Chapter 3 - MARGARET BELL’S SECRET
Margaret Bell lived in a modest white house on the edge of a quiet town.
There were flowerpots on the porch, a wind chime beside the door, and a
child’s red bicycle leaning against the fence.
Vincent stood outside for several seconds before knocking.
A woman in her late sixties opened the door. Her silver hair was tied in
a loose bun. When she saw Vincent, she gripped the doorframe.
“You look like your father,” she said.
Vincent’s jaw tightened. “I’m looking for my son.”
Margaret’s eyes filled.
“Then you have finally found the right door.”
She let them inside.
On the mantel stood a photograph of a little boy with dark curls and
serious gray eyes. Vincent stopped as soon as he saw it. The child
looked like him. Not vaguely. Not in the way people sometimes resembled
one another by chance. The boy had Vincent’s eyebrows, his chin, and the
small crease between his eyes when he concentrated.
“Gabriel,” Vincent whispered.
Margaret explained that she had been a nurse at St. Agnes. She had
helped Elena through labor and had been present when the baby was born.
Two days later, Dr. Shaw and a lawyer arrived with papers claiming the
child had died. Margaret knew the documents were false. She had copied
the birth record before the file was sealed.
She tried to alert Elena, but Elena had been moved to a private clinic.
When Margaret went to the police, she was warned that the Moretti family
could make her lose her nursing license and her home. She was a widow
raising her own grandson and had been frightened.
“I did something cowardly,” she said. “I kept the baby safe, but I
stayed quiet about what had happened to his mother.”
“Where is he?” Vincent asked.
Margaret looked toward the stairs.
A small boy appeared at the top landing, holding a wooden airplane.
“Grandma?”
Margaret smiled sadly. “Gabriel, come here. There’s someone I’d like you
to meet.”
The child descended slowly. He studied Vincent with cautious curiosity.
“Are you a friend of Grandma’s?”
Vincent lowered himself to one knee.
“My name is Vincent.”
“I’m Gabriel.”
“I know.”
Gabriel looked at the photograph on the mantel, then back at him. “You
look like me.”
Vincent’s eyes shone.
“I think I do.”
He did not reach for the boy. He waited until Gabriel stepped closer and
offered him the wooden airplane.
“It’s broken,” Gabriel explained. “The wing keeps falling off.”
Vincent accepted it carefully. “I know someone who can fix things like
this.”
“Who?”
“A very good woman named Clara. She fixes old paintings and delicate
things. She might know how to help.”
Gabriel considered that.
Margaret gave Vincent the original birth record, a copy of Elena’s
hospital bracelet number, and a small envelope Elena had left behind.
Inside was a photograph of the baby and a note asking Margaret to keep
him safe until she could return.
“Where is Elena now?” Vincent asked.
Margaret’s expression changed.
“She came to see Gabriel twice. The first time was when he was six
months old. The second was a year later. She was frightened. She told me
someone was following her.”
“Who?”
“She didn’t say. But she left an address in case she never came back.”
Margaret handed him a folded paper.
The address belonged to a private rehabilitation residence in Wisconsin.
It was registered under a different name.
Vincent stood.
“Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”
“Because I was afraid. And because I believed if I kept Gabriel away
from the family, he would survive.”
Vincent looked at the child again.
“I won’t let anyone take him from you,” he said. “And I won’t let anyone
hurt him.”
Gabriel held out the broken airplane.
“Can you fix it now?”
May you like
Vincent took it.
“Yes,” he said softly. “I think I can.”
