Chapter 8 - The Woman in the Photograph
The photograph had been uploaded anonymously to an abandoned medical forum.
The accompanying post discussed memory loss after traumatic brain injury. No names appeared, but the date, the earrings, and the curve of Elena’s face left no doubt.
She was sitting in a wheelchair.
A bandage covered part of her head.
Claire Brennan stood behind her with one hand resting on her shoulder.
The forum account had posted only three times.
Each post described a female patient called “E.”
E suffered from confusion, memory gaps, and difficulty recognizing family photographs. She repeatedly said she had two daughters but could not remember where they lived.
The final post appeared fourteen months after Elena’s supposed death.
It contained one sentence.
They are moving her again. I think they know I contacted someone.
Claire disappeared two days later.
Her body ended up in Elena’s coffin.
I printed the posts and spread them across my study floor.
Daniela stood in the doorway.
“Is Mom alive?”
I had tried to keep the discovery from the girls until we knew more.
Children always hear the truths adults whisper.
“We think she may have survived the crash.”
“Where is she?”
“We don’t know.”
“Does she remember us?”
“I don’t know.”
Daniela walked toward the photograph.
She touched Elena’s face with one finger.
“That’s her.”
“Yes.”
“She looks scared.”
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t she come home?”
“She may not have known how.”
Daniela’s eyes filled.
“Then we have to remind her.”
She ran upstairs.
Minutes later, she returned carrying a red music box.
Elena had given it to her on her sixth birthday. When opened, it played a slow version of “You Are My Sunshine.”
“Mom sang this to us,” Daniela said. “Even if she forgot everything else, maybe she remembers the song.”
I took the box.
“We’ll bring it when we find her.”
Not if.
When.
The investigation shifted from proving murder to finding a living woman.
Evelyn located payments from Samuel’s offshore accounts to a private neurological facility in Vermont. The facility specialized in anonymous long-term care for wealthy families.
Marcus and I flew there that afternoon.
Rosa insisted on coming.
“Elena may respond better to someone familiar who is not connected to the trauma,” she said.
Evelyn agreed.
The facility was called Ashcroft House.
It looked more like a luxury mountain lodge than a hospital. Stone walls. Tall pines. No visible security.
The director, Dr. Miriam Shaw, met us in the lobby.
“We have no patient named Elena Moretti.”
“She may be under another name,” Evelyn said.
“We cannot disclose patient information without a warrant.”
Evelyn handed her one.
Dr. Shaw’s face paled when she saw Samuel’s photograph.
“I know this man as Robert Hayes.”
“What patient did he place here?” I asked.
She hesitated.
“Four years ago, he transferred a woman from a private clinic in New York. He claimed she was his sister.”
“Where is she?”
“No longer here.”
My heart sank.
“When did she leave?”
“Six months ago.”
The same period when Patricia’s behavior changed.
“Who took her?” Rosa asked.
“A woman claiming to be her daughter.”
“Elena’s daughters are ten and seven.”
Dr. Shaw looked alarmed.
“The woman was approximately thirty-five.”
“Patricia,” I said.
Dr. Shaw led us to the records room.
The patient had been registered as Elaine Hayes.
She suffered severe memory fragmentation but gradually recovered. According to therapy notes, she began remembering names.
Gabriel.
Daniela.
Rosa.
Victor.
One note had been underlined twice.
Patient becomes distressed when shown photograph of S.W. States, “He hurt the nurse. He said my husband stopped looking.”
I closed my eyes.
Samuel told her I had abandoned her.
Dr. Shaw produced visitor logs.
Samuel had visited every two months.
Andrew came twice.
Patricia began visiting eight months ago.
“What happened during Patricia’s visits?” I asked.
“The patient became increasingly anxious. Patricia said she was preparing her for reunion with family.”
“Did Elena want to leave with her?”
“Not at first.”
“Then why did you release her?”
Dr. Shaw looked ashamed.
“Patricia presented legal guardianship documents.”
Forged documents.
“Where did they take her?”
“We don’t know.”
Marcus reviewed security footage from the day Elena left.
Patricia arrived in a gray SUV with Nolan Price.
Elena walked slowly between them.
She looked thinner, older, but alert.
Before entering the vehicle, she turned toward the camera.
Her lips moved.
Marcus enhanced the audio.
“Daniela,” Elena whispered.
She remembered.
We traced the SUV through traffic cameras until it entered a private airfield.
A chartered plane left for Virginia that afternoon.
The passenger record listed Patricia Lane, Nolan Price, and Elaine Hayes.
“Where in Virginia?” I asked.
“The plane landed near Chesapeake Bay,” Marcus said. “After that, nothing.”
Dr. Shaw brought us a box of Elena’s belongings.
Inside were simple clothes, medical notebooks, and dozens of drawings.
Most showed two little girls standing beside a large house.
One drawing showed me.
I was standing behind bars.
A woman in red stood outside holding a key.
Patricia.
At the bottom of the box was a sealed envelope.
My name was written on it.
Gabriel Moretti.
My hands shook as I opened it.
The letter contained only a few lines.
Gabriel,
I remember you.
I remember the girls.
I remember Samuel saying you chose Patricia before you ever met her.
Do not believe the woman in red.
She says she is taking me home, but I heard her tell Nolan that once the wedding is finished, none of us will be needed.
Please find our daughters before she does.
Elena.
The letter was dated two days before Patricia removed her from Ashcroft House.
Rosa read over my shoulder.
“She knew Patricia planned to hurt the girls.”
“And she tried to warn me.”
My phone rang.
It was Mateo.
His voice was panicked.
“Mr. Moretti, something’s wrong.”
“What happened?”
“The power went out. The security doors opened.”
“Where are Daniela and Martina?”
“With me.”
“Where?”
“In the library.”
A crash sounded in the background.
Then Martina screamed.
May you like
Mateo whispered, “Someone is inside the house.”
The call ended.
