THE MAN WHO WAS NEVER GABRIEL

Six months later.

The snow in Wisconsin was thick, burying my father’s driveway in a pristine layer of white.

Inside the house, it was eighty degrees.

The new furnace worked perfectly.

My father was asleep in his recliner, the television blaring a baseball game.

I sat at the kitchen table, wrapping my hands around a mug of coffee, watching the snowfall.

The news had covered the Moretti mansion massacre for weeks.

Catherine Moretti was indicted on multiple charges of conspiracy, attempted murder, and fraud. She was locked away in a federal facility, her immense wealth frozen by the government.

Dr. Leonard Pierce’s clinic was raided. The basement was discovered. The horrific truth of his experiments became a national scandal.

Evelyn Moretti was moved to a high-security memory care facility. The shock had broken her mind completely. She spent her days asking the nurses when Gabriel was coming home.

And as for Julian…

He was buried in the family plot.

Under the name Gabriel Moretti.

It was what Daniel had wanted.

A knock at the back door startled me.

I got up and opened it.

There was no one there.

But sitting on the welcome mat was a small, brown package.

No return address.

I brought it inside and cut the tape with a kitchen knife.

Inside was a folded piece of heavy, expensive paper.

And a child’s drawing.

I unfolded the paper first.

It was a bank statement from Zurich.

The balance was staggering. Nine zeroes.

A handwritten note was clipped to it.

Dear Rachel,

The vault was exactly where he said it was. We bought a farm in the Swiss Alps. There are no secrets here. No doctors. No bloodlines. Just peace. Lily started school today. She made a friend. Daniel is learning to ride horses. We are finally a family. We left a little something in an account for you. Buy your dad a new house.

With all our love,

Sofia and Daniel.

I felt a tear slip down my cheek.

I picked up the child’s drawing.

It wasn't a dark car. It wasn't a scary basement.

It was a drawing of a bright red barn, green grass, and three smiling stick figures holding hands under a massive yellow sun.

Beneath it, in uneven, crayon letters, was written:

To Nurse Rachel. Thank you for fixing us.

I smiled, wiping my eyes.

I folded the drawing carefully and placed it in my pocket, right next to the gold rosary.

I walked into the living room, turned down the TV, and kissed my dad on the forehead.

“Wake up, Dad,” I whispered. “We’re going house hunting.”