Claire felt cold.
“Where did you get that?”
“The SUV from the attack.”
She looked at him.
“It was stolen?”
“Yes.”
“Of course.”
“Police recovered it three blocks away.”
Claire stared at the photograph.
“Why would anyone photograph me?”
“That is what I intend to find out.”
Claire looked at him sharply.
“We.”
Adrian frowned.
“What?”
“We intend to find out.”
“Claire.”
“If someone is targeting me because of my mother, you don’t get to decide what I’m allowed to know.”
Adrian considered arguing.
Then did not.
“Fine.”
Claire leaned back.
Her shoulder throbbed.
“Tell me about Rachel.”
Adrian went quiet.
For the first time, Claire saw fear in him.
Not fear of violence.
Memory.
“My sister was nineteen.”
“When?”
“Twenty-four years ago.”
Claire’s fingers tightened around the blanket.
“Go on.”
“She was the youngest Bellini.”
“Our father was Vittorio Bellini.”
Claire knew that name.
Everybody who grew up around Chicago had heard it.
Old photographs.
Political scandals.
Union stories.
Rumors connected to organized crime.
Vittorio Bellini had died fifteen years earlier.
Claire whispered:
“My grandfather?”
“If Rachel was your mother.”
Claire did not like the qualification.
But she understood it.
Adrian continued.
“Rachel hated our father’s world.”
“What world?”
His eyes met hers.
“You know what people say.”
“I know rumors.”
“Some are true.”
Claire waited.
Adrian did not provide details.
“She wanted out.”
“Did she leave?”
“That is what we were told.”
“By who?”
“Our father.”
Claire felt something tighten in her chest.
“What exactly did he say?”
Adrian leaned back.
“Rachel had been fighting with him for months.”
“She wanted to leave Chicago.”
“She was seeing someone he disapproved of.”
“A boyfriend?”
“Yes.”
“Who?”
“We never knew.”
Claire frowned.
“How could you not know?”
“Because Rachel hid him.”
“From all of you?”
“Mostly from our father.”
Claire thought about her mother.
Rachel Bennett had never discussed Claire’s father.
Whenever Claire asked as a child, Rachel said only that he had been young, kind, and gone before Claire was born.
Claire used to assume gone meant dead.
Now she wondered.
Adrian continued.
“One night Rachel disappeared.”
“Her room was empty.”
“Some clothes gone.”
“Her necklace missing.”
“Our father told us she had run away.”
“And then?”
“Three weeks later he said she had died.”
Claire stared.
“How?”
“Car accident in Indiana.”
“Did you see the body?”
Adrian’s face hardened.
“No.”
“Funeral?”
“Closed casket.”
Claire felt nauseated.
“And everyone believed him?”
“I was sixteen.”
That answer stopped her.