Chapter 8 - THE CHURCH
By dawn, I was back in Chicago.
I had not slept.
I had not eaten.
I carried Grace’s yellow shoe in my coat pocket the entire flight.
St. Matthew’s stood six blocks from the hospital.
Gray stone.
Tall windows.
A bell tower that had seemed romantic on my wedding day.
Now it looked like a monument to every lie I had believed.
Marcus insisted we wait for surveillance.
I agreed.
Not because I had suddenly become patient.
Because Marianne wanted me to rush inside.
That meant rushing inside was exactly what I should not do.
Julian met us in a parking garage across the street.
He looked terrible.
Sienna was with him.
Miles was not.
“Where is he?”
I asked.
“With Emily.”
Sienna answered immediately.
“Two officers are outside the apartment.”
I nodded.
Julian held out his phone.
“My mother sent this.”
A photograph.
The church altar.
A folder placed on the steps.
No Rachel.
No Grace.
No message.
“What’s in the folder?”
“We don’t know.”
Marcus studied the picture.
“She wants someone to retrieve it.”
“Me,” I said.
Julian shook his head.
“Maybe me.”
Sienna laughed bitterly.
“Everything isn’t about you, Julian.”
He looked at her.
She looked away.
I stared at the church.
“Marianne chose this place because she thinks it means something to me.”
“Does it?”
Marcus asked.
“It used to.”
We waited until officers cleared the visible areas.
No one entered or exited.
At 7:12, I crossed the street.
Marcus walked beside me.
Julian followed despite being told not to.
The church doors were unlocked.
Inside, candles burned near the altar.
That was strange.
Morning Mass had not begun.
No priest was present.
The folder sat exactly where the photo showed.
I approached.
My wedding replayed in fragments.
White roses.
Julian crying when I walked down the aisle.
Marianne kissing my cheek afterward.
Sienna catching the bouquet.
I almost laughed at the memory.
Of course Sienna had caught it.
I picked up the folder.
Inside was a copy of Grace’s birth certificate.
Mother.
Rachel Monroe.
Father.
Unknown.
I stared at it.
A second page contained a DNA report.
Probability of biological maternity.
Clara Cross.
99.9998 percent.
I already knew.
Seeing it still broke something open.
Then I found a third document.
A legal petition.
PETITION TO ESTABLISH PARENTAGE.
Prepared but never filed.
Petitioner.
Clara Hayes Cross.
I frowned.
“I never prepared this.”
Marcus read it.
“No.”
“Someone prepared it for you.”
The signature line was blank.
Attached was a note.
Sign it and leave it beneath the altar.
Julian read over my shoulder.
“That’s it?”
“No.”
I turned the page.
A second condition.
PUBLICLY RENOUNCE ALL CLAIMS TO THE CROSS FAMILY TRUST ON BEHALF OF C-17C.
My stomach turned.
There it was.
The money.
Marianne wanted Grace erased from the inheritance.
“She doesn’t care whether I find Grace.”
Marcus nodded.
“She cares whether Grace can claim the trust.”
Julian stared at the document.
“She’s protecting Miles.”
“No.”
Sienna’s voice came from behind us.
“She’s protecting herself.”
We turned.
Sienna held another paper.
She had found it under a pew.
A trust amendment.
Signed by Marianne six months earlier.
If Miles inherited, Marianne became trustee until he turned thirty.
She would control nearly two hundred million dollars.
If Grace inherited as the firstborn biological grandchild, the trusteeship shifted to an independent bank.
Julian laughed bitterly.
“Of course.”
His mother had not built this conspiracy for family.
Not really.
She had built it for control.
I tore the unsigned petition in half.
Marcus caught my wrist.
“Don’t destroy evidence.”
I stopped.
Right.
Evidence.
Even rage required discipline now.
I placed it back inside the folder.
A phone began ringing.
Not mine.
Not Julian’s.
The sound came from behind the altar.
Marcus found a burner phone taped beneath a wooden ledge.
He answered.
Marianne’s voice filled the sanctuary.
“You always were stubborn, Clara.”
I looked toward the empty pews.
“Where is Grace?”
“Safe.”
“I want proof.”
“You have her birth certificate.”
“I want to see her.”
“Then sign.”
“No.”
Julian stepped forward.
“Mother.”
Silence.
Then Marianne laughed softly.
“You brought him.”
“You used me.”
“You allowed yourself to be used.”
“You stole my children.”
“Your children?”
Her voice sharpened.
“You discarded your responsibilities long before either child was born.”
I almost smiled.
“How?”
“You became consumed by treatment.”
“You neglected Julian.”
I looked at him.
He flinched.
Marianne continued.
“A wife who cannot preserve her marriage should not lecture me about motherhood.”
That was Marianne.
Even after everything, she needed the victim to be at fault.
“I’m not signing.”
“Then Grace remains Rachel’s daughter.”
“She already knows the truth.”
“Knowing and proving are different.”
“I have DNA.”
“You have stolen medical records.”
“I have Dr. Vance.”
“Doctors can be discredited.”
“I have Peter Hale.”
For the first time, Marianne was silent.
I continued.
“He’s alive.”
Julian looked at me sharply.
We had agreed not to reveal that.
But I wanted Marianne unsettled.
It worked.
“You’re lying.”
“No.”
“What did he tell you?”
“Enough.”
She hung up.
Marcus stared at me.
“That was risky.”
“She’s scared now.”
“We don’t know that.”
“I do.”
A sound came from behind us.
The church’s side door opened.
An elderly priest entered.
Father Brennan.
He had married Julian and me.
He stopped when he saw us.
“Clara?”
I stared.
“Father.”
He looked at Julian.
Then Sienna.
His expression became confused.
“What are you doing here?”
Marcus stepped forward.
“Did anyone ask you to leave something inside the church?”
Father Brennan’s face changed.
“Who are you?”
After Marcus explained enough, Father Brennan sat in the first pew.
His hands trembled.
“Marianne came yesterday.”
My pulse jumped.
“Here?”
“Yes.”
“With anyone?”
“A woman.”
“Rachel?”
“I don’t know.”
“Dark hair?”
“Yes.”
“Child?”
He closed his eyes.
“Yes.”
My knees weakened.
“She was here.”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“Late afternoon.”
“What happened?”
Father Brennan looked ashamed.
“Marianne told me the woman was escaping an abusive situation.”
“She said the child’s father might come looking.”
“And you believed her?”
“I had no reason not to.”
I swallowed anger.
“Where did they go?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did Marianne say anything?”
“She asked to access an old room downstairs.”
My eyes narrowed.
“What room?”
“The parish records archive.”
Marcus stood.
“Show us.”
The basement smelled like dust and old paper.
Father Brennan led us to a locked room.
The door was open.
Inside were filing cabinets.
A desk.
A small couch.
No Rachel.
No Grace.
But there was a cup of coffee still warm.
Someone had been there recently.
Marcus searched.
Julian looked through cabinets.
Sienna stood near the wall.
I examined the desk.
One drawer was locked.
Father Brennan found a key.
Inside was a stack of envelopes.
Each carried a woman’s name.
Some I recognized from locker 417.
Patients.
Victims.
One envelope carried my name.
Inside was a photograph of Grace.
Newer than the grocery-store photo.
She sat on a bed holding a stuffed rabbit.
Behind her, a television displayed a news station.
Date.
Today.
She was alive.
My hands shook.
Then I saw the rabbit.
A small stitched logo.
St. Agnes Children’s Center.
I knew it.
A private residential medical facility outside Chicago.
Bright Tomorrow had funded renovations there two years earlier.
Sienna looked over my shoulder.
“Oh my God.”
Marcus was already calling officers.
Then Julian found another envelope.
His name.
He opened it.
Inside was a single photograph.
Marianne standing beside Rachel.
And behind them, someone we all recognized.
Thomas Reed.
I stared at him.
The photograph had been taken less than twenty-four hours earlier.
Thomas had told us he had not seen Rachel in nine months.
But there he was.
Standing beside her yesterday.
Julian whispered, “He’s been lying too.”
My phone rang.
Thomas.
For several seconds, I only stared at his name.
Then I answered.
“Where are you?”
His voice was breathless.
“Clara, don’t go to St. Agnes.”
I looked at Marcus.
Too late.
“Why?”
“Because the photograph is bait.”
My skin went cold.
“What photograph?”
Silence.
Thomas realized his mistake.
I lowered my voice.
“How did you know about the photograph?”
He said nothing.
“Thomas.”
“Listen to me.”
“No.”
“You listen to me.”
“Were you with Rachel yesterday?”
Another pause.
“Yes.”
Julian swore.
I closed my eyes.
“Are you working with Marianne?”
“No.”
“Then why did you lie?”
“Because Rachel asked me to.”
“Why?”
“Because she doesn’t trust you.”
The words stunned me.
“She doesn’t know me.”
“She knows enough.”
“What does that mean?”
Thomas lowered his voice.
“She knows Marianne stole your embryo.”
“She also knows that if you establish parentage, Grace becomes the Cross heir.”
“So?”
“So Rachel thinks you want her daughter for the money.”
I nearly laughed.
“Her daughter?”
“You know what I mean.”
“No.”
“I know exactly what you mean.”
“She raised Grace.”
“She loves her.”
“And Marianne has spent months convincing her that you will take Grace away.”
I looked at the photograph.
Rachel’s face.
She was not restrained.
Not crying.
Standing beside Marianne.
“What is happening, Thomas?”
He exhaled.
“Rachel isn’t Marianne’s prisoner anymore.”
My heart pounded.
“What is she?”
Thomas spoke softly.
“Her partner.”
May you like
And just like that, the mother carrying my stolen daughter stopped being only another victim.
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