Chapter 6 - THE WATCH THAT STOPPED AT 9:14
Vincent DeMarco looked at the silver watch lying on the mahogany table.
For eleven years, he'd worn it almost every day.
Now Thomas Bell was telling him that the watch had something to do with Isabella's disappearance.
“Get Thomas on the phone,” Vincent ordered.
Owen shook his head.
“He specifically asked to meet in person. He said the last time he trusted a conversation over the telephone, someone else heard it.”
Vincent stared at him.
“Then arrange somewhere safe.”
“I'll handle it.”
Arthur Ashford suddenly stood.
“This has gone far enough. You have no reason to keep me here.”
Vincent looked toward him.
“You're free to leave this room. Owen will preserve the photographs and other items for the authorities.”
Arthur adjusted his jacket.
“Good.”
“But understand something,” Vincent added. “I won't be marrying your daughter while these lies remain between us.”
Victoria made a small sound.
“Vincent…”
He didn't look at her.
Arthur's expression tightened.
“You're making a serious mistake.”
Vincent answered calmly.
“I've made several. Tonight I'm trying to stop.”
Arthur left the room.
Victoria followed him to the doorway.
But before stepping outside, she looked back at me.
Her eyes were red.
For a moment, I saw something I hadn't expected.
Regret.
Then she disappeared.
Eleanor began crying again.
Vincent knelt beside her wheelchair.
“Mom.”
She looked at him.
“I thought I was protecting you.”
“I know.”
He paused.
“But you should have trusted me.”
Eleanor nodded.
“I should have.”
He kissed her forehead.
It wasn't forgiveness.
Not yet.
But it was the first time that evening he'd touched her without anger.
I turned away to give them privacy.
Margaret was folding the wedding dress.
Her hands trembled so badly that I offered to help.
“Thank you, Claire.”
She looked exhausted.
“Do you think Isabella is still alive?” I whispered.
Margaret closed her eyes.
“I have to believe she is.”
“Why?”
“Because I made that dress for a girl who believed love could survive anything.”
She touched the lace.
“And I never got to see her wear it with happiness.”
Her words stayed with me.
By midnight, the sixty-two engagement guests had finally left.
The golden chandeliers still glowed over the empty banquet table.
Crystal glasses stood half-full.
Napkins lay abandoned beside untouched desserts.
The mansion looked like the remains of a celebration that had never truly begun.
I was helping Margaret place the dress inside a protective garment bag when Vincent approached.
“Claire.”
“Yes, sir?”
“You've been on your feet for hours.”
“I'm all right.”
“You should go home.”
I hesitated.
My father had a medical appointment the following morning.
I needed to be awake early.
But something told me the evening wasn't finished.
“Mr. DeMarco, may I ask you something?”
“Of course.”
“Why did your father give you the watch that morning?”
Vincent looked down.
“He said it was time I learned how to take responsibility.”
“For the family?”
“For the people who depended on us.”
He smiled sadly.
“I was thirty-two. I thought he was being sentimental.”
“Did the watch work?”
Vincent frowned.
“What?”
“Did it work when he gave it to you?”
“Yes.”
“When did it stop?”
He stared at the watch.
Then at me.
“I don't remember.”
I carefully examined the hands.
They were motionless.
9:14.
Margaret leaned closer.
“Your father died around nine that evening, didn't he?”
Vincent nodded.
“The police estimated sometime between nine and ten.”
I felt a chill.
“Did you ever have it repaired?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
He looked at the watch.
“Because it stopped the night he died. I thought leaving it that way honored him.”
Margaret whispered, “Maybe that's what Richard wanted.”
Vincent slowly turned the watch over.
The hidden paper had already been removed.
But the backplate contained another detail.
A shallow engraving, almost worn away.
804 — 614.
The hotel suite number.
And the storage token number.
Vincent stared at them.
“These weren't on the watch when Dad gave it to me.”
“How can you be sure?” I asked.
“Because I had it engraved for him five years earlier.”
He touched the case.
“The only engraving was his name.”
Margaret looked frightened.
“Then someone added those numbers afterward.”
Vincent's face tightened.
“Isabella.”
He stood.
“She must have opened the watch and engraved them after Dad's death.”
“But why?” I asked.
“Because she'd discovered the connection between the hotel and the storage account.”
He turned toward Owen.
“Find out whether that original storage consignment still exists.”
Owen nodded.
Then he hesitated.
“Boss, there's something you should know.”
Vincent looked at him.
“I examined the photographs.”
“And?”
“The image of Isabella beside Arthur Ashford wasn't taken at the hotel's main entrance.”
Vincent frowned.
“It looks like the entrance.”
“It's the private service entrance. There's a distinctive stone arch behind them.”
Lydia, who had remained quietly near Eleanor, suddenly looked up.
“That's where they brought Isabella out for fresh air.”
Vincent turned.
“You said she was being held against her will.”
“She was.”
“Then why was she walking outside with Arthur?”
Lydia swallowed.
“Because he told her she'd be allowed to see her mother.”
Eleanor covered her mouth.
“He promised her that?”
Lydia nodded.
“She refused at first. Then he said he had proof that Vincent was in danger.”
Vincent's expression changed.
“What proof?”
Lydia looked toward the watch.
“A photograph of your car.”
The room became silent.
Lydia continued.
“He showed Isabella a photograph of your car outside the DeMarco shipping offices. Someone had marked the windshield with a red circle.”
Vincent stared.
“That was the week I nearly died in a highway accident.”
Owen frowned.
“The brakes failed.”
Vincent nodded.
“Police said it was mechanical.”
Lydia shook her head.
“Isabella didn't believe that.”
Eleanor began crying.
“My poor girl.”
Vincent looked devastated.
For eight years, he'd believed his sister had abandoned the family.
Now he was learning that she had stayed away because someone had threatened his life.
But one question remained.
Why did the watch matter so much?
The following morning, Owen drove Vincent and me to the old railway storage office.
Margaret accompanied us because she understood Isabella's stitching.
The building was now a private records facility.
A supervisor named Harold Jenkins examined the brass token and Vincent's watch.
He studied the engraved numbers.
Then he looked up.
“Richard DeMarco's account.”
Vincent leaned forward.
“You remember him?”
“My father handled these accounts before me.”
Harold checked the old register.
“The original consignment was transferred here years ago.”
“What's inside?”
“I don't know. It's been sealed since the deposit was made.”
He disappeared into the storage area.
Twenty minutes later, he returned carrying a narrow wooden case.
Its corners were reinforced with brass.
Across the lid were three words.
RICHARD DEMARCO — PRIVATE.
Vincent stared at it.
Harold opened the case.
Inside was a black leather ledger.
Several photographs.
And a small velvet pouch.
Vincent opened the pouch.
A gold necklace fell into his palm.
It was Isabella's.
He recognized the heart-shaped pendant she'd worn since childhood.
Margaret began crying.
“She wore that necklace while I fitted her wedding dress.”
Vincent opened the pendant.
Inside was a tiny folded photograph.
It showed Richard DeMarco standing beside Salvatore Russo.
And a third man.
Arthur Ashford.
But the most shocking object was the ledger.
Vincent opened its first page.
His father's handwriting filled the margins.
The records described payments made through the shipping companies.
Amounts.
Dates.
Account numbers.
And names.
Vincent turned several pages.
Then stopped.
His face went pale.
“What is it?” I whispered.
He pointed toward one entry.
A large payment had been made two days before Richard's murder.
The recipient was listed as F. DWYER.
Frank Dwyer.
Arthur's former security supervisor.
Vincent turned another page.
There was a second payment.
Made the night after Isabella's wedding.
The recipient was the same.
But beside it, Richard had written one final instruction before his death.
IF ANYTHING HAPPENS TO ME, ASK SALVATORE ABOUT THE SECOND SIGNATURE.
Vincent stared at the page.
Then Harold spoke from behind us.
“Mr. DeMarco, there's something you should see.”
He held up the original storage receipt.
Two signatures appeared beneath the deposit instructions.
One belonged to Richard DeMarco.
The other belonged to someone who had authorized the consignment's transfer years later.
Vincent looked at the second signature.
His expression collapsed.
It wasn't Arthur Ashford.
It wasn't Frank Dwyer.
May you like
It wasn't Salvatore Russo.
It was his own signature.
