Chapter 2 - THE WOMAN WITH ISABELLA'S PASSPORT
“Don't let that woman leave with my sister's dress.”
Vincent DeMarco's voice was so quiet that I almost didn't hear him.
But his security chief, Owen Price, immediately reached for his radio.
“Already have the exits covered, boss.”
We stood inside Vincent's private dining room.
The wedding gown lay across a polished mahogany table.
Margaret Ellis, the seventy-nine-year-old seamstress, was holding its torn lining together with trembling fingers.
Eleanor DeMarco sat beside the fireplace, clutching the second photograph she had brought downstairs.
And Victoria Ashford stood near the doorway.
For the first time that evening, Vincent's beautiful fiancée looked frightened.
“Vincent,” she whispered, “please don't turn this into something ugly.”
He looked at her.
“My sister disappeared eight years ago. Your father lied about knowing her. And someone is carrying her passport around my engagement party.”
He paused.
“What part of this situation isn't ugly?”
Victoria lowered her eyes.
Owen returned several minutes later.
Behind him walked an elderly man wearing an expensive navy suit.
Arthur Ashford.
Victoria's father.
He was sixty-eight, silver-haired, and known throughout Philadelphia for his charity foundations and luxury real estate developments.
Beside him stood a woman in her early fifties.
She wore a modest gray dress beneath a dark wool coat.
Her hands were clasped around an old brown leather handbag.
She looked nothing like the wealthy guests downstairs.
“Vincent,” Arthur said smoothly. “Surely we can discuss this privately.”
“We are discussing it privately.”
Arthur glanced at me.
“Does the housekeeper need to be here?”
Vincent didn't hesitate.
“Claire stays.”
I felt Victoria's eyes burn into my face.
Then Vincent turned toward the unfamiliar woman.
“Your name.”
“Lydia Hart.”
“How do you know my sister?”
Lydia's expression softened.
“I worked at the hotel where Isabella stayed after her wedding.”
Nobody moved.
Vincent stepped closer.
“After her wedding?”
“Yes.”
“Isabella never made it to her honeymoon.”
Lydia swallowed.
“I know what your family was told.”
She opened her handbag.
Inside was a blue American passport.
She placed it carefully on the table.
Vincent recognized his sister's photograph immediately.
I watched his face change.
He touched the passport as though it might disappear.
“Where did you get this?”
“Isabella gave it to me.”
“When?”
Lydia looked toward Arthur.
“Eight years ago.”
Vincent's jaw tightened.
“Don't play games with me.”
“I'm not.”
“Then tell me where my sister is.”
Lydia's eyes filled with tears.
“I can't.”
Vincent stared at her.
“Can't or won't?”
“Both.”
Arthur stepped forward.
“Lydia has been confused about certain events for years. I was helping her settle a financial matter when she approached me tonight.”
Lydia turned toward him.
“You told me the dress would already be destroyed.”
The room went silent.
Arthur's smile vanished.
Victoria whispered, “Dad.”
Vincent slowly faced him.
“You knew she was coming.”
Arthur adjusted his cuffs.
“I knew she wanted an old dress. Nothing more.”
“Then why did you tell her it would be destroyed?”
Arthur didn't answer.
Vincent turned toward Margaret.
“Open the other sleeve.”
Victoria immediately moved.
“Vincent, stop!”
Owen blocked her path.
Margaret took a small pair of scissors from her sewing case.
Her hands shook as she separated several tiny stitches.
The gown was beautiful.
Cream-colored silk.
French lace.
Small pearl buttons.
It must have taken hundreds of hours to make.
And someone had deliberately concealed something inside its left sleeve.
Margaret carefully pulled out a narrow strip of fabric.
Wrapped inside was a small brass token.
A number had been stamped into its surface.
614\.
And beneath it were two initials.
R.D.
Vincent went completely still.
“My father's initials.”
Eleanor began crying.
Margaret turned the token over.
On the back was a faded engraving.
PHILADELPHIA CENTRAL STATION — STORAGE.
Owen frowned.
“Those lockers were replaced years ago.”
“Not all of them,” Lydia whispered.
Everyone looked at her.
She pressed her lips together.
“I shouldn't have said that.”
Vincent leaned forward.
“Lydia. What does this token open?”
She looked at Eleanor.
The older woman closed her eyes.
“Tell him.”
Lydia's voice trembled.
“Your sister told me that your father kept a second record of his business dealings.”
Vincent shook his head.
“My father was murdered eleven years ago.”
“I know.”
“Isabella was twenty-four when he died. She wasn't involved in his business.”
“She wasn't supposed to be.”
Lydia looked at the brass token.
“But three years after his death, she found something that made her question everything your family believed.”
Arthur suddenly spoke.
“This is an absurd story built around an old piece of metal.”
Vincent turned toward him.
“Then explain the photograph.”
Arthur's face tightened.
Vincent held up the picture of Isabella standing beside him outside the luxury hotel.
Dated three days after her disappearance.
“You told me you'd never met my sister.”
Arthur took a breath.
“I met her once.”
“Once?”
“She wanted information about her father's estate.”
“And you forgot to mention that?”
“I didn't believe it was relevant.”
Vincent placed the photograph on the table.
“Where did you take her afterward?”
Arthur looked at Lydia.
She began trembling.
And that's when I noticed something.
Lydia wasn't afraid of Vincent.
She was afraid of Arthur.
I had spent ten months working in a mansion filled with powerful people.
I'd learned to recognize the difference between respect and fear.
This was fear.
“Mr. DeMarco,” I said quietly.
Vincent turned toward me.
“Claire?”
I pointed toward Lydia's handbag.
“May I ask her something?”
Victoria scoffed.
“Oh, wonderful. Now the maid is conducting an investigation.”
Vincent ignored her.
“Go ahead.”
I looked at Lydia.
“If Isabella gave you her passport eight years ago, why bring it tonight?”
Lydia's face changed.
She stared at me for several seconds.
Then she opened her handbag again.
This time, she removed an old railway ticket.
Its edges were yellow.
Its corners were worn.
On the reverse was a handwritten message.
IF THE DRESS IS OPENED, THE TRUTH CAN FINALLY BEGIN.
Vincent picked it up.
“Isabella wrote this?”
Lydia nodded.
“She told me to bring it when I saw the dress displayed publicly.”
Margaret frowned.
“But the dress has been locked away for eight years.”
“Exactly.”
Lydia looked toward Eleanor.
“Someone finally kept their promise.”
Eleanor covered her face.
Vincent turned toward his mother.
“What promise?”
Eleanor lowered her hands.
“I promised Isabella that I would show you the dress when I believed you were ready to listen.”
Vincent looked devastated.
“You knew she left messages for me?”
“I knew she was trying to protect you.”
“From what?”
Eleanor couldn't answer.
Arthur suddenly reached for his coat.
“I won't stay here to be insulted.”
Owen stepped in front of him.
“Nobody's leaving yet.”
Arthur's expression hardened.
“You're making a mistake, Vincent.”
Vincent walked toward him.
“My mistake was trusting you enough to invite you into this house.”
For several seconds, the two men stared at each other.
Then Lydia spoke.
“There's something about the blood.”
I turned.
She was looking at Isabella's wedding dress.
“That's why Isabella insisted it must never be cleaned.”
Margaret gripped the table.
“What do you mean?”
Lydia's voice broke.
“The blood wasn't Isabella's.”
Vincent stopped breathing.
“Whose was it?”
Lydia looked straight at Arthur.
Then at Victoria.
May you like
Finally, she whispered:
“It belonged to the man who tried to save your sister on her wedding night. And Vincent… that man was the fiancé everyone accused of helping her disappear.”
