“We will speak downstairs.”
“No.”
His eyebrows lifted.
“I’m not leaving her tonight.”
“You are in no position to refuse me.”
“Then dismiss me in the morning.”
The words came out steadier than I felt.
His gaze dropped to my hand, still enclosed by Sophia’s.
For the first time since entering the room, Lorenzo appeared to understand that his daughter had chosen something.
Not spoken. Not explained.
Chosen.
He looked at Sophia for several seconds, then turned toward the door.
“Eight o’clock,” he said. “My study.”
When the door closed, the entire room seemed to breathe.
Sophia opened her eyes.
I leaned close. “You’re safe.”
Her gaze searched my face.
Then, slowly, she raised one finger to her lips.
A secret.
I swallowed.
“All right,” I whispered. “We won’t talk about it now.”
She released my hand only after dawn.
At eight o’clock, I stood outside Lorenzo’s study with the forged credentials in my file and Juliana’s last letter sewn into the lining of my suitcase upstairs.
I had not slept.
Vincent opened the door.
Lorenzo stood at the window, still wearing the same clothes from the night before. Gray morning light flattened the room, revealing details shadows had hidden during my interview: a framed photograph turned facedown on a side table, a child’s wooden horse on the bookshelf, a thin layer of dust across an untouched chessboard.
“Sit,” he said.
I remained standing.
Vincent closed the door behind me but did not leave.
Lorenzo noticed my glance.
“Vincent knows everything concerning this house.”
I wondered if that was true.
“Where were you born?” Lorenzo asked.
“Pennsylvania.”
“Where did you train?”
“Philadelphia.”
“Your references are excellent.”
I said nothing.
He turned from the window. “Almost too excellent.”
A chill moved through me.
He crossed to his desk and opened a folder.
My folder.
The papers inside looked ordinary: nursing certifications, employment records, letters of recommendation, background checks. Every page had been created by people who knew how to make lies resemble bureaucracy.
“You worked at Saint Catherine’s for four years,” he said.
“Yes.”
“We contacted them.”
My pulse thudded once.
“They confirmed your employment.”
Relief came too quickly.
Then he added, “But the head nurse listed in your letter retired six years before you supposedly began working there.”
I kept my face still.
Lorenzo watched me with the patience of a man accustomed to silence becoming confession.
Vincent shifted near the door.
“Who are you?” Lorenzo asked.
“My name is Emma Foster.”
“Is that the only truthful thing you’ve told me?”
I looked at the facedown photograph.
“Your daughter trusts me.”
“That was not my question.”
“No. It’s the reason you haven’t called the police.”
Something flickered in his expression.
I continued before fear could close my throat.
“You have had my papers checked since the day I arrived. Probably before I reached Sophia’s room. You knew there were inconsistencies, yet you let me stay.”
“I wanted to know what you were looking for.”
“I came to care for Sophia.”
“You came into my home under a false identity.”