Chapter 5 - THE NAME SHE HAD SPENT TWENTY YEARS FORGETTING
Marco didn't tell Josie immediately.
He wanted confirmation.
By midnight, he had more than enough.
Megan Brennan had worked for one of his father's companies twenty-three years earlier.
Not as an executive.
Not as an accountant.
As a clerical assistant.
She had disappeared when Josie was four.
Official records listed her death as a drug overdose.
Josie entered foster care two days later.
Marco sat in his study staring at the scanned files.
Carlo stood nearby.
“This can't be coincidence.”
“No.”
“Daniel kept records going back decades?”
“Apparently.”
Carlo shifted.
“There's more.”
Marco looked up.
“Say it.”
“Megan Brennan didn't overdose.”
Marco's expression hardened.
“How do you know?”
“Autopsy discrepancy. Initial report says blunt-force trauma. Final report says accidental overdose.”
“Who changed it?”
“A medical examiner who later bought a house through one of the shell companies on Daniel's list.”
Marco became very still.
“And Josie?”
“Placed into emergency foster care. Records were sealed and transferred between agencies.”
“Why?”
“Don't know.”
“Find out.”
Carlo hesitated.
“Boss.”
“What?”
“Josie's already afraid you're trying to control her.”
Marco knew exactly what Carlo meant.
“You think I shouldn't tell her?”
“I think you should make sure you're right first.”
Marco looked through the window.
Snow had begun falling.
“No.”
Carlo blinked.
“She spent twenty-three years believing a lie. I don't get to decide she should spend another night believing it.”
Josie was asleep beside Saint.
Not in the guest bed.
On the floor.
Marco found her curled under a blanket with her back against the sofa, one hand resting near Saint's paw.
He considered leaving.
Then her eyes opened.
Instantly alert.
“What happened?”
“How do you know something happened?”
“You're standing in a dark room staring at me.”
“Fair.”
She sat up.
Saint opened one eye.
Marco held a folder.
Josie looked at it.
“What is that?”
“Something from the memory card.”
She became fully awake.
“About me?”
Marco's silence answered.
Josie stood.
“How?”
“I don't know yet.”
He handed her the photograph.
She stared.
The color drained from her face.
“No.”
“You recognize her?”
Josie's fingers shook.
“No.”
Marco waited.
She whispered, “Yes.”
Megan Brennan was twenty-six in the picture.
Dark hair.
Sharp gray eyes.
Josie's eyes.
“My mother.”
Marco nodded.
“Where did you get this?”
“Daniel's files.”
“Why did your accountant have a picture of my mother?”
“I don't know.”
Josie turned it over.
The handwritten date read 2003.
Her mother's name underneath.
Another name beside it.
Daniel Reese.
Josie's breathing changed.
“I was four.”
Marco didn't move.
“She died that year.”
“I know.”
Her head snapped up.
“You know?”
“We checked public records.”
“You investigated me?”
“After someone attacked your workplace.”
“You investigated me.”
“I needed to know whether there was a connection.”
“And you found one.”
“Yes.”
Josie's face closed.
“Tell me.”
Marco hesitated.
“All of it.”
“Josie—”
“All of it.”
So he did.
The original autopsy.
The revised report.
The examiner.
The shell-company payment.
The unusual transfer into foster care.
Josie didn't cry.
That frightened Marco more than tears would have.
She stood completely still while he dismantled the story she'd been told about her mother.
“She didn't overdose.”
“It doesn't appear so.”
“She didn't leave me because of drugs.”
“We don't know exactly what happened.”
“But somebody lied.”
“Yes.”
Josie looked down at the photograph.
For twenty-three years she had hated a dead woman.
Not every day.
Hatred required energy.
But it had sat somewhere deep inside her.
A child-sized wound preserved beneath adult scar tissue.
Her mother had chosen drugs over her.
That was the story.
Social workers had said addiction was complicated.
Foster parents had said Josie should be grateful someone had taken her in.
Teachers had suggested she stop asking questions.
Eventually she had.
Now a dead accountant's memory card had torn the wound open.
“I need air.”
Marco stepped aside.
She walked toward the back door.
“Take a coat.”
“I have one.”
“That thing barely qualifies.”
Josie looked at him.
Marco lifted his hands.
“No money.”
Despite everything, a tiny laugh escaped her.
She went outside.
Saint tried to follow.
Dr. Levin had ordered limited movement.
Marco stopped him.
“She'll come back.”
Saint stared at the door.
Marco understood the feeling.
Josie stood beneath the covered terrace.
Snow drifted through the security lights.
Marco joined her several minutes later.
“Do you remember her?”
“Pieces.”
Her voice sounded distant.
“Her hands.”
Marco remained silent.
“She painted her nails red. Always red. She used to tap them on the steering wheel when she sang.”
Josie swallowed.
“I remember oranges.”
“Oranges?”
“She used to peel them for me and leave the white strings because she said that's where the vitamins lived.”
Marco almost smiled.
“She was probably right.”
“I hated the white strings.”
A long silence.
“I remember one night she woke me up and put me in the bathtub.”
Marco looked at her.
“Why?”
“She told me we were playing submarine.”
Josie rubbed her arms.
“I thought it was funny. She made me sit in the tub with blankets around me. No water. She turned off every light.”
Marco's attention sharpened.
“How long?”
“I don't know. I was four.”
“What happened?”
“She sat outside the bathroom door holding something.”
“What?”
Josie closed her eyes.
“A baseball bat.”
Marco's stomach tightened.
“She was hiding you.”
“I think so.”
“From whom?”
“I don't remember.”
Josie looked toward the snow.
“The next thing I remember is a woman from social services.”
Marco understood.
Whatever Megan Brennan had been involved in, it had reached her home.
Josie's phone vibrated.
Unknown number.
She looked at it.
Marco said, “Don't answer.”
Josie answered.
“Hello?”
A distorted male voice spoke.
“Your mother made the same mistake.”
Josie's face went white.
Marco took the phone.
“Who is this?”
The caller laughed.
“DeSantis.”
Marco's eyes hardened.
“You have five seconds to tell me your name.”
“You still think this is about money?”
The line crackled.
“Ask the girl what happened at 417 Halsted.”
Marco looked at Josie.
She shook her head.
The caller continued.
“Ask her why Megan Brennan died.”
“What do you want?”
“The card.”
“No.”
“Then we start taking people she cares about.”
The line disconnected.
Josie's phone buzzed again.
A photograph arrived.
Ruthie's Diner.
Taken from across the street.
Timestamped two minutes earlier.
Josie's knees nearly gave out.
“Ruthie.”
Marco was already calling Carlo.
“Get a team to the diner.”
Josie grabbed her coat.
Marco blocked the door.
“Move.”
“No.”
“She could be hurt.”
“And running there alone helps how?”
“I'm not staying here.”
“You're not.”
Marco took his keys.
“We're going together.”
They reached the diner in twelve minutes.
Marco's men had arrived first.
Front door open.
Lights on.
No Ruthie.
Josie ran inside.
“Ruthie!”
Tables were overturned.
A coffee mug shattered near the register.
“Ruthie!”
Marco checked the kitchen.
Empty.
Carlo came through the rear entrance.
“No sign.”
Josie's breathing became frantic.
Her phone rang.
Ruthie's number.
Josie answered.
“Ruthie?”
A man responded.
“Bring the capsule to 417 Halsted.”
Marco heard it.
“When?”
“Midnight tomorrow.”
“If she's hurt—”
“Your dog already learned what happens when you resist.”
Josie's eyes filled with tears.
The man continued.
“One card. One woman. Simple trade.”
Marco reached for the phone.
The caller spoke before he could.
“And DeSantis?”
Marco stopped.
“We know which man inside your house belongs to us.”
The call ended.
Nobody moved.
Then every person in the diner slowly looked at everyone else.
Because the enemy wasn't only outside.
May you like
Someone standing close to Marco had betrayed him.
And according to the kidnappers, that person was still inside his home.
