Between The Lies

Chapter 13: Resemblance

ISABELLA

I drive back to my house in the hills, my hands gripping the steering wheel tighter than necessary.

Those eyes.

I can't stop thinking about those eyes.

The girl from the assembly—Stella Harrison—had looked at me with eyes that felt like looking in a mirror. The same shade of brown. The same shape. Even the way she'd tilted her head when I spoke to her felt familiar in a way I couldn't explain.

My house is quiet when I arrive. Modern, minimalist, expensive—everything I've worked for over the past decade building Vivian Arts Academy from the ground up. I'm the CEO now. Successful. Respected. Far from the scared nineteen-year-old who made the biggest mistake of her life.

But that girl's face has brought it all back.

I pour myself a glass of wine and sit on my balcony overlooking Los Angeles, trying to make sense of the feeling gnawing at my chest.

She looked like me.

Not exactly. But enough that I'd noticed immediately. Enough that I'd had to force myself to act professional instead of staring.

Could it be...?

No. Don't go there. Don't even think it.

I pull out my phone and scroll to the contact I haven't called in years. Mom. The number I saved before everything fell apart. Before she ended up in that facility. Before I changed my name and built a new life.

I press call.

The phone rings once. Twice. Then: "The number you have dialed is no longer in service. Please check the number and try again."

Disconnected.

Of course it is. It's been over a decade since I've tried to reach her. She probably doesn't even have the same number anymore. The facility might have changed their phone system. Or worse—she might not even be there anymore.

I try searching online: Evergreen Hills Mental Health Center Seattle.

The website comes up, but there's no patient directory. No way to confirm if Elena Moretti is still a patient there. Privacy laws, I guess.

I could call the main line. Ask to speak to her. But what would I even say?

Hi, Mom. It's Isabella. Remember the baby I abandoned seventeen years ago? I think I might have just met her.

No. I can't do that. Especially not over the phone. Especially not when I'm not even sure.

I set my phone down and open my laptop instead, searching: Stella Harrison Los Angeles.

Social media profiles come up. i********: full of dance photos and modeling shots. She's beautiful. Talented. Happy, from the looks of it.

I dig deeper: Stella Harrison adopted.

Nothing concrete. Just vague mentions in articles about the Harrison family. Richard and Catherine Harrison, business moguls, two children—Luca and Stella. No details about Stella's adoption. No public records. Nothing.

Of course not. People like the Harrisons know how to keep their private lives private.

I try one more search: Stella Harrison birth date.

Her modeling portfolio lists it: March 15, 2008.

My breath catches.

That's... that's the same day.

No. Stop. Lots of babies are born on the same day. It doesn't mean anything.

But I can't shake the feeling.

I spend the next hour going down rabbit holes. Searching for adoption records—sealed. Searching for hospital records from 2008—private. Searching for anything that might confirm or deny what my gut is screaming at me.

Nothing. There's nothing.

And without proof, what am I supposed to do? Show up at their mansion and demand a DNA test based on a feeling?

I close my laptop and lean back in my chair, staring at the ceiling.

Maybe I'm just seeing what I want to see. Maybe the guilt I've carried for seventeen years is making me project onto this random girl. Maybe she just happens to have similar features and I'm reading too much into it.

It's been seventeen years. My daughter—if she even survived, if she was adopted, if everything worked out the way I hoped—could be anyone. Anywhere.

The chances of her being at this specific school, at this specific time, when I just happen to be visiting, are astronomical.

It's just a coincidence.

It has to be.

I stand up and pour the wine down the sink. I need to focus. I'm here for work. To scout talent. To find promising dancers for the academy's summer intensive program.

Stella Harrison is just another talented student. That's all.

The resemblance is just... one of those things. People look like other people all the time. It doesn't mean anything.

I pull out my phone and send an email to Ms. Rodriguez:

Thank you for arranging the meeting on Thursday. I look forward to discussing opportunities with Stella Harrison and seeing more of her work. The students at Riverside Academy are very impressive.

Professional. Distant. Exactly what I need to be.

I'm not here to unravel my past. I'm here to do my job.

Even if something about Stella Harrison's eyes makes my chest ache in a way I haven't felt in seventeen years.

Even if looking at her felt like looking at a ghost.

Even if some part of me—the part I've been trying to bury for years—whispers what if?

I silence that voice.

Push it down deep where it belongs.

And tell myself, over and over, until I almost believe it:

She just looks like me. That's all. Just a coincidence. Nothing more.

By the time I go to bed, I've almost convinced myself it's true.