Chapter 5 - THE MAN IN THE PHOTOGRAPH
We found his name in an old address book.
Richard Hale.
My father's former business manager.
I remembered him vaguely.
He had worked with Dad for years.
Then, after Dad died, Richard disappeared from our lives.
I called the number listed beside his name.
Disconnected.
Laura looked at me.
“That doesn't surprise me.”
“Why?”
“Your father stopped trusting him.”
“Why?”
“He thought Richard was taking money.”
I looked at the photograph again.
“From Dad?”
“Yes.”
My mother spoke quietly.
“Patrick confronted him.”
“And?”
“Richard denied everything.”
I sat down.
“Did Dad fire him?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“Six months before he died.”
I looked at the watch.
11:42.
Something about the timing bothered me.
Then Camilla called.
I answered immediately.
“Where are you?”
“At the airport.”
“Why?”
“I had to work.”
“Camilla, you shouldn't be alone.”
“I have to pay rent.”
“I'll come get you.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because someone has been watching me.”
My stomach tightened.
“Who?”
“I don't know.”
“Leave work.”
“I can't.”
“You can.”
She was silent.
Then she said, “Lucas, Emilia's location isn't the only thing they're hiding.”
“What else?”
“My mother kept records.”
“What records?”
“About the pregnancy.”
I frowned.
“Why would that matter?”
“Because she believed someone had changed the medical file.”
I felt cold.
“Changed what?”
“My due date.”
“Why?”
“So the timing wouldn't match your last trip home.”
I stopped breathing.
My last trip home before the divorce had been six weeks before the divorce papers were filed.
If the pregnancy dates had been altered, someone had deliberately tried to make me doubt Emilia was mine.
“Who had access?”
“My mother's doctor.”
“Do you know the name?”
“Yes.”
She gave it to me.
Dr. Samuel Price.
Then she said something else.
“He died last year.”
I exhaled.
“Of course.”
Camilla's voice softened.
“But his daughter still has his records.”
That gave us somewhere to start.
By late afternoon, Laura had found an old contact number.
We drove to a quiet neighborhood outside Miami.
Dr. Price's daughter, Evelyn, opened the door.
She was in her fifties.
When I mentioned my father's name, she looked surprised.
“Patrick Bennett?”
“Yes.”
She stared at me.
“He told me once that if you ever came asking questions, I should listen.”
I looked at Laura.
“What did he give you?”
Evelyn disappeared into another room.
She returned carrying a cardboard box.
Inside were medical records.
Old photographs.
Receipts.
A hospital bracelet.
And a folded birth certificate.
My hands shook.
“Is this Emilia's?”
Evelyn nodded.
“The original.”
I opened it.
Mother: Camilla Rivera.
Father: Lucas Bennett.
I couldn't speak.
My name was there.
Officially.
Legally.
I looked at Camilla's name.
Then mine.
For five years, I had wondered whether she had moved on.
Whether she hated me.
Whether she had forgotten me.
And all along, my name had been printed beside hers.
My child existed.
And I had been kept away.
Evelyn looked uncomfortable.
“There's something else.”
She handed me another document.
It was a correction request.
Someone had tried to change the father's name.
The request had been denied.
I looked at the signature.
My mother's.
My heart stopped.
“Why would she do this?”
Evelyn shook her head.
“She said she was protecting the family.”
Laura closed her eyes.
My mother had tried to remove my name.
Not from my memory.
From my daughter's identity.
I couldn't even be angry anymore.
I was numb.
Then Evelyn pulled out one last item.
A photograph.
Emilia at about two years old.
She was holding a red toy airplane.
On the back was a date.
And beneath it:
Richard says Lucas must never know.
I looked at Laura.
“What did Richard know?”
She whispered:
“Everything.”
My phone rang.
Camilla.
I answered.
“Camilla?”
Her breathing was fast.
“Lucas.”
“Where are you?”
“I found something.”
“What?”
“A storage locker.”
“What about it?”
“My mother rented it before she died.”
“What's inside?”
Silence.
Then:
“Pictures.”
“Of Emilia?”
“Yes.”
“How many?”
“A lot.”
My heart pounded.
“Where are you now?”
“At the locker.”
“Stay there.”
“I can't.”
“Why?”
“Because Richard is here.”
I stood so quickly the chair fell backward.
“Camilla, leave.”
“I can't.”
“Get out.”
“He's not alone.”
My blood ran cold.
“Who is with him?”
Camilla whispered:
May you like
“Your mother.”
The line went dead.
