Chapter 13: The Briefcase

Mr. Santoro carried his briefcase to the coffee table and opened it with both thumbs.

The letter was a single page on thick cream paper, with a stamp from a clinic in Florence.

An English translation was stapled behind it.

I read the translation standing up.

It was dated five years ago, in the third month.

It said that a young woman named Gianna Santoro had been examined for a suspected pregnancy.

It said the tests and the scan were clear, and that she was not pregnant and never had been.

The doctor had signed it and added a line recommending she speak with someone about why she had needed to believe otherwise.

"We showed it to her," Carla said. "She tore it in half and then asked us to tape it."

"Why would she want it taped?"

"So she could prove to herself that we were lying."

Mr. Santoro cleared his throat.

"Signora Kessling," he said, in a rough, heavy accent. "What will you do?"

"Not the police."

Carla blinked.

"A report goes in a drawer," I said. "A detective calls her, she cries, and her lawyer says grief."

"Brendan stands next to her and says he never doubted a word."

"Then what?"

"Your daughter has told five years of lies about a baby to everyone who loved her."

"I want her to be asked for the certificate in front of all of them."

Neither of them answered.

"Let us talk to her first," Mr. Santoro said. "Let us do it quietly, at home, in Italy."

"You've had five years of quiet."

"She is our child."

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