Chapter 3 - The Cold Ledger
Marcus Vance did not look like a private investigator. He looked like a university professor, with his tweed jacket and quiet demeanor, but he was the most ruthless information broker Nathan knew. Three days after Eliza's arrival at the manor, Marcus sat in Nathan’s library, spreading a series of yellowed documents across the mahogany desk.
"St. Catherine's is a fortress of bad bookkeeping," Marcus began, tapping a paper with his pen. "But if you know where to look, the cracks are obvious. Ten years ago, the orphanage was facing bankruptcy. Then, suddenly, they received an anonymous, massive cash donation. Two weeks later, Eliza Cardoso was registered as a 'foundling abandoned on the steps.'"
Nathan leaned forward, his hands clenched into fists. "And the fire at the Chicago clinic? The night Clara and Eliza were born?"
"The fire was ruled an accident—an electrical short in the basement," Marcus said, his voice dropping. "But here’s the anomaly. The clinic's head nurse at the time was a woman named Eleanor Pruitt."
Nathan’s breath hitched. "The same Mrs. Pruitt who runs St. Catherine’s now."
"Exactly," Marcus said. "She retired from the clinic immediately after the fire, citing trauma, and took over as director of St. Catherine's with a very generous salary funded by that 'anonymous' donation. But it gets weirder, Nathan. I went to the county registrar. There is no official record of Clara’s birth certificate ever being processed by the state. The hospital issued a temporary one, but the official filing was 'lost' in the fire."
Nathan stood up, walking to the fireplace. His mind was a storm of grief, hope, and rising fury. "Are you telling me Clara wasn't my daughter? Or that Eliza is?"
"We need DNA, Nathan," Marcus said softly. "It’s the only way to know. But there is a dark rumor. Ten years ago, your late wife, Helen, was desperate for a child. You were away in Asia building your shipping lanes. The clinic fire happened on the night Helen supposedly gave birth to Clara. What if... what if Helen's baby didn't survive, and she, or someone working for her, paid Mrs. Pruitt to swap a surviving baby? Or what if there were twins, and one was hidden?"
"Helen would never do that," Nathan hissed, though a seed of doubt planted itself deep in his mind. Helen had been fragile, deeply depressed, and desperate to please him.
"We don't know what happened," Marcus said. "But Mrs. Pruitt does. And right now, she’s frantic. She’s realized Eliza is missing from the transfer list. She’s been calling the county, claiming the girl was kidnapped."
Meanwhile, upstairs, Eliza was experiencing a world she didn't know existed. Mrs. Gable had brought her new clothes—soft cotton shirts, jeans that didn't have holes in the knees, and shoes that didn't squeak when she walked.
She stood in front of the full-length mirror in her guest room, staring at herself. She looked... clean. Her hair, which had always been a tangled, matted mess, was brushed and shone like spun silk.
There was a knock on the door. Eliza jumped, her old instincts screaming that she was about to be scolded.
But it was Nathan. He held a small, beautifully wrapped box.
"May I come in?" he asked.
Eliza nodded quickly. "Yes, sir."
"You don't have to call me 'sir,' Eliza," he said, walking in and handing her the box. "This is for you."
With trembling fingers, Eliza opened the box. Inside was a set of beautiful, colored origami paper—shades of blue, green, gold, and pink.
"Mrs. Gable told me you like to fold cranes," Nathan said, his voice softening as he watched her face light up. "Like Sister Agnes taught you."
"They're beautiful," Eliza whispered, running her fingers over the smooth paper. "Sister Agnes says if you fold a thousand cranes, your heart's desire will come true."
"And what is your heart's desire, Eliza?" Nathan asked, his chest tightening.
May you like
Eliza looked up at him, her dark eyes filled with a sadness too heavy for a ten-year-old. "I just want a place where I don't have to be afraid of being hungry anymore. And... I want a family."
Nathan had to look away to hide the tears burning his eyes. I will find the truth, he swore to himself. Even if I have to tear this city apart to do it.
