Chapter 2 - The Shadows of the Past
The rain hit her like a physical punishment the moment she stepped into the alley. It was cold, sharp, and smelled of wet asphalt and old garbage. Noelle leaned her back against the brick wall of the diner, her chest heaving as she pressed both of her palms hard over her mouth to stifle the sob that was tearing its way up from her throat.
The alley was dark, lit only by a single, flickering amber bulb above the door. The puddles on the ground reflected the neon red of the Rosalie’s sign, looking like pools of fresh blood in the dirt.
The heavy metal back door banged open again, hitting the brick wall with a loud, echoing crash. Denny stormed out, his face twisted in a mask of pure, unadulterated fury. He didn't have his umbrella, and the rain immediately flattened his remaining hair against his skull, making him look like a drowned rat.
“You embarrassed me!” Denny roared, his finger pointing at her face, his voice shaking with a rage that had been building all night. “In front of Damian Marchetti! Do you have any idea who that man is? Do you have any idea what he could do to this place? To me?”
Noelle slowly pulled her hands away from her face. The rain was washing her tears away, but it couldn't wash away the sudden, cold strength that was beginning to replace her fear.
“He asked a question, Denny,” she said, her voice remarkably steady despite the shaking of her limbs. “And you answered like a coward looking for applause. You didn't have to tell him about my life. You didn't have to tell him about my children.”
“Watch your mouth, Bishop!” Denny took a step closer, his chest puffed out, trying to intimidate her the way he always did when she was late or when an order was cold. “I gave you a job when nobody else would look at you. Look at you! You’re a mess. You’ve let yourself go, you’re slow, and you’re carrying around a sob story that nobody wants to hear.”
Noelle let out a single, brittle laugh that sounded like dry leaves scraping across a grave.
“My children are not a sob story,” she said, her eyes locking onto his with a fierce, protective light that made Denny hesitate for a fraction of a second. “And I don't think I will watch my mouth anymore.”
“Then you’re finished,” Denny spat, stepping back toward the warmth of the kitchen. His eyes lit up with a cruel, petty satisfaction. “You’re done here, Noelle. Don't bother coming back on Monday. I’ll mail you your final check—minus the cost of the apron you just ruined. You’re too much trouble. Too slow. And now you’ve hauled your dead-baby drama in front of the most dangerous man in the state.”
The door slammed shut behind him, the heavy iron latch clicking into place with a sound that felt like a coffin lid closing.
Noelle stood in the rain, her clothes soaking through to her skin, her breath coming in ragged, white plumes in the cold air. She was unemployed. She had fifty-two dollars to her name, a rent payment due in three days, and three tiny voices still echoing in her skull, calling her by a name she had thought she would never hear again.
Mama.
She walked home. It was a three-mile journey through the worst parts of the city, her wet sneakers squelching with every step, her body shivering so violently that her teeth chattered. But her mind wasn't on the cold. It was back in Saint Jude’s Hospital, fourteen months ago.
She remembered the smell of bleach. She remembered the bright, white lights of the operating room. She had been so tired, so incredibly weak after thirty hours of labor before they finally decided to perform an emergency C-section. She remembered the voice of Dr. Vance—the lead obstetrician—telling her to close her eyes, that everything was going to be fine.
When she woke up, the room was dark. There were no babies.
There was only Dr. Vance, looking down at her with a solemn, practiced expression of grief. He had handed her a cup of water and a small pile of forms to sign. “There were complications, Noelle,” he had said, his voice smooth and empty of actual emotion. “The cords were tangled. They didn't survive the birth. We’re going to handle the arrangements for you. You don't need to worry about the cost. The hospital has a fund for these types of... situations.”
She had been too weak, too broken by her mother’s recent death, to ask questions. She had signed the papers because she had no money, no family, and no strength left to fight. She had trusted them.
But those babies in the diner... they had her eyes. They had the exact, distinctive birthmark—a small, dark brown speck on the left earlobe—that her mother had, and that she had. She had seen it on the little girl when she reached her arms out.
They didn't die, Noelle thought, her heart stopping as she reached the door of her apartment building. They didn't die. They stole them from me.
She climbed the creaking stairs to her third-floor apartment, her mind spinning with a mixture of hope and terror. If those children were hers, how did they end up with Damian Marchetti? He was a widower. His wife, Sofia, had reportedly died in childbirth around the same time.
Did Marchetti buy them? Did he pay the hospital to steal her babies because his own had died? Or was he as blind to the truth as she had been?
She unlocked her door and stepped into the small, dark room. The apartment was cold, the radiator clanking weakly in the corner. She didn't turn on the lights. She simply dropped her wet coat onto the floor and sat down on the edge of her unmade bed, her head in her hands.
The silence of her apartment was deafening now. It was the same silence that had haunted her for fourteen months, but now, it was filled with the phantom cries of three children.
May you like
She lay down, her wet clothes clinging to her skin, and closed her eyes.
Outside, the rain continued to fall, a steady, relentless drumbeat against the glass.
