Chapter 4 - MY MOTHER’S SECRETI slapped Ethan.
The sound cracked through the security room.
Everyone froze.
Including me.
Ethan slowly turned his face back toward mine.
A red mark spread across his cheek.
“My mother is dead.”
“She isn’t.”
“You don’t get to use her.”
“I’m trying to save your life.”
“You strangled me yesterday.”
His eyes dropped.
For the first time since I had known him, Ethan looked ashamed.
Not enough.
Never enough.
But something.
“I was supposed to scare you.”
Lucian stepped forward.
“Choose your next words carefully.”
Ethan glanced at him.
“I didn’t know she was pregnant.”
“That matters to you?”
“Yes.”
“You expect gratitude?”
“No.”
Lucian’s hand curled into a fist.
I stepped between them.
“Tell me about my mother.”
Ethan swallowed.
“Her name wasn’t Elaine Harper.”
Everything inside me went still.
Of course her name was Elaine Harper.
She had raised me in a two-bedroom house in Evanston.
She made terrible pancakes every Sunday.
She sang along to Fleetwood Mac while cleaning.
She cried at dog-food commercials.
She died from pancreatic cancer when I was twenty-two.
I held her hand.
I watched the monitor stop.
I buried her.
“Her real name was Elena Moretti.”
Lucian went pale.
I turned toward him.
“What?”
He did not answer.
“Lucian.”
His eyes stayed on Ethan.
“Who told you that?”
“Victor.”
“Victor Sloane?”
“Yes.”
I grabbed Lucian’s arm.
“Why do you know that name?”
Lucian looked at me.
“Elena Moretti was my father’s sister.”
The room tilted.
“No.”
“She disappeared when I was a child.”
“No.”
“My father said she died.”
“No.”
“Norah—”
“My mother’s name was Elaine.”
Lucian said nothing.
That was worse.
“You knew?”
“No.”
“Did you suspect?”
“Never.”
Ethan laughed bitterly.
“Congratulations. You married your cousin.”
Marco punched him before anyone could stop him.
Ethan collapsed.
“Marco!” I screamed.
Lucian caught Marco by the shoulder.
“Enough.”
Ethan spit blood onto the floor.
Then started laughing.
“You people don’t know anything.”
Lucian’s voice became lethal.
“If Norah and I were related, I’d know.”
“You aren’t.”
I stared at Ethan.
“What?”
“Elena Moretti wasn’t her biological mother.”
My mind could not keep up.
“Then who was?”
Ethan leaned against the wall.
“That’s why they’re trying to kill her.”
Detective Torres returned.
Ethan demanded immunity.
He did not get it.
What he got was a chair, a bottle of water, two uniformed officers and the understanding that assault charges remained very real.
Then he began talking.
Twenty-eight years ago, Judge Richard Cole had not been a judge.
He was prosecutor Richard Cole.
He was building the case that eventually put Antonio Moretti in prison.
Victor Sloane was his investigator.
During that investigation, they discovered something more valuable than mob convictions.
Money.
Millions of dollars hidden through political bribery, city contracts and offshore accounts.
But the money did not belong only to criminals.
It belonged to prosecutors.
Police officers.
Judges.
Politicians.
Organized crime had not corrupted Chicago alone.
Chicago had corrupted itself.
Elena Moretti—Lucian’s aunt—was an accountant for one of the companies moving those funds.
When she discovered the ledger, she stole it.
Then disappeared.
“She changed her name,” Ethan said. “Became Elaine Harper.”
“Why raise me?” I asked.
“Because your real mother begged her.”
“Who was she?”
Ethan looked toward Lucian.
“Rebecca Sloane.”
Victor’s daughter.
Nobody spoke.
My stomach turned.
“She was seventeen,” Ethan continued. “Got pregnant. Victor wanted the baby gone.”
“Why?”
“Because the father was Richard Cole.”
I stared at him.
Then at Detective Torres.
Then back at Ethan.
“No.”
“Richard was married. Running for office. Rebecca threatened everything.”
My voice came out thin.
“So Judge Cole—”
“Is your biological father.”
The room disappeared.
I was vaguely aware of Lucian beside me.
His hand on my back.
Detective Torres asking if I needed a break.
I didn’t answer.
Judge Richard Cole.
Ethan’s father.
Which meant—
I looked at Ethan.
His face told me before his mouth did.
“You’re my half brother.”
He nodded.
I vomited.
Lucian caught my hair while I bent over a wastebasket.
Someone brought water.
I couldn’t breathe.
Ethan and I had dated for four years.
Shared a bed.
Almost married.
He had known.
“How long?” I whispered.
“Norah—”
“HOW LONG DID YOU KNOW?”
“Not at first.”
“When?”
“Six months into the relationship.”
I hit him again.
Nobody stopped me.
“You knew?”
Tears filled his eyes.
I had never seen Ethan cry.
I hated him more for it.
“My father told me.”
“And you stayed?”
“He said if I left suddenly, you’d start asking questions.”
“So you abused me instead?”
“No.”
“No?”
“I was already—”
He stopped.
“Already what?” I demanded.
He looked down.
“Already becoming him.”
That answer was so pathetic it almost made me laugh.
“You had choices.”
“I know.”
“No, Ethan. You don’t get to turn yourself into another victim in this room.”
“I’m not.”
“You knew we were related and you stayed with me.”
“I never touched you again after I found out.”
My mind raced backward.
Six months.
Our relationship had changed around then.
Suddenly Ethan always had an excuse.
Stress.
Work.
Alcohol.
I had believed he was cheating.
“You became violent instead.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
He looked at his hands.
“I thought if you hated me enough, you’d leave.”
“You nearly killed me.”
“I know.”
“That is not love.”
“I know.”
Lucian spoke from behind me.
“If you say those words once more, I will forget my promise to my wife.”
Ethan went quiet.
Detective Torres took over.
“What does Victor Sloane want now?”
“The ledger.”
“Where is it?”
“Nobody knows.”
“Why target Norah?”
“Because Elena gave it to her.”
I shook my head.
“She never did.”
“You may not know she did.”
The necklace.
I suddenly remembered.
My mother—Elaine—gave it to me days before she died.
But Ethan had supposedly purchased it.
I looked at him.
“You lied about the necklace.”
“Yes.”
“It came from Mom.”
“Yes.”
“You put the tracker inside.”
“Yes.”
“Was the ledger inside it?”
“No.”
“Then where?”
“I don’t know.”
Lucian stared toward the evidence bag.
“Maybe the necklace points to it.”
The tiny GPS component was reexamined.
Inside its circuit board was a string of numbers.
Not coordinates.
A bank account?
No.
Detective Torres wrote them down.
42-17-9-6-23.
I stared.
Something about them felt familiar.
Then I knew.
“My mother’s cookbook.”
Lucian frowned.
“What?”
“She numbered recipes.”
I remembered sitting at our kitchen table while Elaine wrote tiny codes beside certain ingredients.
I thought it was an eccentric habit.
Five recipes.
Five numbers.
The cookbook was stored in a box at my old house.
A house currently rented to a graduate student.
Lucian stood.
“We go now.”
Torres shook her head.
“Police go first.”
“It belongs to my wife.”
“It may contain evidence in an active criminal conspiracy.”
Lucian looked ready to argue.
I squeezed his hand.
“Police first.”
He looked at me.
Then nodded.
“Police first.”
The Evanston house looked smaller than I remembered.
Detective Torres entered with two officers.
The tenant was away.
I followed five minutes later with Lucian.
My mother’s belongings remained in the attic.
Boxes of Christmas decorations.
Photo albums.
Books.
Her old sewing machine.
Then the cookbook.
The cover was yellow with faded sunflowers.
My hands shook as I opened it.
Recipe 42.
Apple pie.
Line 17.
Cinnamon.
Recipe 9.
Chicken soup.
Line 6.
Salt.
Recipe 23.
Lemon cake.
We followed the numbers.
First letters.
C.
A.
S.
H.
?
It didn’t work.
Then Lucian noticed tiny pencil marks.
Page numbers.
The first marked words spelled:
CEMETERY.
My mother was buried at Rosehill.
We drove there before sunset.
Her grave sat beneath an elm tree.
ELAINE HARPER.
BELOVED MOTHER.
I knelt.
My hands touched the stone.
“All these years.”
Lucian stood behind me.
“She was still your mother.”
“I don’t even know her real name.”
“You know who she was to you.”
That nearly broke me.
Detective Torres found a small mark carved into the back of the headstone.
An arrow.
Pointing downward.
Police obtained emergency authorization to inspect the grave structure without disturbing the remains.
Behind a removable stone panel near the foundation was a waterproof metal container.
Inside:
A flash drive.
A letter.
And a photograph.
I opened the letter.
My darling Norah,
If you are reading this, then the past has found you.
I need you to understand one thing before everything else.
I chose you.
Not because I had to.
Because the first time I held you, you wrapped your hand around my finger, and I knew I would burn every bridge behind me before I let these men decide what happened to you.
Your mother, Rebecca, loved you.
She was afraid.
Your father, Richard, loved only power.
Victor loved control.
Neither man can be allowed to possess what I hid.
The evidence on this drive can destroy them.
But more importantly, it can free you.
Do not trust Richard Cole.
Do not trust Victor Sloane.
And if Ethan is still in your life—
I stopped.
My vision blurred.
Lucian read the next sentence over my shoulder.
Run.
He knows more than he says.
A gunshot exploded.
Detective Torres fell.
Lucian threw me behind the headstone.
A second bullet chipped stone above us.
People screamed across the cemetery.
Lucian covered my body with his.
Security scattered.
“Shooter!” Marco yelled.
Another shot.
Then silence.
I looked toward Torres.
Blood covered her shoulder, but she was conscious.
Lucian shouted for an ambulance.
Then my phone rang.
Unknown number.
I answered before anyone could stop me.
A man’s voice spoke.
“Hello, granddaughter.”
Victor Sloane.
I could barely breathe.
“You want the truth?”
He chuckled.
“Bring me the drive.”
Then he said the words that changed everything again.
“Or Ethan’s father dies tonight.”
I stared toward Ethan, who had been brought under police supervision and now stood several yards away.
His face collapsed.
“My father?”
Victor laughed.
“Oh, Ethan.”
A pause.
May you like
“He was never your father.”
And the line went dead.
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