He needed it.
Then the blood results arrived.
Female.
The DNA profile could be compared lawfully to stored medical reference material.
Strong match.
Isabella.
Rachel called Lorenzo after midnight.
He answered on the first ring.
“The blood is hers.”
His hand tightened around phone.
“How old?”
“Recent enough to place her alive after the funeral.”
Silence.
Lorenzo sat down on the edge of his bed.
The room he had not changed.
Her perfume still on dresser.
Her pillow untouched.
“Say it again.”
Rachel’s voice softened.
“Isabella survived the crash, or at minimum she was alive well after the date she was declared dead.”
Lorenzo closed his eyes.
For eight weeks, he had slept beside an empty place and believed the woman he loved was underground.
Now somewhere in New York, Isabella might be cold.
Hungry.
Injured.
Terrified.
Alone.
Then Rachel said the sentence that transformed hope into a criminal investigation.
“If Isabella is alive, the body in her grave belongs to someone else.”
The next morning, exhumation procedures began.
Lorenzo stood outside the cemetery gates and watched officials arrive.
He did not enter.
Not yet.
He had already buried one woman under the wrong name.
He would not interfere again.
Across the city, Sophia packed a bag for Emma because Mason insisted they remain somewhere secure.
Emma asked:
“Is Mrs. DeLuca alive?”
Sophia knelt.
“We don’t know everything yet.”
“But Bruno is alive.”
“Yes.”
Emma smiled.
“Then she probably gave him food.”
Sophia hugged her.
Children had simpler logic.
Lorenzo’s world did not.
By evening, another fact emerged.
The dental records used to identify the burned body had come from Dr. Calvin Rusk, a dentist with long-standing connections to the DeLuca family.
He had retired three weeks after Isabella’s funeral.
Moved to Florida.
The second forensic odontologist found discrepancies.
Small.
But real.
Rachel called Lorenzo back to her office.
“The original identification was wrong.”
Lorenzo stared.
“Wrong how?”
“The body is not Isabella.”
He looked toward the window.
“Who is it?”
“We’re working on that.”
He whispered:
“I buried someone else’s daughter.”
Rachel said nothing.
Because there was nothing comforting to say.
The next twenty-four hours produced a name.
Claire Donnelly.
Thirty-four.
Part-time event coordinator and bookkeeper.
Missing since the same week Isabella disappeared.
No obvious connection to Lorenzo.
No known relationship to Isabella.
But that would change.
Everything would change.
Because inside Isabella’s old tablet, investigators found one partially synced email.
Subject:
PORT FILES.
And one line.
If the numbers are right, Vincent has been moving money through North Pier vendors for at least eighteen months. Need independent review before telling Lorenzo. Too close to home.
Lorenzo read the name three times.
Vincent Moreau.
Son directeur des opérations.
Son ami le plus proche depuis vingt-deux ans.
L’homme qui s’était tenu à ses côtés sur la tombe d’Isabella.
L’homme qui lui avait dit de continuer à vivre.
Pour la première fois depuis qu’Emma était entrée dans son bureau, Lorenzo ressentit quelque chose de plus dangereux que l’espoir.
Trahison.
Et cette fois, Mason n’eut pas besoin de lui dire de ne pas bouger.
Lorenzo le savait déjà.
Les preuves d’abord.
Parce que quelque part, Isabella était encore en vie.
Et si Vincent avait quelque chose à voir avec ce qui lui était arrivé, Lorenzo comptait s’assurer que la vérité dure plus longtemps que sa colère.
