Chapter 2 - The Song His Dead Wife Knew
Logan came into Sophia’s room at 12:43 a.m.
I remember the exact time because I had just checked her temperature.
He did not knock.
Sophia flinched.
I looked at him.
“That needs to stop.”
He frowned.
“What?”
“Walking into a sick child’s room like the building is on fire.”
His eyes moved to Sophia.
She looked away.
He lowered his voice.
“Sorry.”
That mattered.
Then he looked at me.
“What song was that?”
I knew immediately.
The camera.
Of course.
“My grandmother’s.”
“What is it called?”
“Stella di Casa.”
“Who taught you?”
“My grandmother.”
“Name.”
I stared.
“Excuse me?”
“Your grandmother’s name.”
I let go of Sophia’s hand and stood.
“If you want to question me, we can do it outside.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
His jaw tightened.
“Sophia—”
“Is exhausted.”
That ended the argument.
Outside the bedroom, I crossed my arms.
“You’re filming every minute of her care.”
“Yes.”
“You didn’t disclose that.”
“It is my house.”
“That wasn't my question.”
“I don't need permission.”
“No. But your daughter deserves people around her who know when they're being watched.”
His eyes went cold.
“You're welcome to leave.”
I hated that sentence because he knew exactly what it would do.
Sophia trusted me now.
Leaving meant abandoning her.
“I’m not leaving.”
“Then answer.”
I stared at him.
“My grandmother’s name was Rosa Bellini.”
Logan stopped breathing.
Not dramatically.
Literally.
His chest froze.
“What?”
“Rosa Bellini.”
“From?”
“Reggio Calabria.”
He looked toward Sophia’s closed door.
Then back at me.
“When did she die?”
“Six years ago.”
“How old?”
“Seventy-two.”
“Your mother?”
“What about her?”
“Name.”
I laughed in disbelief.
“This is inappropriate.”
“Emma.”
Something in his voice changed.
Not power.
Fear.
Real fear.
“My mother was Claire Foster.”
“Was?”
“She died when I was nineteen.”
“How?”
“Car accident.”
His face became unreadable.
“Your father?”
“I never knew him.”
“Birth certificate?”
I stepped back.
“Stop.”
“I need to know.”
“No.”
He looked like a man trying to hold ten thoughts still at once.
Then his phone rang.
He answered.
The woman from earlier.
I heard her voice faintly.
“Logan, I found it.”
He turned away.
“What?”
“The photograph.”
“What photograph?”
“Elena and the baby.”
My skin prickled.
Logan looked at me.
“Send it.”
A message arrived.
He opened it.
His face changed.
Then he handed me the phone.
I almost refused.
Then I saw the image.
A young woman in her twenties.
Long dark hair.
Beautiful.
I recognized her from photographs around Sophia’s room.
Elena Parker.
Logan’s late wife.
She was sitting on a hospital bed holding a newborn wrapped in a yellow blanket.
On the back of the photograph, visible because someone had scanned both sides, were handwritten words:
Elena with E., March 12.
I stared.
“What is this?”
Logan looked at me.
“I don’t know.”
“Why are you showing me?”
“Because you were born March twelfth.”
My blood turned cold.
“How do you know that?”
“Your employment file.”
Of course.
“Thousands of people were born March twelfth.”
“Yes.”
“Then what are you suggesting?”
“I’m not suggesting anything yet.”
Good.
Because I was already angry.
The woman on the phone spoke.
“Logan?”
He put it on speaker.
“This is Sofia Moretti.”
The woman said:
“Elena’s older sister.”
I looked at the phone.
“Why did you say Elena had a baby?”
Silence.
Then Sofia answered carefully.
“Because she did.”
Logan closed his eyes.
“You told me she never had children before Sophia.”
“I lied.”
My stomach tightened.
“Why?”
“Because Elena made me promise.”
“What happened to the baby?”
Another silence.
“She was adopted.”
I looked at Logan.
“No.”
He said nothing.
Sofia continued.
“Elena was seventeen.”
Logan’s face changed.
Seventeen.
Pregnant.
Family shame.
Old Catholic household.
Sofia explained.
Their parents hid the pregnancy.
Sent Elena to stay with relatives in Rhode Island.
The baby was born in a private clinic.
Elena held her for less than a day.
Then their father arranged an adoption.
“She never forgave him.”
“Did you know where the child went?” Logan asked.
“No.”
“Did Elena?”
“Not until years later.”
Logan looked at me.
“When?”
“Before she died.”
My hands went cold.
“What do you mean?”
Sofia hesitated.
“Elena believed she found her.”
“Who?”
“She wouldn’t tell me.”
Logan’s jaw tightened.
“Why?”
“She said she needed proof first.”
“What proof?”
“DNA.”
The hallway seemed to tilt.
I shook my head.
“No.”
Logan looked at me.
“I’m not saying—”
“Yes, you are.”
“I’m saying we need facts.”
“I already have facts.”
My voice rose.
“My mother was Claire Foster. My grandmother was Rosa Bellini. I grew up in Worcester. I have photographs. School records. A whole life.”
Sofia spoke softly.
“Adoptive families also have whole lives.”
That hurt because it was reasonable.
I turned toward Logan.
“You knew your wife had a child?”
“No.”
“You expect me to believe that?”
“Yes.”
He did.
I hated that his face looked honest.
Then Sophia cried out from the room.
We both moved.
Conversation over.
She had vomited again.
I sat beside her.
Logan stayed near the door.
Not touching.
Not helping.
Frozen.
I looked at him.
“Hold the basin.”
He blinked.
“What?”
“Hold it.”
He obeyed.
For the first time, Logan Parker participated in his daughter’s sickness instead of monitoring it.
Sophia looked at him.
Really looked.
He held the basin while I wiped her mouth.
When she settled, her hand moved toward him.
Barely.
He stared.
Then took it.
No words.
Later, after Sophia slept, Logan and I returned downstairs.
I wanted answers.
He wanted more.
Sofia came to the estate the next morning.
She brought a box.
Inside were Elena’s diaries.
Photographs.
Letters.
One envelope remained sealed.
Addressed:
TO MY FIRST DAUGHTER, IF I EVER FIND HER.
My name was not on it.
No proof.
Not yet.
Logan refused to open it.
That surprised me.
“It isn’t yours.”
He pushed it toward me.
“It isn't mine either.”
“Maybe.”
“No.”
My voice shook.
“I need certainty before I touch anything.”
Good.
We agreed to DNA testing.
Not with Logan.
With Sophia.
If Elena were my biological mother, Sophia and I would be maternal half-sisters.
Rachel Monroe—no, wrong story. Here maybe pediatric oncologist Dr. Leah Moran—arranged an independent lab.
Two days.
The longest two days of my life.
During them, Sophia continued to improve in tiny ways.
Not medically.
Emotionally.
She said three more words.
Water.
Again.
Emma.
Logan heard that one.
He looked away.
I pretended not to notice.
On the second night, I sang the lullaby again.
This time Logan stood in the doorway.
Sophia whispered along.
Then stopped.
She looked at her father and said one word.
“Mama.”
Logan’s face broke.
I stopped singing.
Sophia pointed at me.
“Mama song.”
He sat beside her bed.
“Yes.”
His voice barely worked.
“That was Mama’s song.”
Sophia frowned.
Then:
“Emma knows.”
“Yes.”
She looked from him to me.
Children notice hidden things.
“Why?”
Neither of us answered.
The DNA result arrived at 7:12 the next morning.
Logan did not open it.
He handed it to me.
My fingers shook.
Probability of half-sibling relationship:
99.97%.
I read it three times.
Sophia Parker was my biological half-sister.
Elena Parker—
the woman whose photograph had been in front of me for a week—
was my biological mother.
I sat down.
No tears.
Not yet.
Logan leaned against the desk.
“She found you.”
“What?”
“Elena.”
I looked up.
“If she knew before she died…”
He stopped.
My pulse changed.
“What?”
He walked to a locked drawer.
Removed an old phone.
Elena’s phone.
Never accessed fully because encrypted folders remained.
“The day she died, she told me she was going to meet someone.”
“Who?”
“She wouldn’t say.”
My throat tightened.
He looked at the DNA report.
“Now I think it was you.”
I shook my head.
“I never met her.”
“Maybe she planned to.”
“Then why didn’t she?”
His eyes darkened.
“Because three hours later, her car went off a bridge.”
Silence.
I knew the official story.
Rain.
Road accident.
But Logan’s voice had changed.
“That wasn't all?”
“No.”
“What happened?”
He looked toward the hallway.
Then at the cameras.
May you like
For the first time, Logan Parker looked as though the house itself might be listening.
“My wife’s brake line had been cut.”
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