Chapter 2 - THE NAME MY MOTHER ERASED
I woke to the steady beeping of hospital equipment.
My throat hurt.
My wrist was immobilized.
A bandage covered a cut near my forehead, and every deep breath reminded me that my ribs had struck a rock ledge.
The first thing I did was touch my stomach.
"Please," I whispered.
A nurse standing beside the bed looked up.
"Your baby has a heartbeat. The obstetric team is monitoring both of you."
I began crying.
It was the kind of crying that arrived from somewhere deeper than thought.
I had survived.
My daughter was still alive.
And Michael Carter believed he'd killed us both.
An obstetrician named Dr. Rachel Monroe came to explain the findings.
I had a concussion, a fractured wrist, bruised ribs, and significant exposure to cold.
The pregnancy required close observation because trauma could cause complications even when initial findings were reassuring.
I listened.
Asked questions.
Then asked if I could have a moment alone.
She nodded.
When the door opened again, Damien Blackwood stood in the hallway.
"May I come in?"
I studied him.
He looked different without the mountain storm behind him.
His dark hair was neatly combed.
His black sweater had been replaced by a charcoal shirt.
But the tattoos remained.
So did the scar along his jaw.
I nodded.
"Five minutes."
He entered.
"How are you feeling?"
"Like someone pushed me off a mountain."
His expression tightened.
"That's going to be investigated."
I looked at him.
"Damien, why were you there?"
He pulled out a chair but didn't sit until I gestured.
"I've been searching for your mother's records for years."
"Why?"
"Because she disappeared from our family twenty-six years ago."
I stared.
"My mother didn't disappear. She died when I was seven."
His eyes softened.
"I know."
"Then what are you talking about?"
He took a breath.
"Your mother was born Catherine Blackwood."
I felt cold.
"That's impossible."
"She changed her name after leaving Chicago."
I shook my head.
"She was Catherine Whitmore."
"That was the name she used."
I stared at him.
My mother had been gentle.
Quiet.
Always nervous whenever strange cars parked near our house.
She worked as a librarian.
Made cinnamon rolls on Sunday mornings.
And told me our family was small.
Just her.
Me.
And my father, who died when I was a baby.
After she passed away, I lived with my father's older cousin, Margaret Carter.
Margaret raised me until I finished college.
When she died four years ago, she left me the estate that eventually became the subject of Michael's obsession.
Damien watched my face.
"You're remembering something."
I looked down.
"My mother hated Chicago."
His expression changed.
"Did she say why?"
"She said it was a city where people forgot what mattered."
Damien swallowed.
"My aunt Catherine left because of a dispute involving the family businesses."
"What dispute?"
He hesitated.
"The kind people were afraid to discuss openly."
I folded my arms.
"That's not enough."
"No."
He nodded.
"It isn't."
He reached into his briefcase.
Removed a document.
And slid it toward me.
A certified birth record.
Catherine Elise Blackwood.
Parents: William and Rose Blackwood.
A younger sister listed in accompanying family records: Marianne Blackwood.
Damien looked at me.
"Marianne was my mother."
My throat tightened.
I studied the date.
The place.
The handwriting.
Then whispered, "Why didn't she tell me?"
Damien shook his head.
"I don't know."
The answer frustrated me.
But I appreciated that he hadn't invented one.
Then he said something else.
"Three weeks ago, a lawyer contacted me about a property trust connected to Catherine."
I looked up.
"What trust?"
"The Whitmore estate."
I frowned.
"That belongs to me."
"Yes."
"Michael said it was worth fifty million."
Damien nodded.
"That's the approximate value of the assets now under review."
I swallowed.
"Then why was he so desperate?"
Damien's face darkened.
"Because he apparently believed your death would let him control the money."
I looked toward the window.
Then remembered my husband's hand against my stomach.
The last gesture he'd made before pushing me.
I began trembling.
Damien stood.
"Would you like me to call the nurse?"
I shook my head.
"Just tell me one thing."
He waited.
"How did you find me?"
He looked down.
Then answered.
"Because someone warned me your husband was planning to make you disappear."
My heart stopped.
"Who?"
Damien's jaw tightened.
May you like
"Your aunt Margaret's attorney."
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