Chapter 3: The Uncle Who Buried a Child
Adrian didn't move after the call ended.
The phone remained pressed against his ear, although there was nothing left to hear.
I sat beneath the salon's soft golden lights, wearing borrowed clothes that still smelled of detergent and roses, and watched the most feared man in New York struggle to control his breathing.
Finally, he lowered the phone.
“Marco.””
His voice was quiet.
Too quiet.
“Find my uncle.””
Marco hesitated.
“Do you want him brought here?””
“No.”” Adrian's eyes hardened.
“I want to know where he's been for the last twenty-four hours, who he's met, and whether anyone has entered or left his properties unexpectedly. If he makes one phone call, I want to know who received it.””
Marco nodded.
“And Adrian?”” he asked carefully.
“What?””
“If Vincent knows about the birthmark, he may already know she's alive.””
Adrian glanced at me.
“Then we assume he knows everything.””
I wrapped my arms around myself.
“Can somebody explain why your uncle thinks he has a right to my life?””
Adrian pulled a chair beside mine.
“I wish I could.””
“Did you know Isabella?””
His expression softened.
“I met her once.””
I blinked.
“You knew me?””
“I was fifteen. My father took me to the Whitmore estate for a business dinner. Isabella was sitting on the stairs, hiding from the adults. She had a gold locket around her neck and a doll missing one shoe.””
A strange ache moved through my chest.
“I had a doll,” I whispered.
Adrian looked at me sharply.
“What?””
“I don't remember what it looked like. But sometimes I dream about holding a doll with one shoe missing.””
For a moment, neither of us spoke.
Then Adrian leaned forward.
“Do you remember me?””
I searched his face.
His scar. His dark eyes. The faint crease between his eyebrows.
Nothing.
“I don't think so.””
He nodded, but disappointment flickered across his expression.
“That's all right.””
“Why does your uncle think you shouldn't find out what happened to your mother?””
Adrian's gaze shifted toward the window.
“My mother died when I was seventeen. A car accident on a country road outside the city.””
“Was Vincent involved?””
“The police said the brakes failed.””
“And you believe them?””
He gave a humorless laugh.
“I believed them for ten years.””
A cold feeling crept down my spine.
“What changed?””
“Your birthmark.””
He took the photograph from the table and studied it again.
“Vincent was the one who told me Isabella died in the fire. He was also the one who arranged my mother's funeral. He handled the Whitmore inheritance and convinced my father that the missing-child investigation was a waste of money.””
I stared at him.
“Your uncle controlled everything.””
“Almost everything.””
He slipped the photograph into his jacket.
“There's one person he never managed to control.””
“Who?””
“My mother.””
Before I could ask another question, Marco returned with a laptop.
“Boss, I found something.””
He set it on the table and opened a scanned newspaper article dated ten years earlier.
The headline read: *WHITMORE MANSION FIRE CLAIMS HEIRESS; QUESTIONS SURROUND FAMILY TRUST.*
Below it was a photograph of a blackened mansion. Firefighters stood behind yellow tape while investigators carried boxes from the wreckage.
Marco pointed to a paragraph near the bottom.
“The fire started shortly after midnight. The report states that investigators found human remains in the upstairs bedroom. Dental records were supposedly used to identify Isabella Whitmore.””
“Supposedly?”” I asked.
Marco enlarged the document.
“There was no publicly available forensic report. The medical examiner's office confirmed the death, but the original file was sealed three days later.””
Adrian's expression darkened.
“Who requested the seal?””
Marco scrolled.
“Vincent Kane, acting as executor of the estate.””
Adrian rose so abruptly that his chair scraped across the marble.
“He had no legal authority to seal a homicide investigation.””
“Not without a judge's order,” Marco agreed.
“But the records show an emergency petition was approved that same morning.””
“By whom?””
Marco turned the screen.
The judge's name appeared.
Adrian stared at it.
“Judge Thomas Bell. He retired the following year and moved to Switzerland.””
“Is that unusual?”” I asked.
“For a judge who approved a suspicious death investigation involving hundreds of millions of dollars?”” Adrian said.
“Very.””
He paced toward the windows.
I watched him, feeling like a stranger who had accidentally walked into the center of a war.
“Maybe you should let me go,” I said.
He turned immediately.
“No.””
“You don't even know if I'm Isabella.””
“I know someone tried to kill me last night, and those men were searching for you. I know my uncle somehow learned about your birthmark before I did. I know an eight-year-old girl was declared dead without a proper investigation.””
He stepped closer.
“Until I know why, you're not going anywhere alone.””
I stiffened.
“I'm not your prisoner.””
“No.”” His voice softened.
“You're my guest. And if you decide to leave, I'll respect that. But I won't pretend the danger isn't real.””
The distinction mattered.
For ten years, people had decided where I could sleep, when I could eat, and whether I deserved to be helped. Adrian was the first powerful man I'd met who gave me a choice and waited for my answer.
I nodded.
“For now, I'll stay.””
His shoulders relaxed slightly.
Marco's phone vibrated. He glanced at the screen, then answered.
“Yes?””
He listened for several seconds.
His expression changed.
“Understood.””
He ended the call.
“Boss, there's a woman downstairs asking to see Wren.””
Adrian frowned.
“Who is she?””
“She refused to give her name. She said she worked at the Whitmore estate before the fire.””
I stood so quickly that my robe slipped from one shoulder.
“What did she look like?””
“Older,” Marco said.
“Gray hair. Small build. She has a photograph she says belonged to Isabella's mother.””
My heart hammered.
“Bring her up.””
Adrian held out an arm to stop me.
“Wait. We don't know who she is.””
“She might know what happened to me!””
“And she might be working for Vincent.””
“Then question her. Search her. Do whatever you have to do, but please don't send her away.””
For several seconds, Adrian studied my face.
Then he turned to Marco.
“Bring her in. Search her for weapons, but don't frighten her unless she gives us a reason.””
Marco left.
I stood in the middle of the salon, suddenly aware of how short my newly cut hair felt against my neck.
A minute later, the private elevator opened.
An elderly woman stepped out, leaning heavily on a wooden cane. Her coat was worn, and rain glistened on her gray hair. She carried a small leather purse pressed tightly against her chest.
The moment she saw me, she dropped the purse.
A photograph slid across the floor.
She stared at my face, then at the crescent-shaped birthmark behind my ear.
Her lips parted.
“Oh, my God.””
She stumbled forward.
“Isabella?””
I couldn't speak.
The woman began to cry.
“I knew it,” she whispered.
“I knew they hadn't killed you.””
Adrian stepped between us.
“Who are you?””
The woman barely seemed to hear him.
“My name is Margaret Ellis. I was your mother's housekeeper.””
She reached into her coat and withdrew a small gold object wrapped in a handkerchief.
When she unfolded the cloth, a crescent-shaped locket glimmered beneath the lights.
I felt a sudden, violent pull of recognition.
My fingers flew to my throat.
“I've seen that before.””
Margaret nodded through her tears.
“Your mother gave it to you the night of the fire. She told me that if you ever came back, I had to give it to you.””
Adrian stared at the locket.
“Why didn't you come forward ten years ago?””
Margaret's face crumpled.
“Because Vincent Kane told me he would bury my children beside the little girl if I ever spoke.””
She pressed the locket into my trembling hands.
“There is something inside it, Isabella. Something your mother hid from him.””
I ran my thumb along the delicate gold crescent until I found a tiny catch.
It opened with a faint click.
Inside was a miniature photograph of a young woman with dark hair and gentle eyes.
Beside her, written in a cramped hand, were six words.
*IF SHE LIVES, FIND ADRIAN'S BIRTH MOTHER.*
I looked up.
Adrian had gone completely still.
“My birth mother?”” he whispered.
Margaret nodded, tears streaming down her cheeks.
“Your mother didn't die in that car accident, Mr. Kane.””
She looked directly at Adrian.
“She survived the crash. And the last time I saw her, she was being taken to the Whitmore estate by your uncle.””
Then Margaret reached into her purse and produced one final item: a yellowed hospital photograph.
On its back was a date, ten years earlier, and a name written in red ink.
*ELEANOR KANE — PATIENT TRANSFERRED UNDER FALSE IDENTITY.*
Adrian took the photograph with shaking hands.
May you like
Eleanor Kane was his mother.
And according to the date on the back, she had been alive six months after the accident that supposedly killed her.
