Chapter 2 - THE WOMAN WHO LOOKED LIKE ME
I did not sleep that night.
I finished my shift because rent remained due whether or not I had discovered a dead sister.
Apparently the universe was cruel enough to reveal life-changing secrets without paying your bills afterward.
Greg cornered me in the employee hallway.
“What happened at Twelve?”
“Nothing.”
“Avery.”
“I held a baby.”
“You held Luca Moretti’s baby.”
“Babies rarely provide résumés.”
Greg stared.
“Then Moretti tipped four hundred dollars.”
I froze.
“What?”
“He left it specifically for you.”
“No.”
“What?”
“I’m not taking it.”
“You have forty-three dollars.”
“Forty-two now. I bought gum.”
Greg looked ready to strangle me.
“He tipped you.”
“He was emotional.”
“He is extremely rich.”
“That does not make four hundred dollars normal.”
“For this restaurant it practically does.”
I took the receipt.
Four hundred dollars.
Below the tip was handwriting.
For keeping him calm. Nothing else. — L
That annoyed me because it removed my best excuse for refusing.
I kept it.
Then I hated myself for thinking about what it would do for the car repair.
At 1:20 a.m., I arrived at my apartment.
I removed the silver swallow.
For the first time in eight years, I studied it rather than simply wearing it.
On the back were tiny letters.
C.B.
Claire Bennett.
I had always assumed my mother’s initials.
But beneath them was something I had never noticed.
Another engraving.
So small I needed my phone flashlight.
S + A
Sofia and Avery?
“No.”
I sat down hard.
My mother had given me the necklace two weeks before she died.
Cancer had made her thin and exhausted.
I remembered lying beside her in the hospice bed.
She pressed the swallow into my palm.
“Keep this.”
“Why?”
“Because it belongs with you.”
I asked if it had belonged to Grandma.
Mom shook her head.
“Long story.”
I said we had time.
She smiled sadly.
Apparently we did not.
I found the old storage box beneath my bed.
Birth certificate.
School photographs.
Mom’s letters.
Nothing about Sofia.
At three thirty, I called the only person who might know.
My aunt Janice.
Mom’s older sister lived in Pittsburgh.
She answered on the sixth ring.
“Avery? Do you know what time it is?”
“Did Mom have another daughter?”
Silence.
Every muscle in my body tightened.
“Aunt Janice.”
“Who told you?”
The room tilted.
“You knew.”
“Avery—”
“You knew?”
“I need you to calm down.”
“No. You don’t get to say that.”
She exhaled.
“Your mother was seventeen.”
My eyes filled instantly.
“What happened?”
“Our parents were very religious. Very strict.”
My grandparents had died before I was born.
Mom rarely spoke about them.
“She got pregnant,” Janice continued. “The father disappeared when he found out. Mom and Dad arranged an adoption.”
“Sofia.”
Another silence.
“Yes.”
I covered my mouth.
My sister became real with one word.
“Did Mom see her?”
“Not after the adoption.”
“Why?”
“Closed records.”
“Did she look for her?”
“For years.”
I looked at the necklace.
“The swallows.”
Janice started crying.
“She bought them at a little jewelry store after the baby was born.”
“One for Sofia?”
“One for her.”
“And mine?”
“No.”
I frowned.
“She bought the second necklace for herself. When you were born nine years later, she had your initial added to the back.”
I stared.
“Why didn’t she tell me?”
“She tried.”
“When?”
“Near the end.”
My chest tightened.
“I told her not to.”
Anger hit so fast I stood.
“You what?”
“I thought she was sick. You were nineteen. You were already losing your mother.”
“So you decided I should lose a sister without knowing?”
“I thought I was protecting you.”
“I am so tired of people saying that after making choices for someone else.”
Janice cried.
I did not comfort her.
Not then.
“Did Sofia ever contact Mom?”
“No.”
“Did Mom know Sofia was looking?”
“No.”
I sat again.
“So they missed each other.”
“Yes.”
Two women spent decades wanting the same thing.
And never found it.
Because time ran out.
I hated that more than anything.
At eight the next morning, Luca called.
I had not given him my number.
That should have frightened me.
Instead, it irritated me.
“How did you get this?”
“Restaurant manager.”
“I’m going to murder Greg.”
“That would create paperwork.”
I almost laughed.
Then remembered who I was talking to.
“Why are you calling?”
“I found something.”
“What?”
“A letter Sofia wrote to you.”
I stood.
“What?”
“She never mailed it.”
“Where?”
“In her desk.”
“Why did you never find it before?”
“I did.”
My anger returned.
“You had a letter addressed to Avery and didn’t think that mattered?”
“I had no last name.”
“You had Claire Bennett.”
“Not in the letter.”
I stopped.
“The note from last night had Claire Bennett because Sofia wrote it later.”
That made sense.
Still annoying.
“What does the letter say?”
“I think you should read it yourself.”
“Send a photograph.”
“No.”
“Luca.”
“It contains things about her adoption that I don’t understand.”
“That sounds like my problem.”
“It also contains things about my family.”
Silence.
“There it is.”
“What?”
“The mysterious mafia-family portion of my morning.”
He exhaled.
“Meet me somewhere public.”
“Why public?”
“So you know you can leave.”
That surprised me.
“Where?”
“You choose.”
I chose a diner two blocks from City Hall.
Bright lights.
Security cameras.
Terrible coffee.
If Luca Moretti intended to make me disappear, at least he would have to do it beside a breakfast special.
He arrived alone.
That surprised me more.
No suits.
No entourage.
Dark sweater.
Black coat.
Still terrifying.
But more human.
He placed a sealed envelope on the table.
My name was written across it.
Avery.
I touched the handwriting.
“She wrote this?”
“Yes.”
I opened it.
Dear Avery,
I don’t know your last name yet.
I don’t know whether you know I exist.
I have rewritten this letter six times because I keep imagining every possible reaction.
Maybe you will be angry.
Maybe you will think I am lying.
Maybe you have a wonderful life and do not want a stranger arriving with a story about blood.
If that is true, I will respect it.
I stopped.
My eyes blurred.
Luca looked away, giving me privacy.
I continued.
My birth name was never Sofia. My adoptive parents gave me that name.
The only thing I received from my birth mother was a silver swallow necklace.
Three years ago, I began searching for her.
I learned her name was Claire Bennett.
Last year, I learned Claire had another daughter.
You.
Avery.
I laughed when I saw your first name because Leo’s middle name is Avery.
My heart stopped.
I looked at Luca.
“What?”
He looked uncomfortable.
“Sofia chose it.”
“Why?”
“She said it belonged to someone she hoped Leo would meet.”
Tears rolled down my face.
I returned to the letter.
Claire died before I found her.
I am sorry even writing that sentence because if you loved her, then she was your mother in all the ways I never got to have.
I do not want to take anything from you.
I only want to know whether we laugh the same.
Whether you like coffee.
Whether you hate cilantro.
Whether you get nervous and make jokes, because apparently I do that constantly.
A broken laugh escaped me.
Luca’s head lifted.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
But it was not nothing.
I joke constantly.
Sofia did too.
I read on.
I also need to tell you something strange.
My search for Claire accidentally led me to information involving Luca’s family.
If I manage to solve it before meeting you, maybe it will become an embarrassing story we tell later.
If I do not—
Please do not trust anyone simply because they share Luca’s last name.
Especially Rocco.
My hands went cold.
The final paragraph was simpler.
I hope I get to meet you.
If I don’t, please know I wanted to.
And if Leo ever meets you first, forgive him.
He has terrible patience.
Love from the sister who is very late finding you,
Sofia
I lowered the paper.
For a long time, neither Luca nor I spoke.
Finally I asked:
“Did she really hate cilantro?”
“With unreasonable passion.”
“So do I.”
That nearly destroyed me.
Luca smiled.
Then his smile vanished.
“There is something else you should know.”
“What?”
“The night Sofia died, she wasn’t driving home.”
“Where was she going?”
Luca placed another photograph on the table.
A screenshot of her calendar.
One appointment.
7:30 p.m.
A.B. – Aurelia.
I stared.
“Aurelia?”
“Yes.”
The restaurant where I worked.
“What date?”
He told me.
I remembered that night.
Eight months earlier.
A woman had reserved Table Twelve.
One person.
She never arrived.
Greg complained because the table sat empty during dinner rush.
I had forgotten.
Until now.
My chest tightened.
“She was coming to meet me?”
“I think so.”
“How would she know where I worked?”
“I don’t know.”
I looked at him.
“And she died on the way?”
“Yes.”
The coincidence became something darker.
“Did Rocco know where she was going?”
Luca’s jaw tightened.
May you like
“That is exactly what I need to find out.”
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