I stared at Anthony.

“Gabriel and Elena?”

“Yes.”

“That would make the girl—”

“Your cousin.”

Maria lowered herself slowly into the chair.

I suddenly felt unsteady.

Not because of the family connection.

Because I remembered something.

A girl.

Maybe six years old.

Standing near a dock.

Red coat. Dark hair.

Crying.

My father was kneeling before her.

I hadn’t thought about that moment in years.

Perhaps ever.

“What was her name?” I whispered.

Anthony looked directly at me.

Then he finally spoke the name.

“Isabella.”

The name unlocked something in my memory.

I saw my father lifting the little girl into a car.

I saw Gabriel arguing with someone beside the warehouse.

I saw Vincent.

And then something more.

Me.

Holding the girl’s hand.

Promising her she would be safe.

My head lifted sharply.

“I knew her.”

Anthony’s expression changed.

“Daniel—”

“I knew her.”

He remained silent.

“Why can’t I remember?”

Maria stepped closer.

“Daniel.”

I barely heard her voice.

“Where is she now?”

Anthony said nothing.

I moved toward him.

“Where is Isabella?”

“I don’t know.”

“You knew she existed.”

“Yes.”

“You knew Gabriel was her father.”

“Yes.”

“You knew Vincent was searching for him.”

“Yes.”

“And you’re telling me you never wondered where she ended up?”

“I wondered.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“No,” Anthony said softly. “It isn’t.”

For the first time that night, anger rose inside my chest.

Not uncontrolled anger.

Old anger.

The kind that came from realizing other people had been moving pieces of my life around while allowing me to believe I controlled the board.

Maria touched my arm.

A small gesture.

Enough to keep me from moving forward.

I looked down at her hand.

Then at her.

“Let him explain,” she said.

Anthony looked relieved.

I wasn’t.

“What happened to Isabella?” I asked.

Anthony drew a long breath.

“Your father sent her away.”

“Where?”

“I wasn’t told.”

“Why?”

“To keep her safe.”

“From Vincent?”

“Yes.”

“Did Gabriel agree?”

“At first.”

“And later?”

“Later, he wanted her back.”

Maria whispered, “That’s why he returned.”

Anthony nodded.

“Three years ago?”

“Yes.”

Everything began falling into place.

Not perfectly.

But enough.

Gabriel had spent years away from the world he had once known.

Then something changed.

He came back.

Vincent found him.

Gabriel d!ed.

And Maria eventually followed the clues all the way into my home.

“Was Isabella in New York three years ago?” I asked.

“I don’t know.”

“Who would know?”

Anthony shook his head.

“Your father.”

“He’s dead.”

“I know.”

“Anyone else?”

Anthony hesitated.

There it was again.

That tiny fraction of a second.

The difference between not knowing and not wanting to answer.

“Who?”

“I shouldn’t say.”

I laughed.

The sound surprised even me.