Chapter 2 - The Baby Julian Never Knew
Julian stared at the photograph as though twenty-three years had collapsed into a single second.
Nobody moved.
The underground storage room suddenly felt too small for the four of us.
Martin stood beside him, jaw tight.
I remained near the doorway, wondering whether I should quietly leave.
Then Julian turned the photograph over.
There was writing on the back.
His expression changed.
“What does it say?” Martin asked.
Julian didn’t answer.
He handed it to him.
Martin read aloud.
“Ask Vincent what happened after Philadelphia.”
Julian’s eyes became dangerous.
I had heard the name Vincent Corsini only a handful of times.
Julian’s older uncle.
The former head of the Corsini family businesses.
He had died four years earlier.
According to the cook, Julian had barely attended the funeral.
Martin looked at Julian.
“You think Vincent knew?”
“I think Vincent knew everything.”
“Knew what?” I asked.
Both men looked at me.
I almost apologized.
Almost.
But someone had hidden objects inside the house, disabled cameras, and left photographs involving a baby with Julian’s family name.
At that point, pretending I hadn’t seen anything seemed ridiculous.
Julian rubbed one hand over his jaw.
Then, unexpectedly, he said, “Her name was Elena Marchetti.”
The woman in the photograph.
He looked older while saying her name.
Not physically.
Emotionally.
“We met when I was twenty-two.”
Martin remained silent. Apparently he knew at least part of the story.
Julian continued.
“My father wanted me working at Corsini Shipping. Elena worked in a bookstore near Boston Common.”
A faint, almost invisible softness entered his eyes.
“She hated expensive restaurants. Loved terrible coffee. Collected matchbooks from every place we went.”
The stolen matchbook.
“She wanted to leave Boston?”
I asked gently.
Julian nodded.
“We planned to.”
“What happened?”
“My father found out.”
The warmth vanished.
“He told me Elena had been taking money from me. He showed me bank records, photographs, letters. Everything suggested she had another man.”
“And you believed him?”
“I was twenty-three.”
That wasn’t an excuse.
It sounded like a confession.
“I confronted her,” Julian said. “She denied everything. We fought. She left Boston that night.”
“The train ticket,” I whispered.
“Yes.”
Julian looked toward the returned objects.
“She mailed it to me several weeks later.”
“Why keep it?”
“Because it was the last thing I received from her.”
I looked again at the baby photograph.
“But apparently it wasn’t the end.”
Julian’s face hardened.
“No.”
Martin picked up the brass key.
“Philadelphia?”
Julian nodded slowly.
“Elena had family there.”
Martin glanced toward me.
“Could someone from her family be inside this house?”
That thought made the room colder.
Julian looked through the open doorway.
“They would need access codes.”
“Or help,” Martin said.
Nobody needed to explain what that meant.
Someone inside Corsini House was assisting whoever had placed those items.
---
By afternoon, every employee had been questioned.
Including me.
Martin asked where I had been each night an object disappeared.
Most answers were painfully boring.
Sleeping.
Reading.
Watching old dance performances on my laptop.
Eating cereal at midnight.
When he asked about my debt, I became defensive.
“Yes, I owe money.”
“How much?”
“Enough.”
“Specific number.”
I crossed my arms.
“Why?”
“Because people with financial pressure are vulnerable.”
“To what?”
“Bribes.”
I stared at him.
“You think somebody paid me to steal old junk?”
“I think my job requires considering possibilities.”
“Fine. Eighty-seven thousand.”
Martin blinked.
Even Julian, standing near the window, looked surprised.
“Student loans?” Martin asked.
“Some.”
“What else?”
I hesitated.
“My father.”
Julian’s gaze shifted toward me.
I hated discussing it.
My father had owned a small construction business. When his partner disappeared with company funds, Dad personally guaranteed loans trying to save his employees’ jobs.
Then he died.
And through a complicated combination of shared accounts, medical bills, and decisions I made because grief makes people stupid, a large portion became mine.
Martin closed his notebook.
“That’s all.”
I headed toward the door.
Julian said, “Sadie.”
I stopped.
“Yes?”
“You’re not under suspicion.”
Martin looked irritated.
I looked confused.
“You literally just interrogated me.”
“Martin interrogated you.”
“You stood there.”
“I was curious.”
“About my debt?”
“About you.”
The answer was so direct I didn’t know what to do with it.
So I left.
---
That evening I returned to my apartment above the garage and found a document pushed beneath my door.
No envelope.
No name.
Just one photocopied page.
A hospital admission form.
Philadelphia.
Twenty-three years ago.
Mother:
Elena Marchetti.
Father:
Blank.
Child:
Male.
At the bottom was a handwritten note.
If Julian wants the truth, tell him to remember the blue locker.
I read it three times.
Then I ran toward the mansion.
Julian was in his study.
He looked up as I entered without knocking.
“Sorry.”
I placed the page on his desk.
His expression changed instantly.
“Where did you get this?”
“Under my door.”
Martin was called.
Security footage was checked.
The camera near my garage apartment had gone black for exactly ninety-seven seconds.
Again.
Whoever was doing this knew the system.
Julian stared at the words blue locker.
“Does it mean something?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“What?”
He stood.
“South Station.”
---
Forty minutes later, we stood beneath the bright lights of Boston’s South Station.
It felt strange being there with Julian after seeing photographs of his younger self on the same platform decades earlier.
Martin had brought two security men.
Julian ignored them.
He walked toward a row of renovated storage lockers near an old service corridor.
Most had been replaced years ago.
One remained.
Painted blue.
Julian stopped.
“I haven’t seen this since 2003.”
“How do you open it?”
He looked at the brass key.
The one someone had stolen.
Then returned.
He inserted it.
The lock clicked.
Inside was a small metal box.
Julian removed it carefully.
There was dust on everything except the lid.
Someone had been here recently.
Inside we found three things.
A cassette tape.
A sealed letter.
And a birth certificate.
Julian unfolded the certificate.
His hands stopped moving.
I could see the name from beside him.
Daniel Marchetti.
Date of birth: twenty-three years earlier.
Father:
Julian Corsini.
Julian closed his eyes.
For the first time since I met him, he looked unsteady.
“You have a son,” I whispered.
“No.”
His voice was barely audible.
“I had a son.”
I looked at him.
“What do you mean?”
Julian opened the sealed letter.
After reading the first paragraph, his face changed from shock to something darker.
Rage.
He handed it to me.
Elena had written:
Julian, if you ever find this, Daniel is alive. Your family told me you wanted nothing to do with him. They threatened to take him if I contacted you. I changed our names and disappeared. If something happens to me, find him before Vincent does.
I looked up.
Julian wasn’t breathing normally.
Martin swore quietly.
Then a voice behind us said:
“You’re twenty-three years too late.”
We turned.
A man stood at the far end of the corridor.
Maybe late twenties.
Dark hair.
Strong jaw.
And Julian’s eyes.
He looked directly at Julian.
Then he said:
May you like
“My name is Daniel.”
---
