Chapter 10 - The Clinic Files
Marcus Hale turned out to be alive, practicing law in Oregon under his full name, Marcus Nathaniel Hale. He had been a junior associate at the firm that represented me after the divorce. I remembered him only vaguely: thin, nervous, always carrying too many folders. Daniel Pierce had handled my case. Marcus handled administrative follow-up, including the letters to Moretti Global.
When Luca’s investigators contacted him, Marcus refused to speak.
Then Daniel called me.
“Nia, I owe you an apology.”
Those words from attorneys rarely lead anywhere pleasant.
“What happened?”
“I reviewed archived files.”
“And?”
“Marcus received communication from Moretti counsel after your second letter.”
“What communication?”
“A settlement offer.”
“I never saw one.”
“I know.”
My stomach dropped.
“Daniel.”
“He removed it from your file.”
“Why?”
“We don’t know.”
Luca knew.
A payment of forty thousand dollars had gone from a Moretti family-office vendor account to a consulting company owned by Marcus’s brother.
Another bribe.
Another intercepted decision.
I felt as though six years of my life had been lived inside a maze other people designed.
When Marcus finally agreed to a deposition under threat of subpoena, he admitted Celeste’s counsel paid him to discourage further communication. He never forged my signature or lied directly to me. He simply told Daniel that Moretti counsel had “confirmed no interest in voluntary paternity discussions.”
Daniel believed him.
I believed Daniel.
Silence did the rest.
Afterward, I sat in my car outside the attorney’s office and could not move.
Luca tapped lightly on the passenger window.
I should have told him to leave.
Instead, I unlocked the door.
He sat beside me.
Neither of us spoke for a while.
Finally I said, “Everyone keeps saying they were afraid.”
“Anton.”
“Keane.”
“Marcus.”
“Even your mother.”
“Yes.”
I looked at him.
“Fear is apparently very profitable.”
“Sometimes.”
“Do you know what scares me?”
“What?”
“That we’re going to blame every bad choice on manipulation.”
“I don’t.”
“I do sometimes.”
He waited.
“I didn’t contact you after Eleanor—”
I stopped.
Wrong name.
There was no Eleanor in this story.
I laughed suddenly.
“What?”
“I’m tired.”
“Nia.”
I covered my face.
“The point is, after the twins were three, I could have tried again.”
Luca went still.
“What?”
“I saw an interview with you. You talked about wanting children someday. I realized maybe Celeste had lied.”
His eyes locked on mine.
“Why didn’t you call?”
“Because by then the twins knew one life. Mine. I was afraid you would arrive with attorneys and schedules and a last name that opened every door in Chicago.”
“I wouldn’t have taken them.”
“I know that now.”
“But you didn’t then.”
“No.”
He looked away.
“So part of the six years is yours.”
“Yes.”
The admission hurt.
But truth should hurt where lies had numbed us.
“I’m angry,” Luca said.
“You should be.”
“I don’t know what to do with it.”
“Therapy.”
He looked offended.
“I am not opposed to therapy.”
“You once said therapy was ‘outsourced self-reflection.’”
“I was thirty-two and insufferable.”
“You were.”
“I have a therapist now.”
I stared.
“Since when?”
“Three weeks.”
“That is alarmingly responsible.”
He smiled.
Then became serious.
“I forgive you.”
My chest tightened.
“I didn’t ask.”
“I know.”
“Don’t make forgiveness another way to control the conversation.”
“I’m not.”
“Good.”
“I’m saying it because I want you to know I understand why you were afraid.”
That mattered.
Unfortunately, peace never lasted long around the Morettis.
Two days later, Dr. Keane turned over his personal notes.
One entry dated six years earlier read:
C.M. insists marriage dissolution preferable before conception. Patient L.M. too emotionally attached to wife to act absent perceived finality.
Another:
C.M. requested revised counseling summary emphasizing female-factor limitations. I objected. Funding concerns raised.
And one final note:
Pregnancy possible naturally. If pregnancy occurs, situation may become uncontrollable.
I read that sentence aloud.
Luca’s face went white.
“She knew.”
“Yes.”
“She knew pregnancy was possible and still pushed us apart.”
“Yes.”
“Why would Keane write this?”
“To protect himself.”
“Coward.”
“Yes.”
Luca turned toward the window.
“What are you thinking?”
“That my mother didn’t just interfere after our divorce.”
“No.”
“She engineered conditions for it.”
“Yes.”
He looked at me.
“I’m sorry.”
“You said that already.”
“I’m going to spend the rest of my life meaning it.”
My heart jumped.
“Don’t say things like that.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re still married.”
“Barely.”
“Still.”
He nodded.
“You’re right.”
“And because we are not us.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
He looked at me with the same dark eyes my children had inherited.
“Yes.”
Then he stepped back.
It should have relieved me.
May you like
Instead, I felt the loss.
That frightened me more than Celeste ever had.
