my past for twenty-seven years.
And somehow he had later walked into my future.
My phone rang.
Miguel’s brother.
“Mr. Moretti?”
“Yes.”
“My name is Daniel Santos.”
“Tell me.”
“I’m at the address.”
“That was fast.”
“I live forty minutes away.”
I looked at the clock.
Almost midnight.
“What is it?”
“A care facility.”
I stood.
“What kind?”
“Assisted living.”
My heart began pounding.
“Who lives there?”
“I’m checking.”
A minute passed.
Then two.
I could hear muted conversation on his end.
Finally, Daniel returned.
“There’s a resident who has been here since 2004.”
I couldn’t breathe.
“Name?”
“Rose Marino.”
Rose.
Rosa.
“Age?”
“Sixty-eight.”
My mother would have been sixty-eight.
Elena covered her mouth.
“Can you see her?”
“The night nurse says family visits require approval.”
“Tell them who I am.”
“I did.”
Silence.
“Daniel.”
“I’m here.”
“What aren’t you telling me?”
He exhaled.
“The resident has advanced memory problems.”
I closed my eyes.
“But there’s more.”
“What?”
“When I showed the nurse your name, she reacted.”
“How?”
“She knew it.”
That made no sense.
“Why?”
“I asked.”
“And?”
“She said Rose repeats one sentence whenever she gets frightened.”
My hand tightened around the phone.
“What sentence?”
Daniel hesitated.
Then said it.
“Tell Luca I didn’t leave him.”
The room tilted.
I sat down without meaning to.
Nora stopped coloring.
“Mr. Luca?”
I heard Daniel asking if I was still there.
“Yes.”
“Do you want me to stay?”
“Yes.”
“Until you arrive?”
“Yes.”
I looked at Elena.
She knew I was going now.
This time she didn’t argue.
Miguel arranged the car.
Before I left, I walked Elena and Nora back to their room.
Nora stood in the doorway in her pajamas.
“Where are you going?”
“To see someone.”
“Your mommy?”
I froze.
Children hear everything.
“Maybe.”
She smiled sleepily.
“Then tell her you found the shirt.”
I almost laughed.
Instead, something hurt behind my ribs.
“I will.”
She held out the drawing.
“You can take this.”
“I thought you made it for me.”
“I did.”
“Then why are you giving it to me?”
“So you don’t get scared.”
Three years old.
And she thought I needed protection.
Maybe I did.
I folded the drawing and put it inside my jacket.
“Thank you.”
She looked pleased.
Elena touched my arm as I turned away.
“Whatever you find,” she whispered, “don’t go alone inside your own head.”
I looked at her.
She gave a tired smile.
“My mother used to say that.”
I nodded.
Then I left.
The drive to Pennsylvania took two hours.
I spent the entire time staring at darkness beyond the window.
At 2:17 a.m., we pulled into the parking lot of Green Meadows Assisted Living.
Daniel Santos waited outside.
He looked like an older version of Miguel.
Same eyes.
Same posture.
He shook my hand.
“She’s awake.”
My pulse jumped.
“Does she know I’m coming?”
“No.”
“Good.”
The nurse led us through a quiet hallway.
Room 214.
I stopped outside.
For the first time in years, I was afraid to open a door.
What if it wasn’t her?
Worse—
what if it was?
I entered.
A woman sat beside the window.
Thin.
Gray-haired.
A blanket covered her knees.
She was humming softly.
I knew the song.
My mother used to sing it while washing clothes.
I couldn’t move.
“Ma?”
The woman stopped humming.
Slowly, she turned.
Her face was older.
Changed.
But her eyes were the same brown I saw in the mirror every morning.
She stared at me.
No recognition.
My heart broke anyway.
Then her gaze dropped to my hands.
She whispered something.
I stepped closer.
“What?”
She reached toward me.
Her fingers brushed the scar across my right thumb.
A scar I had gotten opening a soup can when I was nine.
Her eyes filled with tears.
“Luca?”
My knees nearly gave out.
“Ma.”
She touched my face.
Then suddenly terror replaced recognition.
Her hand flew to my mouth.
“Quiet.”
“Ma?”
“They’ll hear you.”
“Who?”
She looked toward the door.
“The men from the laundry.”
I took her hand.
“They can’t hurt you.”
Her entire body began shaking.
“Yes, they can.”
“Who?”
She gripped me with surprising strength.
“Crane.”
I swallowed.
“Walter Crane?”
She nodded.
“And Harold.”
Harland.
“What did they do?”
Tears rolled down her face.
“The fire was supposed to burn the books.”
“What books?”
“The payroll books.”
I leaned closer.
“What was in them?”
“Names.”
“What names?”
She looked directly into my eyes.
“People they said never worked there.”
I didn’t understand.
Then she whispered:
“But they were dead, Luca.”
My blood went cold.
“Dead?”
She nodded.
“They stole from dead people.”
Before I could ask another question, an alarm sounded somewhere in the hallway.
The nurse rushed toward the door.
Then Daniel looked through the window.
His expression changed.
“What?”
He reached beneath his jacket.
“Stay here.”
“Why?”
He locked the room door.
“Because a black SUV just pulled into the parking lot.”
I looked outside.
Another SUV followed.
Then another.
And in the headlights of the first vehicle, a man stepped onto the pavement.
May you like
Even from two floors above, I recognized him.
Harland.
