Chapter 3 - Two Versions of a Death
Dominic's assistant called the next morning.
Her name was Vanessa Ward, and she spoke as if every second of her employer's life came with a price tag.
"Mr. Vale would like to arrange a private meeting with you," she said.
"Then he can call me himself."
She paused.
"He has a demanding schedule."
"So do I."
I hung up and went back to stitching the lining of a leather bag.
An hour later Dominic called personally.
He apologized for the assistant's approach and asked what I needed before agreeing to meet again.
"Information," I said. "Not money."
He suggested we request records from the county together and speak with a lawyer who understood adoption and child-welfare files.
He also said he was willing to pay his share of the cost without assuming that entitled him to make decisions for me.
I agreed to meet at a public library.
We sat across from a legal aid attorney named Michelle Tran, who explained that old placement and adoption records could be restricted and that the available procedures depended on the kind of information requested.
Neither of us could simply demand another person's confidential file.
But as adults, we could seek our own records, search for public documents, and consider voluntary identity testing if we wanted corroboration.
Dominic held the photograph between two fingers.
"We don't need a test to know her," he said.
"I need to know how our records got so wrong," I replied.
Michelle nodded.
She advised us to preserve the letters, postmarked envelopes, and the county notice I'd received.
Dominic requested his available records through the agency handling his adoption history.
I made a separate request concerning my placement and sibling-contact correspondence.
Waiting would take time.
I went back to work.
For three days Dominic did not appear at my sidewalk stall.
Then he came by carrying a paper bag from the diner and asked whether I wanted company during lunch.
We ate under the awning while rain tapped softly against the roof.
He told me he ran a transportation company with regional warehouses and repair facilities.
His success had begun with a small courier business he started after community college, not with a surprise inheritance.
"I drove night shifts until I could afford a second truck," he said.
"You always liked anything with wheels."
His smile was sudden and almost the same as the boy's in the photograph.
"You remember that?"
"You took apart our mother's vacuum cleaner because you thought the motor could power a skateboard."
He laughed so hard the woman selling flowers beside me turned around.
For a moment the years between us seemed less absolute.
Then Vanessa arrived, holding her phone and looking at our paper plates with thinly disguised disapproval.
"You have a board meeting in fifteen minutes," she told Dominic.
He stood and said he would call me later.
Vanessa stayed behind.
"You understand that he receives requests like this all the time?" she asked.
"Requests like what?"
"People claiming to be family. People with old photographs. People who need help."
"I'm not asking him for money."
"That's what they usually say at first."
I kept my hands flat on the table to stop myself from throwing a wet napkin at her.
"You should tell him what you think," I said.
"I already have."
I watched her return to the car.
Her contempt did not make me doubt the memory of a small boy who wanted to fly.
It made me afraid that the person he'd become was surrounded by people who had learned to distrust everyone who came close.
Two weeks later, the first records arrived.
They confirmed that Daniel Moreno had been placed in care after our mother's death and moved to the Vale home.
A notation on one page described his older sister as presumed dead after a residential fire.
There was no incident number or official death certificate attached.
A second document was worse.
It recorded that I'd declined all future contact with my brother.
At the bottom was a signature meant to be mine.
May you like
I knew every curve of my own name.
I had never signed that page.
