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Amelia Morelli, 19, comforted by an uncle after a tragic boating accident claims parents’ lives.
Morelli, not Ross.
Enough of change to throw off a casual search.
My eyes are drawn to the girl in the photo. Her face is a mask of grief, eyes red and swollen. She looks small, vulnerable, clutched in the arms of a man I assume is her uncle.
Something about him makes my skin crawl. His grip on Amelia seems possessive rather than comforting. His eyes are hard, focused on the camera instead of his grieving niece.
I lean closer, studying the image. Amelia looks the same but different, beyond just being younger. Her posture, her expression, everything is like looking at a completely differentperson. The vibrant, determined woman I know is nowhere to be seen in this broken girl.
My heart aches for her.
But what happened to her?
What turned Amelia Morelli into Amelia Ross?
I continue reading.
I dig deeper into the article, my eyes scanning for any details about Amelia’s past.
A quote from a neighbor catches my attention:
“The Morellis moved here about five years ago from California,” says Martha Jennings, who lives two doors down. “They kept to themselves, mostly. Beautiful house on the water, always well-maintained, but we never saw much of them. The daughter–Amelia, I think her name is–went to that fancy private school for girls. St. Catherine’s.”
I process this new information. Five years in South Carolina, but they came from California. It’s not much, but it’s more than I knew before. The fact that they were so private raises more questions.
What were they hiding from—or running from?
I lean back in my chair, steepling my fingers at the back of my head, thinking.
The article lacks any details about what Amelia’s parents did for a living. How did they afford a beautiful house and private school tuition if they weren’t working? The pieces don’t fit together.
But when I met Amelia, I remember she told me she had worked for her father.
I scroll through more articles, searching for any mention of the Morelli family. Hoping to find out about her family’s background or anything about their life in California.
Nothing.
It’s like they appeared out of thin air five years before the accident.
My mind races with possibilities. Were her family criminals, did they betray the wrong person? And is Amelia now in witness protection? Or maybe they were just intensely private people who valued their solitude.
I glance at the clock. It’s nearly 3 am. I should go back to bed, but I can’t tear myself away from the screen. There’s so much more I need to know about my future fiancée.
Especially as the girl I thought I knew is becoming a stranger with every click. And yet, I can’t help but feel drawn to her even more.
What made her change her name?
Why is she running from her past?
I rub my eyes, exhaustion finally catching up with me. I need sleep, but I know that won’t happen, not when I have questions about the mysterious woman in my bed.
I pick up my phone and call a man I know will find out what I need to know.
I dial the number for Lewis, the private investigator I’ve used in the past. He picks up on the second ring.
“West? You’re calling me at an ungodly hour. What’s going on?”