Chapter 95 Complications
ENZO
I was reviewing shipping manifests when my phone rang. It was an unknown number with a local code.
I answered. "Morano speaking."
"Mr Morano? This is Mrs Thomas. From St Mary's." Her voice was rushed. Excited. "I have an update. About the girl, Amelia."
I set down my pen. "What kind of update is that?"
"New information. Something I didn't know before. About her background. Her—her father."
My pulse quickened. "Her father?" I asked again to make sure I heard her correctly.
"Yes. Apparently she had one. He was a farmer. He brought her to us, I mean not directly, but..." Papers rustling. "It's complicated. I don't have all the details."
"What do you know?" I kept my voice level and controlled it. But my grip on the phone tightened.
"The farmer who found her—Joseph Brennan—he wasn't just a Good Samaritan. He might have been her actual father. Or—I'm not sure. The information is conflicting. But he disappeared about a year after bringing her to us. Or was killed. Something about debt. Gambling, maybe? Or loans he couldn't repay."
I stood. Paced to the window. "You're telling me Amelia's father was a farmer named Joseph Brennan, and he died or disappeared because of debt?"
"That's what I'm hearing. But like I said, the information is incomplete and unclear. I only found out about it this morning."
"How did you find out?"
Mrs Thomas cleared her throat and then continued. "The former principal came to visit, Sister Agnes. She ran St Mary's before I took over, about fifteen years ago. She's retired now, but she comes back occasionally to check on things. We were having tea, talking about the children, how the facility has changed, and—" Mrs Thomas paused. "And I mentioned your visit. Asked if she remembered Amelia."
My jaw clenched. The former principal. Someone with direct knowledge from eighteen years ago.
"What did she say?"
"She got quiet. Said Amelia's case was unusual. That Joseph Brennan had been protective of the girl. Visited regularly for about a year. Then suddenly stopped coming. And when Agnes tried to contact him—to find out what happened—neighbours said he'd vanished. Some said he owed money to dangerous people. Others said he'd been killed. Nobody knew for certain," she finished.
No, I shook my head. This story didn't make sense. My father had abandoned a baby. Left her to die. There was no farmer father. No debt. No disappearance.
Unless—
Unless someone had found the baby. Take her in, become her father.
And then he had been killed for reasons that had nothing to do with her origins.
"Mr Morano? Are you still there?"
"I'm here." I forced myself to organise my thoughts. "This Sister Agnes. She's there now? At the orphanage?"
"Yes. She's finishing her tea in my office. Why?"
"Keep her there." The words came out sharp. Commanding. "Don't let her leave. I'm coming to speak with her directly. I need to hear everything she knows about Amelia and this farmer."
"Oh. Well, I'm not sure she'll—"
"Mrs Thomas," I softened my tone. Slightly. "This is important, and critical. I need to understand what happened to that girl. And Sister Agnes has information I need. Please. Keep her there until I arrive."
A pause. Then: "Alright. I'll ask her to stay. But Mr Morano—she's elderly. Fragile. If you're planning to..."
"I'm not planning to harm an old woman. I just need answers." I grabbed my coat. "I'll be there in forty-five minutes. Maybe less."
"We'll be here."
I hung up. Stood in my office for three seconds. Thinking.
This changed everything. If Amelia had been raised by this farmer—if he'd been her father in any meaningful sense—then her connection to the Morano family was even more buried than I'd thought.
She wouldn't know. Wouldn't have any idea that her real parents had abandoned her. That the farmer who'd raised her, who'd died or disappeared—wasn't her biological father.
She'd grown up thinking she was orphaned by tragedy. By bad luck.
Not by deliberate abandonment. Not by a father who'd deemed her worthless because she was blind.
And now I had to figure out the truth. Had to separate what actually happened from what people believed happened.
Had to understand how much of her history was real and how much was a cover story.
I cracked my knuckles. This is an old routine. Something I did to get ready for challenging talks. Most of the time, violent ones.
This would be complicated.
"Marco! "I called out.
He appeared in the doorway. "Yeah?"
"I'm leaving. Emergency. I'll be gone a few hours. Handle anything that comes up. If father asks, tell him I'm managing a shipment issue upstate."
"Where are you really going?"
"The orphanage, St Mary's. There's someone there I need to talk to, Someone who knew Amelia when she first arrived."
Marco's expression shifted. Understanding. "You're still investigating the sister thing."
"I'm confirming information." I grabbed my keys. "And Marco—this stays quiet. father can't know. Not yet."
"Got it. Be careful."
I left the office. Took the stairs instead of the elevator. Needed to move. Needed to burn off the energy building in my chest.
A farmer father. Debt. Disappearance or death.
It didn't fit with what my mother had said. Didn't align with my father's story about abandoning the baby to die.
Which meant someone was lying. Or misinformed.
Or there were layers to this I hadn't uncovered yet.
I reached my car. Climbed in. Started the engine.
Forty-five minutes to St Mary's. Forty-five minutes to plan what questions to ask. How to approach an elderly nun who might have information that changed everything.
How to get the truth without revealing too much about why I needed it.
I pulled out of the parking garage. Headed toward the highway. Drove faster than necessary.
Because somewhere in that orphanage was a woman who'd known Amelia eighteen years ago. Who'd watched Joseph Brennan visit regularly. Who'd seen him disappear.
Who might know things even Amelia didn't know about herself.