Chapter 5 - The File Someone Was Still Watching
“Three days ago?”
Anton took the tablet from Donovan.
“That's impossible.”
“No.”
“Why would a retired administrator still have access?”
“He isn't retired. He transferred into regional compliance consulting.”
Delia shifted Lucia higher against her shoulder.
“And he opened the babies' old records?”
“Yes.”
“After they spoke at the diner?”
“Yes.”
“How would he know?”
Donovan looked toward Anton.
“That is what concerns me.”
Anton stared at the access log.
Date.
Time.
User identification.
Three separate files.
Matteo.
Nico.
Lucia.
Opened within minutes of each other.
“What did he look at?”
“Volunteer notes.”
Delia felt cold.
“Me.”
Donovan nodded.
Anton handed Lucia back to Delia when the child began fussing.
Lucia settled immediately.
The tiny act seemed to make his anger worse.
“Find Voss.”
Donovan hesitated.
Anton looked at him.
“What?”
“He resigned this morning.”
Silence.
Delia said, “That doesn't look suspicious at all.”
Donovan slipped the tablet under one arm.
“We're working on it.”
After he left, Delia carried Lucia toward the nursery.
Anton followed.
The nursery occupied what had once been a formal sitting room.
Three cribs.
Three rocking chairs.
Shelves of books.
Soft lamps.
No cold mansion aesthetic.
No gold furniture.
No intimidating portraits.
Just tired evidence of a father trying everything.
A sound machine sat beside one crib.
Several brands of bottles lined a counter.
A whiteboard listed sleep times.
Most had question marks.
Delia looked at Anton.
“You did all this?”
“Erin organized it.”
“I mean everything.”
He glanced around.
“I didn't know what babies needed.”
“Nobody does at first.”
“Isabella did.”
“You don't know that.”
“She read twelve books.”
“I read nine when I was pregnant.”
“Did they help?”
“No.”
His mouth moved slightly.
Delia smiled.
“Exactly.”
She placed Lucia down.
The baby immediately reached up.
“Dee.”
Delia froze.
Anton heard it too.
“Again.”
Lucia blinked.
“Dee.”
Delia's eyes filled.
“That's my name.”
“Mama Dee.”
Delia's chest tightened.
Anton crouched beside the crib.
“Papa.”
Lucia stared at him.
Anton pointed toward himself.
“Papa.”
No response.
Delia tried.
“That's Papa.”
Lucia looked between them.
“Pa.”
Anton stopped breathing.
“Pa.”
Lucia smiled.
“Papa.”
Anton bowed his head.
Delia pretended not to notice the shine in his eyes.
Then Nico started crying from the next crib.
The moment passed.
Later that afternoon, Delia returned to Bayou Grace.
Frank cornered her near the kitchen.
“You've been gone two days.”
“You gave me the shifts off.”
“I know.”
“Then why are you saying it like an accusation?”
“Because half the city thinks you're dating Anton Marchetti.”
Delia nearly dropped a tray.
“What?”
Frank showed her his phone.
A blurry photograph taken outside Ochsner.
Anton beside her.
Headline:
MYSTERY WOMAN SPOTTED WITH RECLUSIVE SHIPPING HEIR.
Delia groaned.
“I hate everyone.”
Frank scrolled.
“It gets worse.”
“I don't want worse.”
“People found your name.”
Delia grabbed the phone.
There were comments.
Some curious.
Some cruel.
Who is she?
She's a waitress.
Why her?
Look at the size difference.
Maybe she's his new nanny.
Money makes men do weird things.
Delia gave the phone back.
“I'm going to work.”
Frank followed.
“You okay?”
“No.”
“Want me to ban phones?”
“You'd lose every customer under forty.”
“Worth it.”
Delia smiled despite herself.
“You're terrible at emotional support.”
“I know.”
During the dinner rush, she tried to forget.
Then a man walked in.
Delia saw him through the kitchen window.
Her hands went numb.
Caleb Shaw had not changed much.
Same sandy hair.
Same expensive-looking boots he couldn't afford.
Same ability to walk into Delia's life as if he hadn't abandoned it eighteen months earlier.
He sat at the counter.
Delia considered walking out the back door.
Instead she approached.
“What do you want?”
Caleb looked almost ashamed.
“Hi, Dee.”
“Don't call me that.”
“I'm sorry.”
“About which part?”
He winced.
“I deserved that.”
“You deserve more, but I'm at work.”
“I need to talk to you.”
“No.”
“It matters.”
“It always matters after eighteen months.”
Caleb lowered his voice.
“I saw the pictures.”
Delia laughed bitterly.
“Of course.”
“Is it true?”
“What?”
“You and Marchetti.”
“There is no me and Marchetti.”
“Good.”
The word angered her immediately.
“Why is that good?”
Caleb glanced around.
“You don't know that family.”
“Neither do you.”
“Yes, I do.”
Delia stopped.
“What does that mean?”
Caleb's face changed.
“I worked for one of their logistics companies.”
“When?”
“Before I left.”
Delia stared.
“You told me you were working construction.”
“I lied.”
“Shocking.”
“Delia, listen.”
“No.”
She turned.
Caleb caught her wrist.
Not hard.
But enough.
Delia looked down.
“Let go.”
He released her instantly.
“Sorry.”
“Do that again and Frank will hit you with a pie tray.”
From the kitchen Frank lifted a metal tray in confirmation.
Caleb sighed.
“I didn't come here to fight.”
“Then leave.”
“I have something for you.”
He pulled an envelope from inside his jacket.
Old.
Bent.
Delia's name was written across the front.
DELIA MARSH.
Her former apartment address appeared underneath.
The return address made her stomach drop.
Ochsner Medical Center.
“When did you get this?”
Caleb looked down.
“Months ago.”
“How many?”
“Almost six.”
“You had my mail?”
“It was delivered after you moved.”
“And you kept it?”
“I didn't know how to contact you.”
“My phone number hasn't changed.”
He flinched.
Delia tore open the envelope.
Inside was a handwritten card.
Dear Delia,
I wanted you to know Baby A, Baby B and Baby C are being discharged this week. Their progress has been remarkable, and your nights with them mattered more than you probably realize.
The family has requested privacy, so I cannot share further information, but I hope you'll take comfort knowing all three are going home.
Thank you for giving them tenderness during a difficult beginning.
— Naomi Beck, RN
Delia sat down.
Six months.
She could have known.
Caleb watched her.
“What is it?”
She ignored him.
Something else fell from the envelope.
A folded piece of paper.
Not hospital stationery.
Typed.
Only one sentence.
If anyone from the Marchetti family ever contacts you about those children, walk away.
Delia stared.
Caleb whispered, “That's why I'm here.”
She looked up.
“You've seen this?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“When the envelope came.”
“You opened my mail?”
“I was scared.”
“Of what?”
Caleb lowered his voice further.
“Because the man who gave me money to leave New Orleans eighteen months ago worked for Vittorio Marchetti.”
Delia felt the room tilt.
“What money?”
Caleb closed his eyes.
“The money I took after you told me you were pregnant.”
Delia's face went blank.
“You didn't leave because you were scared of becoming a father?”
“I was scared.”
“But?”
Caleb looked sick.
“But someone made leaving very profitable.”
Delia stood so fast the stool nearly toppled.
“Why would anyone in that family care about me eighteen months ago?”
“I don't know.”
“That's impossible. I hadn't met them.”
“I know.”
“You're lying.”
“I wish I was.”
“Get out.”
“Delia—”
“Get out!”
Everyone turned.
Caleb stood.
Before leaving, he placed an old business card on the counter.
Delia stared at it.
A name.
A number.
A company affiliated with Marchetti Holdings.
Then Caleb said the sentence that followed Delia all the way home.
May you like
“The man who paid me already knew your name.”
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