Maria turned away.
I could see her breathing.
Trying to fit another person into the story of the man she had loved.
A daughter.
A hidden family history.
Another secret room.
“Why did my father know?” I asked.
“Because Gabriel was afraid Vincent might find her.”
Maria turned around.
“Why?”
Anthony looked toward me again.
I was beginning to hate the way everyone looked at me before giving an answer.
“Because she wasn’t just Gabriel’s daughter.”
The rain seemed to disappear.
Or maybe I simply stopped noticing it.
“What does that mean?” I asked.
Anthony stood.
He seemed older than when he’d arrived.
“Her mother was Elena Hale.”
I didn’t understand.
Then I did.
My father’s younger sister.
My aunt.
Gone twelve years now.
I stared at Anthony.
“Gabriel and Elena?”
“Yes.”
“That would make the girl—”
“Your cousin.”
Maria lowered herself slowly into the chair.
I suddenly felt unsteady.
Not because of the family connection.
Because I remembered something.
A girl.
Maybe six years old.
Standing near a dock.
Red coat. Dark hair.
Crying.
My father was kneeling before her.
I hadn’t thought about that moment in years.
Perhaps ever.
“What was her name?” I whispered.
Anthony looked directly at me.
Then he finally spoke the name.
“Isabella.”
The name unlocked something in my memory.
I saw my father lifting the little girl into a car.
I saw Gabriel arguing with someone beside the warehouse.
I saw Vincent.
And then something more.
Me.
Holding the girl’s hand.
Promising her she would be safe.
My head lifted sharply.
“I knew her.”
Anthony’s expression changed.
“Daniel—”
“I knew her.”
He remained silent.
“Why can’t I remember?”
Maria stepped closer.
“Daniel.”
I barely heard her voice.
“Where is she now?”
Anthony said nothing.
I moved toward him.
“Where is Isabella?”
“I don’t know.”
“You knew she existed.”
“Yes.”
“You knew Gabriel was her father.”
“Yes.”
“You knew Vincent was searching for him.”
“Yes.”
“And you’re telling me you never wondered where she ended up?”
“I wondered.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“No,” Anthony said softly. “It isn’t.”
For the first time that night, anger rose inside my chest.
Not uncontrolled anger.
Old anger.
The kind that came from realizing other people had been moving pieces of my life around while allowing me to believe I controlled the board.
Maria touched my arm.
