Chapter 4 - THE MAN IN THE BLACK COAT
“Then why did Isabella tell me not to trust him?”
Vincent DeMarco's question echoed through the private dining room.
Eleanor looked exhausted.
Her hands rested on the arms of her wheelchair.
“Because Isabella didn't know whom to believe anymore.”
Vincent held up the old photograph.
“Salvatore was my father's closest friend. He helped me rebuild everything after Dad died.”
“I know.”
“Then tell me what you're hiding.”
Eleanor looked at Arthur Ashford.
“Richard believed someone was stealing money from his legitimate shipping companies. He asked Salvatore to investigate quietly.”
Arthur folded his arms.
“Every large business has accounting problems.”
Eleanor ignored him.
“Richard discovered that certain shipments had been recorded twice. One set of records went to the company accountants. Another went somewhere else.”
“Where?” Vincent asked.
“I don't know.”
Vincent looked toward Lydia.
“Does Isabella know?”
Lydia hesitated.
“She knows why those records mattered.”
“Then why isn't she here telling me herself?”
The pain in his voice made my chest tighten.
For the first time, I understood something about Vincent DeMarco.
He wasn't simply angry that his sister had disappeared.
He was angry because, for eight years, he'd believed she had chosen to abandon him.
And now every answer suggested that she might have been trying to come home.
“Mr. DeMarco,” I said softly, “maybe we should find out what happened to Thomas first.”
Vincent looked at me.
“Why Thomas?”
“Because Lydia said he tried to save Isabella. If he was injured, there should be some evidence.”
Lydia nodded.
“There is.”
Everyone turned toward her.
She opened her handbag.
From an inner pocket, she removed a small photograph.
It showed a younger Thomas Bell sitting in a hospital waiting room.
His left shoulder was wrapped in bandages.
The date on the back matched Isabella's wedding night.
Margaret's eyes filled with tears.
“Poor boy.”
Vincent stared at the photograph.
“Where did you get this?”
“Thomas sent it to Isabella.”
“When?”
“Four weeks after she disappeared.”
Vincent looked up sharply.
“They were communicating?”
“Briefly.”
“Then he knew where she was.”
“No.”
Lydia shook her head.
“He sent the photograph through a mutual friend. He wanted Isabella to know he was alive.”
The room fell quiet.
Then Victoria spoke.
“Thomas Bell disappeared because he was afraid of Vincent.”
Vincent turned.
“What?”
Her eyes widened as though she hadn't intended to say it.
Arthur immediately stepped forward.
“Victoria.”
She ignored him.
“I remember hearing people talk about it. They said Vincent threatened Thomas after Isabella disappeared.”
Vincent's expression hardened.
“I did.”
I looked at him.
He didn't try to deny it.
“I went to Thomas's apartment two days after the wedding. I demanded to know where my sister was.”
“What happened?” I asked.
Vincent looked down.
“He said he couldn't tell me.”
“Couldn't?”
“He kept repeating that he didn't know how to protect her.”
Lydia covered her mouth.
Vincent's voice became rough.
“I thought he was lying.”
He looked at the photograph again.
“I told him that if Isabella didn't come home, I'd make sure he regretted knowing her.”
Nobody spoke.
For a long moment, Vincent looked like a man watching himself make the worst mistake of his life.
Then he turned toward Owen.
“Find Thomas Bell. If he's alive and willing to talk, I want to hear what really happened.”
Owen nodded.
“I'll start with the last address.”
But Arthur laughed.
“You're chasing ghosts, Vincent.”
Vincent faced him.
“Why are you so interested in stopping me?”
“Because you're embarrassing your family over a tragedy that happened years ago.”
“My sister is not an embarrassment.”
Arthur's expression hardened.
“Your sister was impulsive. Richard indulged her, and look where it got her.”
Eleanor suddenly struck the arm of her wheelchair.
“Don't you speak about my daughter that way!”
Everyone froze.
I had never heard Eleanor raise her voice.
Arthur looked startled.
“She was a good girl,” Eleanor whispered fiercely. “She loved her family.”
Margaret approached her.
“Of course she did.”
Eleanor shook her head.
“No, Margaret. They need to understand.”
She looked at Vincent.
“Your sister discovered something in Richard's belongings that I had deliberately hidden.”
Vincent's eyes narrowed.
“What belongings?”
“A box of letters.”
“Where?”
“In my bedroom.”
Vincent glanced toward the staircase.
But Eleanor caught his sleeve.
“Not anymore.”
“What happened to them?”
“Someone took them three months after Isabella's wedding.”
Victoria stared at her father.
Arthur looked toward the window.
And I suddenly remembered something.
Three months earlier, I'd been helping Eleanor organize her bedroom.
Inside her wardrobe was an old cedar chest.
I'd noticed that one of its brass hinges was loose.
When I'd mentioned repairing it, Eleanor had become terribly upset.
“Mrs. DeMarco,” I said, “the cedar chest?”
Her eyes widened.
“You remember it?”
“Yes.”
“Bring it.”
Vincent looked at Owen.
“Go with Claire.”
We walked upstairs.
The mansion felt strangely empty.
Downstairs, the wealthy guests were still waiting for an explanation.
The engagement celebration had become something nobody would ever forget.
Inside Eleanor's bedroom, I opened the wardrobe.
The cedar chest remained beneath a stack of folded blankets.
Owen helped me lift it onto the bed.
It was heavier than I remembered.
The lock had been broken years earlier.
We opened it.
Inside were silk scarves, an old rosary, and a pair of delicate white gloves.
No letters.
I touched the damaged hinge.
Something moved beneath it.
“Owen?”
He leaned closer.
I carefully removed a small wooden panel.
Inside was a folded piece of cream-colored stationery.
It smelled faintly of cedar.
I recognized Eleanor's handwriting.
IF VINCENT FINDS THIS, TELL HIM I AM SORRY FOR THE CHOICE I MADE.
Beneath the sentence was a date.
The morning after Isabella's wedding.
Owen stared.
“Claire, there's another page.”
He lifted the false bottom.
A small envelope had been hidden beneath it.
Across the front, in Isabella's handwriting, were four words.
FOR MY BROTHER ONLY.
I carried the envelope downstairs myself.
When Vincent saw it, he stopped speaking.
He took it from my hands.
For a moment, he simply stared at his sister's handwriting.
Then he opened it.
Inside was a single sheet of paper.
He read silently.
His expression changed from anger to disbelief.
Finally, he looked toward his mother.
“Isabella says you knew someone was taking her away.”
Eleanor closed her eyes.
Vincent's voice broke.
“You knew she was alive after the wedding?”
Eleanor began crying.
“Yes.”
“For how long?”
She couldn't look at him.
“Vincent—”
“For how long, Mom?”
May you like
Eleanor whispered:
“For seventeen days. And on the eighteenth, I was told that if I ever tried to bring Isabella home, you would be the next DeMarco buried beside your father.”
