Chapter 2 - The Photograph Owen Left Behind
Harper read the sentence three times.
I know what really happened to him.
The diner continued around her, but only technically.
Coffee poured.
A spoon hit a saucer.
Someone near the window asked for another side of bacon.
Those sounds seemed to come from another building.
Another city.
Another life.
Harper gripped the counter.
“My brother died from complications after surgery.”
Roman said nothing.
“That’s what happened.”
He remained still.
“Roman.”
“My mother wrote the sentence.”
“Then tell me what she meant.”
“I don’t know.”
Harper laughed once.
It was not amusement.
“You walked into my job carrying a picture of my dead brother and a message saying someone knows what really happened to him, and you don’t know?”
“I came because she asked me to.”
“Where is she?”
“At my home.”
“Then why isn’t she here?”
Roman’s jaw tightened slightly.
“Because last night frightened her more than she admitted.”
Harper looked at the photograph again.
Owen appeared impossibly young.
Ten years old.
Skinny shoulders.
Messy curls.
That grin.
The grin that had survived hospitals, needles, medications and endless appointments.
Harper’s vision blurred.
She had only one photograph of Owen left.
Their mother had thrown most of his things away within a year of his death.
She claimed she could not bear the reminders.
Harper had never forgiven her.
Eddie appeared cautiously.
“Harper?”
She wiped beneath one eye.
“I need to leave early.”
He looked from her to Roman.
“Is everything okay?”
“No.”
Eddie nodded.
“Then go.”
She untied her apron.
Roman reached for the photograph.
Harper pulled it away.
“I’m keeping this.”
“It belongs to my mother.”
“It has my brother in it.”
Roman studied her.
Then nodded.
“Fine.”
Twenty minutes later, Harper sat in the back seat of Roman’s sedan.
The silence annoyed her.
“You could explain something.”
“I could invent something.”
“I didn’t ask you to invent.”
“I know exactly what you asked.”
She glared out the window.
Manhattan moved past in gray winter light.
“Did your mother know Owen from the hospital?”
“I assume so.”
“You never saw him?”
“No.”
“How?”
Roman turned toward her.
“My mother has had an independent life for seventy years, Harper. Contrary to popular belief, I do not receive reports of every conversation she has.”
“That sounds exactly like something a man who receives reports would say.”
Roman’s eyebrows lifted.
For the second time, she thought she saw the beginning of a smile.
Then it vanished.
His apartment occupied the top three floors of a building overlooking Central Park.
Harper hated it immediately.
Not because it was ugly.
Because it was breathtaking.
Floor-to-ceiling windows.
Cream-colored stone.
Dark wood.
Original paintings.
Nothing looked purchased to impress anyone.
Everything looked like it had always belonged there.
Beatrice waited in the library.
When Harper entered, the older woman stood quickly.
Her face brightened.
Then she saw the photograph in Harper’s hand.
Her expression changed.
Harper did not bother sitting.
You knew Owen.
Beatrice nodded.
Why didn’t I know you?
Beatrice looked toward Roman.
Harper signed again.
Tell me.
Beatrice slowly sat.
Roman remained near the door.
His mother’s hands began moving.
I met Owen at St. Catherine’s Hospital.
Harper’s heart tightened.
I volunteered there. Not officially. I visited children who were deaf or losing their hearing.
Harper remembered.
Owen had once told her about “the fancy lady.”
She had assumed he meant a nurse.
Beatrice continued.
He was angry because doctors talked over him. He said his sister was the only person who treated him normally.
Harper swallowed.
When?
About a year before he died.
Harper sat down.
Beatrice’s hands slowed.
Owen told me something happened during one of his treatments.
“What?”
Harper spoke aloud without realizing it.
Roman stepped closer.
Beatrice signed.
He received medication he was not supposed to receive.
Harper stared.
That made no sense.
Owen had a severe reaction six months before his final surgery. Their mother had said his condition was worsening.
Beatrice continued.
Owen believed the medication error damaged his heart.
Harper shook her head.
“No.”
Roman watched her.
Harper signed furiously.
Why would a ten-year-old know that?
Because he heard—or rather, read lips—when two doctors argued outside his room.
Beatrice closed her eyes briefly.
One doctor wanted the mistake reported.
The other wanted it hidden.
Harper felt cold.
“Names.”
Beatrice looked at Roman.
Then signed.
Dr. Samuel Voss.
Harper stopped breathing.
She knew the name.
Everyone who had lived through Owen’s illness knew it.
Dr. Samuel Voss had been Owen’s primary surgeon.
He had sat beside Harper after the boy died.
He had held her hand.
He had told her they had done everything possible.
“He said Owen’s body was too weak.”
Beatrice watched her painfully.
Roman moved closer.
Harper stood.
“No.”
“Harper.”
She turned on him.
“Do not say my name like that.”
Roman stopped.
Beatrice stood too.
There is more.
Harper almost did not want to look.
Almost.
Tell me.
Beatrice signed:
Owen asked me to help him prove it.
Harper’s knees weakened.
“How?”
Roman translated when Harper’s hands stopped responding.
“My mother says Owen gave her copies of documents.”
Harper stared at Beatrice.
Where are they?
Beatrice looked toward Roman.
Roman’s expression hardened.
“That’s the problem.”
“What problem?”
“The box containing this photograph should also have contained an envelope.”
“And?”
“It’s gone.”
Harper laughed bitterly.
“Convenient.”
Roman’s eyes sharpened.
“Careful.”
“Why? Your mother knows something for seven years and the evidence magically disappears the same night I meet her?”
Beatrice stepped between them.
Her hands moved sharply.
Do not speak to my son as if he knew.
Harper looked away.
Beatrice touched her arm.
I was afraid.
The confession stopped Harper.
Beatrice continued.
Your brother died. His doctor was powerful. The hospital threatened a lawsuit if I repeated what Owen told me.
“You let them scare you?”
Roman started to speak.
Beatrice stopped him with one raised finger.
Yes.
Her next signs were slow.
And I have regretted it every day.
Harper’s anger broke against something more complicated.
Beatrice was crying.
Not dramatically.
Just two silent tears.
I promised Owen I would find you if anything happened.
I failed.
Harper stared at the woman who had been a stranger yesterday.
“You could have found me.”
Beatrice nodded.
I know.
“Why now?”
Because last night when you signed your name, I remembered his face.
She touched her temple.
I had tried to bury the memory.
Seeing you made it impossible.
Harper walked toward the window.
Seven years.
For seven years, she had believed Owen died because his illness became too severe.
She had rearranged her entire life around that grief.
Dropped out of college.
Worked.
Paid off some of the medical bills their mother abandoned.
Stopped planning anything farther ahead than rent.
Roman spoke behind her.
“We can determine whether the medical records support my mother’s memory.”
Harper turned.
“We?”
“Yes.”
“There is no we.”
“My mother is involved.”
“So?”
“So you are not doing this alone.”
Harper almost told him where he could put his assistance.
Then Roman’s phone vibrated.
He checked the screen.
Something changed in his face.
“What?”
Roman did not answer immediately.
He walked into the hallway.
Harper followed.
“I asked what happened.”
Roman spoke quietly into the phone.
“When?”
A pause.
“Was anything taken?”
Another pause.
His expression became cold.
“Send me the footage.”
He disconnected.
Harper waited.
Roman looked toward the library.
“My mother’s townhouse was broken into last night.”
Beatrice appeared in the doorway.
Roman signed to her quickly.
Her face lost color.
Harper understood enough to follow.
Someone had entered Beatrice’s study between midnight and four.
No jewelry was missing.
No cash.
Nothing valuable.
Except one thing.
The cabinet where she kept Owen’s box had been opened.
Harper’s stomach dropped.
“The envelope.”
Roman nodded.
“Someone knew it existed.”
Harper looked at Beatrice.
“Who?”
Beatrice slowly raised her hands.
Only three people ever knew.
Me.
Owen.
And Dr. Voss.
Roman’s phone buzzed again.
This time it was a message.
He opened the security image.
Harper moved beside him.
A grainy figure stood outside Beatrice’s townhouse at 2:13 a.m.
The face was mostly hidden beneath a hood.
But the person had turned slightly toward the camera.
Harper stopped breathing.
“No.”
Roman looked at her.
“You recognize them?”
Harper stared at the screen.
Seven years had changed the face.
The hair was shorter.
The cheeks thinner.
But Harper would have recognized those eyes anywhere.
“My mother.”
Roman’s voice went flat.
“Your mother broke into my mother’s home?”
Harper shook her head.
“That’s impossible.”
She took out her phone.
Called.
No answer.
Called again.
Voicemail.
A third time.
Nothing.
Then a text arrived.
From her mother.
Harper opened it.
There were only eight words.
Stop asking about Owen. You don’t know the truth.
May you like
A second message appeared before Harper could respond.
And if Roman Moretti finds out, he’ll hate you.
