Chapter 84 Investigation
AMELIA
I woke to an empty bed and the smell of coffee.
Jeremy had already left for work. 'Early meeting,' he'd said last night. He mentioned that they were in the process of negotiating territory with another family.
I felt my way to the kitchen. I discovered that the coffee pot was still warm. Poured myself a cup.
My phone buzzed. I received a notification from my bank app.
I activated the text-to-speech function.
"Deposit: $2,000 New balance: $5,487.23."
I was speechless.
Jeremy had transferred money into my account. Two thousand dollars. Without asking, or telling me.
I pulled up my messaging app and sent him a text:
"You didn't have to do that."
His response came immediately:
"I wanted to. You're my employee. You deserve proper compensation. And Amelia—you deserve security and independence. You deserve your own money, which no one can take away from you."
My chest tightened.
"Thank you. I love you."
"I love you too. See you tonight."
I put the phone down and just—sat there. Thinking.
The sum total was five thousand, four hundred and eighty-seven dollars.
If I kept working for Jeremy—if I kept saving—I’d have enough to truly be independent. If I desired, I could rent my own apartment. To buy things I needed and to lack nothing.
The thought was intoxicating and powerful.
I'd spent my whole life with nothing. Dependent on others. On St Mary's. On Crimson. On Jeremy.
But now—now I had money. Real money. A bank account. A debit card. Financial independence.
If I worked a little bit more, I could achieve financial independence, and saved a little bit more.
I could have everything I needed.
I was making breakfast when my phone rang.
Unknown number. But I recognised the pattern. I'd seen it before.
Alex.
I let it ring. Ignored it. Went back to my eggs.
It rang again.
I sighed. Picked up. "What do you want?"
"Amelia. Thank God. I've been trying to reach you for days."
"I told you not to contact me again."
"I know. I know. But I need to apologise. Properly. My actions at the range—specifically, what I did to you—were wrong. I sincerely apologise for my actions.
"Your apology doesn't change what happened."
"I know. But please—let me make it right by..."
"Alex. "I cut him off. "I don't want to see you again. I don't want to talk to you. I don't want anything from you. We're done. Delete my number."
"Amelia, please—"
"Don't call me again."
I was about to hang up when I remembered.
The gun.
I still needed a gun. My gun. For protection. For security. For the power of knowing I could defend myself.
And Alex—Alex knew how to get one. Knew the dealers. The shops. The process.
I could use him one more time. One last transaction. Then I'd be done.
"Wait," I said.
"What?"
"I need something from you. One last thing. Then we're done. For real."
"Anything. What do you need?"
"A gun. You know how to get one, right? Legally or otherwise?"
Silence. Then: "Yes. I can get you one. But Amelia—"
"I'll pay you. Whatever it costs. I'll also include a gratuity for your inconvenience. But I need it soon."
"We could go shopping together. I could help you pick one out. Make sure it's the right size, the right weight—"
"No. "The word came out sharp. Final. "I don't want to go anywhere with you. Not alone. Not ever again."
Another pause. "I understand. Okay. I'll—I'll do the shopping. Pick something appropriate for you. Something light, easy to handle, and accurate. And I'll bring it to you."
"Where?" I asked.
"Wherever you want. Just—somewhere safe. Somewhere you feel comfortable."
I thought for a moment. "The coffee shop is located on Fifth and Madison, and I plan to visit it next Tuesday at noon. Bring the gun. I'll bring cash."
"How much cash should I expect?"
"How much will it cost?"
"For a good-quality handgun, legally purchased with my permit, then transferred to you—probably around eight hundred to a thousand dollars. Including ammunition, the total cost could be around twelve hundred dollars.
Twelve hundred dollars. That's a quarter of my savings.
But it's worth it. For independence. For power and safety.
"Okay. I'll have the money. You bring the gun."
"Amelia''
"Tuesday. Noon. Don't be late. And Alex—" I paused. "After this, we're done. Completely done. You don't contact me. You don't try to see me. You forget I exist. Understood?"
"Understood."
"Good."
I hung up.
Stood there in the kitchen, my hands shaking slightly.
I was using him. Again. One more time.
But this was the last time. After Tuesday, I'd have my gun. I'd have my independence. I'd have everything I needed.
And Alex would be gone from my life. Forever.
ENZO
Marcus Klein, a forty-two-year-old former NYPD detective turned private investigator, sat across from my desk, looking uncomfortable.
"I've searched everything," he said, spreading papers across my desk. "Hospital records from eighteen years ago. Police reports. Missing persons files. Abandoned baby cases. Orphanage intake records. Foster care systems. Child services documentation."
"And?" I leaned forward.
"Nothing. There's no record of a blind baby girl being found or placed anywhere in New York City eighteen years ago." He paused. "Or seventeen years ago. Or sixteen. I expanded the search to cover a three-year window just to be sure."
My chest tightened. "Nothing at all?"
"Nothing official. No records. No documentation. It's like—" He stopped. "It's like she never existed. Alternatively, the person who found her may not have reported the incident through the appropriate channels.
"What do you mean?"
"I mean—if someone found an abandoned baby and decided to keep her, or place her privately, or—" He gestured vaguely. " There are ways to circumvent the system. This was especially true eighteen years ago, when record-keeping was less digital. Easier to hide things."
"So she could still be out there."
"Possibly. But finding her would be difficult. Without official records, we'd be searching blind. There would be no paper trail to follow and no documentation to trace.
I sat back in my chair. Thinking.
My sister—if she existed, if she'd survived—could be anywhere. Anyone. Living under any name.
And I had no way to find her.
"However", Marcus said, "I have a proposal."
"What kind of proposal?"
"Expand the search. Geographically and methodologically." He pulled out a map. "Instead of just looking for official records in New York City, we search surrounding areas. New Jersey. Connecticut. Upstate. We search areas where someone might have taken the baby to hide her.
"That's a lot of ground to cover."
"Yes. And it'll take time. Months, probably. But it's possible." He pulled out another document. "We could also search for blind women, currently aged eighteen, living in the greater New York area. Cross-reference them with missing documentation—people who don't have clear birth records, who came from unclear backgrounds."
"How many people would that be?"
"Hundreds, probably. Maybe thousands. It's a long shot. But if you want to find her—if she's out there—it's our best option."
I stared at the map. At the documents. The task before me seemed impossible.
Finding one girl. This task is particularly challenging in a city with millions of inhabitants. With no official records. No clear trail. Only my mother's guilt and my father's secrets remain.
But she was my sister. My blood. And she deserved to be found.
"Do it," I said. "Expand the search. Geographic and demographic. No matter how long it takes or what the cost, please make sure to find her.
"You sure? This could take months. The expenses could amount to tens of thousands of dollars. And there's no guarantee—"
"I'm sure. Start with orphanages. Group homes. Foster care systems in the surrounding areas. Focus on girls who were placed around eighteen years ago. The focus should be on girls with unclear backgrounds or missing documentation, as well as those who are blind or have visual impairments."
Marcus made notes. "Okay. I'll start immediately. But Enzo—" He looked up. "Your father. Does he know you're doing this?"
"No. And he can't find out. This investigation stays private. Between you and me. No one else."
"Understood." He gathered his papers. "I'll keep you updated. I will provide weekly reports, unless there is an urgent matter.