Chapter 97 Truth unfolds
ENZO
St Mary's looked smaller in daylight, with the worn brick and peeling paint. The kind of place that survived on donations and desperation.
I parked and walked to the entrance. A young woman—couldn't be older than twenty-five—met me at the door.
"Mr Morano? Mrs Thomas is expecting you. This way please."
She led me through narrow hallways. There was children's artwork on the walls. Crayon drawings of families that most of these kids would never have.
We reached an office. It was small and cluttered; two women sat inside.
Mrs Thomas stood. Extended her hand. "Mr Morano. Thank you for coming."
I shook it. Turned to the other woman.
Elderly. Eighty at least. Sharp eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses. Sitting with her hands folded in her lap. Spine straight. Posture that spoke of decades enforcing discipline.
"Sister Agnes," Mrs Thomas said. "This is Enzo Morano. The man I mentioned. He's been asking about Amelia."
Sister Agnes looked me over. Assessing. The way someone who'd seen every kind of trouble learned to spot it coming.
"I don't have time to discuss orphanage business with strangers," she said with a firm voice. Final. "Especially not with men who show up and just making demands."
"I'm not demanding," I said. Kept my tone respectful and measured. "I'm asking. Trying to understand what happened to a girl who might be connected to someone I'm searching for."
"Connected how?" Sister Agnes asked.
I smiled and answered, "That's what I'm trying to determine." But I have reason to believe Amelia might be the child of someone who—disappeared. Eighteen years ago. Someone who's been looking for her."
Sister Agnes's expression didn't change. "Many people think many things. Doesn't make them true."
This wasn't going to work. She was too hardened. Too used to deflecting outsiders asking questions about vulnerable children.
I needed leverage. Something to make her want to talk.
"I might know who her mother is," I said quietly.
The room went still.
Sister Agnes's fingers tightened slightly in her lap. "What did you say?"
"Amelia's mother. I'm investigating a case of a woman who lost a child eighteen years ago. The details and timing matches Amelia. I need to know what happened after the child was found to determine if this is the same girl."
I did not spill the truth and just reveal enough to get her talking without revealing my family's involvement.
Sister Agnes studied me for a long moment. Then: "Mrs Thomas, would you get me another cup of tea?"
"Of course," Mrs Thomas stood. Glanced between us. "I'll give you privacy."
She left. Closed the door.
Sister Agnes gestured to the chair across from her. "Sit."
I sat.
She was quiet for several seconds. Thinking. Deciding how much to reveal. How much to trust me.
Finally she began, "The child was left outside this building." Early morning. Eighteen years ago. Covered in blood."
My breath caught. "Blood?"
It's probably not hers. The doctors found no injuries. No wounds. But her clothes were soaked. Someone else's blood. Someone who'd been—" She paused. "Hurt badly."
Cristo. What had happened that night?
"We took her in," Sister Agnes continued. "Cleaned her. Fed her. Then, we realised she was blind. Completely. No light perception. Nothing." Her fingers traced the edge of her teacup. "She was terrified. Wouldn't speak. Wouldn't respond to her name—if she even had one. We called her Amelia because it was the saint's day when we found her."
"How old was she?" I asked
"Three. Maybe four. Hard to tell with malnourishment." Sister Agnes sipped her tea. "We thought she'd been abandoned. Dumped by parents who couldn't handle a disabled child.
"But she wasn't just abandoned."
"No." Sister Agnes set down the cup and continues. "A man started coming. Every week. Joseph Brennan. He was a local farmer; he brought donations. Food. Clothes. Money when he had it. He always asked to see Amelia specifically.
"Did she recognise him?" I asked.
"No. That's what made it strange. He'd sit with her. Read to her—or try to. She didn't respond and didn't know him. She didn't react to his voice." Sister Agnes's expression tightened. "We assumed he was just—kind. Some people have soft hearts for damaged children. We didn't question it."
"But you eventually did." I pressed her further.
"After six months of weekly visits, yes. We started wondering. Why this child? Why such devotion to a girl who didn't know him? Who couldn't even see him?" She folded her hands. "So we asked. Directly. Told him we appreciated his generosity but needed to understand his connection to the child."
"What did he say?"
"He admitted she was his. " Sister Agnes's voice dropped. "Said he was her father. That they'd had an accident. That people were after him—dangerous people—and he couldn't keep her safe. Couldn't let her remember him. It would put her in danger."
"Did he say who was after him?"
"No. Refused. He just said they were powerful and connected. If they knew about Amelia, they would use her to get to him. Sister Agnes paused. "He said they had both had accidents." 'That's the phrase he used. Both. Like whatever happened involved more than just him."
Both. Joseph and—who? Amelia's mother? Someone else?
"What happened next?"
"He asked us to remove his name from her birth certificate. Make it like he'd never existed. Never been involved." Sister Agnes's voice softened. "He kept visiting for a few more months. Bringing gifts. Donations. Making sure she was cared for. Then one day—he stopped coming. Never visited again. He never called. Just vanished."
"And you never found out what happened to him?"
"We tried. We called his farm. Neighbours said he'd left town. Or been killed. The stories were varied. Some said he owed money to dangerous people. Others said he'd witnessed something he shouldn't have. One person claimed he'd been involved with organised crime—running goods and hiding contraband. But nothing was confirmed."
I leaned back. Processing everything that's just been revealed.
A farmer father who'd claimed Amelia but couldn't keep her. People after him. An accident involving "both" of them. Blood on a three-year-old's clothes. A disappearance shrouded in debt and violence.
This didn't match what my mother had said. Didn't align with a simple abandonment.
Unless Joseph Brennan had found the abandoned baby. Taken her in. Raised her for a few years. Then something violent happened. Something that forced him to give her up and disappear.
But that meant Amelia had been abandoned twice. Once as an infant. Once as a toddler.
And I still didn't know if the woman I was searching for was my biological sister or if this was all coincidence.
I needed to find Joseph Brennan. Needed to understand what happened during those missing years. I needed proof before I could be certain Amelia was my sister.
"Thank you," I said, standing up. "For telling me this."
"What will you do with the information?"
"Keep investigating. I will find Joseph Brennan. Try to understand what happened." I moved toward the door. "And if I confirm this girl is who I think she is—I'll make sure she knows. That someone was looking for her all these years."
"Mr Morano?" Sister Agnes's voice stopped me. "If you find her—be careful. That girl has survived more trauma than most people face in a lifetime. Don't add to it unnecessarily."
"I won't."
I left the office. Found my car. Sat in the driver's seat without starting the engine.
Covered in blood. People after Joseph. An accident involving "both" of them.
What the hell had happened? And was this even the right girl?
I pulled out my phone. Texted Marcus M, my brother:
New information. Need you to investigate Joseph Brennan thoroughly. Farmer. Died or disappeared about 17 years ago. Find out who he owed money to. Who might have wanted him dead? And find out if there were any violent incidents involving a small blind girl around that time. Also—I need absolute proof that Amelia at St. Mary's is the same baby my mother abandoned. DNA, if possible. Don't move forward until we're certain.
His response came quickly: Understood. Will dig deep on Brennan and work on confirmation.