Slowly, weakly, they closed around me.
Something broke inside my chest.
Not cracked.
Not fractured.
Broke completely.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered.
The nurse stepped away, giving us the illusion of privacy.
“I didn’t know about you,” I said. “That isn’t an excuse. I should have known. I should have listened.”
My daughter’s grip tightened almost imperceptibly.
“I don’t know how to do this.”
The words came from a place I had hidden even from myself.
“I don’t know how to be what you need. But I’m here.”
I stayed beside her for nearly an hour.
When I finally left the NICU, Marcus was waiting outside.
He held a paper coffee cup in one hand and a thin file in the other.
“You look terrible,” he said.
“So do you.”
“I always look like this.”
He handed me the coffee.
I did not drink it.
“What did you find?”
“Not enough yet. Emma’s been living in a small apartment in Albany Park under her own name. Rent was paid in cash every month.”
“By whom?”
“Landlord says Emma brought it herself.”
“Was she working?”
“Part-time bookkeeping for a family-owned restaurant. Mostly from home.”
I frowned. “She has money.”
“Had money,” Marcus corrected. “Her accounts were nearly empty after you cut her off.”
“I never controlled her accounts.”
“No. But the consulting contract that made up most of her income came through one of your companies. It was terminated the week she left.”
I stared at him.
“I didn’t order that.”
“Someone did.”
“Who?”
“We’re checking.”
A memory came back to me.
The morning after I ended things with Emma, Brooke had arrived at my apartment before sunrise. She had placed a cup of coffee in front of me and said she would handle the practical details.
At the time, I had been grateful.
Now I wondered how many details she had handled.
“Anything else?”
“Emma had almost no contact with anyone connected to you. No calls to your men. No visits to your properties. No suspicious deposits.”
“What about federal investigators?”
“Nothing so far.”
“And Claire?”
Marcus opened the file.
“There are eleven women named Claire in Emma’s recent phone records. Most look ordinary. Coworkers, medical offices, a pharmacy employee. But one number appears more often than the others.”
“Who?”
“Claire Bennett. Social worker.”
The title unsettled me.
“What kind of social worker?”
“She works with a nonprofit called Harbor House. They help pregnant women dealing with unstable housing, family separation, or legal concerns.”
“Did Emma stay there?”
“No. But Claire met with her at least six times.”
“Bring her here.”
Marcus shook his head. “Bad idea.”
My eyes narrowed.
“She’s not one of your employees, Vincent. She’s a social worker whose client is unconscious in intensive care. If you send men to collect her, she won’t tell you anything.”
“I wasn’t suggesting force.”
“You didn’t have to.”
I looked through the glass window toward the NICU.
“You talk to her, then.”
“I already called. She’s coming.”
That was why Marcus had lasted eleven years.
He knew when to obey me.
He also knew when not to.
Claire Bennett arrived forty minutes later.
She was younger than I expected, perhaps thirty-five, with dark curls pulled into a loose knot and a canvas bag hanging from one shoulder. She wore no jewelry except a plain silver ring on her right hand.
When she saw Marcus, she walked toward us with a guarded expression.
Then her gaze settled on me.
“You’re Vincent Moretti.”
It was not a question.
“Yes.”
She stopped several feet away.
“Is Emma alive?”
“Yes.”
“And the baby?”
“Stable.”
Relief passed across her face.
She pressed her fingertips against her lips and closed her eyes for a moment.
“Thank God.”
“How do you know Emma?”
Claire’s expression hardened again.
“I’m not discussing a client’s private information with you.”
“She asked the doctor to find you.”
“That doesn’t give you permission to interrogate me.”
“I’m not interrogating you.”
“You have a reputation that makes the distinction difficult.”
Marcus shifted beside me, waiting to see how I would respond.
Once, I might have used Claire’s discomfort to control the conversation.
But the sight of my daughter’s hand wrapped around my finger was still fresh in my mind.
So I sat down.
The gesture surprised her.
“I abandoned Emma eight months ago,” I said. “I found out last night that she was pregnant. I found out this morning that I have a daughter. I don’t know where Emma has been, why she was alone, why she waited so long to come to the hospital, or why she asked for you.”
Claire’s eyes searched mine.
“I’m not asking you to trust me,” I continued. “I’m asking you to help me keep them alive.”
For the first time, her posture softened.
She took the chair across from me.
“Emma contacted Harbor House in her fifth month of pregnancy,” she said. “She didn’t need shelter. She needed advice.”
“About what?”
