She searched individual names mentioned within the old photos.
Nothing substantial appeared.
Only fragmented references.
A few archived mentions.
Several dead links.
And large stretches of missing information.
The pattern repeated itself often enough that she eventually lowered the phone and stared at the screen thoughtfully.
Something about it felt wrong.
Not impossible.
Just wrong.
Almost as though portions of the story had been removed while leaving enough behind to suggest they had once existed.
The feeling only intensified her curiosity.
Her thoughts drifted inevitably toward the events of the morning.
Toward Valentina.
Toward the resemblance that everyone seemed unable to ignore.
Toward the chaos that had followed.
Slowly, Daniella leaned back against the headboard.
If there really was a connection, what was it?
Her imagination immediately began constructing possibilities.
Perhaps Alfred Delacroix had once known her mother.
Perhaps there had been an affair.
