Chapter 6 - THE TICKET FOR A JOURNEY THAT NEVER HAPPENED
“Richard Reynolds has the ledger.”
I read the sentence aloud.
Gabriel's face tightened.
“Your mother never told me she had proof against Richard.”
I lifted the train ticket.
Two women.
One journey.
One destination neither of them reached together.
“Why Milwaukee?”
Gabriel pulled up a chair.
“Elena had a cousin there. Someone outside the Moretti circle.”
I looked at the date.
January 17, 2004.
“That's the day Vincent's mother died.”
“Yes.”
“And my mother was supposed to go with her?”
Gabriel nodded.
“Apparently.”
I thought about my mother's final years.
How she sometimes woke from nightmares.
How she always checked the locks twice before bed.
I had assumed she was simply cautious.
Now I wondered how long she had lived with fear.
Madison arrived that afternoon and examined the ticket.
“This needs to go to the investigators.”
“I know.”
She photographed everything before sealing the original note in an evidence envelope.
Then she looked at me.
“Claire, there's another development.”
My stomach tightened.
“The fire?”
“Yes. Investigators have confirmed the presence of an accelerant. They're treating it as suspected arson.”
I gripped the blanket.
“Someone really tried to kill me?”
“We don't know their intended target yet. The service corridor was accessible to staff and some authorized visitors.”
Gabriel stood.
“Was Sophia Reynolds there?”
Madison hesitated.
“Her vehicle entered the property earlier that afternoon.”
I stared at her.
“Sophia came to the mansion?”
“She told investigators she stopped by to pick up a birthday gift Vincent had left for her.”
I remembered the afternoon.
The housekeeper, Mrs. Alvarez, had brought tea to my room around four.
She mentioned seeing a woman's red sports car near the service entrance.
At the time, I thought nothing of it.
Now I remembered something else.
Mrs. Alvarez had looked nervous.
I called her.
She answered on the third ring.
“Mrs. Moretti?”
“It's Claire.”
“Oh, sweetheart.”
Her voice broke.
“I heard about the baby. I'm so sorry.”
“Thank you.”
She began crying softly.
Mrs. Alvarez had worked in the mansion longer than I had been married.
She was the one person who always remembered my birthday.
“Can I ask you something?” I said.
“Anything.”
“Did Sophia visit the house before the fire?”
There was a long silence.
“Yes.”
“What happened?”
“She went into Mr. Moretti's office. Said she needed to collect something.”
“Did you see what?”
“No. But when she came out, she was carrying a small black bag.”
I exchanged a look with Madison.
“Did she go near the service corridor?”
Mrs. Alvarez hesitated.
“I saw her walking that way.”
“Why didn't you tell investigators?”
“I did. I gave them my statement yesterday.”
I felt my breathing quicken.
Then Mrs. Alvarez said something unexpected.
“Claire, there was someone else.”
“Who?”
“Mr. Reynolds.”
Richard Reynolds.
Sophia's father.
“He arrived about twenty minutes after she left. I thought he was meeting Vincent.”
“Did Vincent know?”
“I don't think so.”
Madison held out her hand for the phone.
“Mrs. Alvarez, this is Madison Parker. May I have the investigator contact you again?”
The woman agreed.
When I ended the call, I looked toward Gabriel.
“Richard was there too.”
He nodded grimly.
“And we need to understand why.”
That evening, Vincent met with Detective Laura Mitchell, the investigator assigned to the fire.
She was a practical woman in her late forties who appeared unimpressed by his reputation.
“You understand you're also under investigation for confining your wife?”
Vincent nodded.
“Yes.”
“You've admitted engaging the bedroom lock?”
“Yes.”
“And leaving the property?”
“Yes.”
She studied him.
“Why?”
Vincent looked at his hands.
“Because I was selfish. I thought I could punish her for arguing with me.”
Detective Mitchell waited.
He continued.
“I was angry. I didn't believe she was pregnant. I wanted her to stop questioning me about Sophia.”
“Did you intend for her to be injured?”
“No.”
“Did you believe she could leave the room?”
He swallowed.
“I didn't think about that.”
Mitchell's expression remained serious.
“That's part of the problem.”
Vincent accepted it.
He handed over his phone and security credentials.
Then he told her about Richard Reynolds.
The detective took notes.
“Are you suggesting Mr. Reynolds started the fire?”
“I'm saying he had access.”
“Access isn't proof.”
“I understand.”
She looked at him.
“For your wife's sake, I suggest you stop trying to solve this through your own people. Let us do our job.”
Vincent nodded.
For perhaps the first time in his adult life, he obeyed someone who held no power over him except the law.
Afterward, he drove to the cemetery where Elena Moretti was buried.
He hadn't visited in almost a year.
He stood before her headstone holding the old photograph.
“I'm sorry, Mom,” he whispered.
“I became the kind of man you tried to protect me from.”
He remained there until the cemetery lights came on.
Then he noticed something tucked beside her grave.
A small bouquet of yellow daisies.
Not the white roses he usually brought.
Attached was a simple card.
Thank you for protecting my mother.
The card was signed with one initial.
C.
Vincent stared at it.
Claire.
She had visited his mother's grave.
Even after everything he had done to her.
He sank onto the stone bench nearby.
For the first time, he understood something that made him feel smaller than any enemy ever had.
Claire had loved his family more faithfully than he had loved her.
Across town, I was looking through the music box again.
The train ticket had been removed for evidence, but the box still played its old melody.
As the tune slowed, I noticed an uneven patch of paint beneath the lid.
I ran my finger across it.
There was a tiny paper label hidden beneath the peeling blue finish.
On it, my mother had written an address.
A small community center in Milwaukee.
I showed Gabriel.
He stared at the address.
Then his expression changed.
“I know this place.”
“What is it?”
“It's where Elena volunteered before she married Antonio.”
I looked at him.
“Could the ledger be there?”
“Possibly. But we shouldn't go without telling the detective.”
We called Madison, who arranged for the information to be passed to Milwaukee authorities.
The next morning, Detective Mitchell joined us at the community center.
A retired director named Helen Brooks welcomed us.
When Gabriel showed her the photograph of Elena, her eyes filled.
“Oh, I remember her.”
“Did she leave anything here?” Mitchell asked.
Helen nodded slowly.
“She rented a small storage cabinet under her maiden name.”
My heart pounded.
“Do you still have it?”
“We do.”
Helen led us into an old records room.
Cabinet seventeen stood against the wall.
Mitchell opened it with the facility's retained master key.
Inside was a brown envelope.
And a child's drawing.
A small boy had drawn three people holding hands beneath a yellow sun.
On the back, in uneven handwriting, were the words:
Mom, please don't go with Uncle Richard.
Vincent's name was written underneath.
The drawing was his.
I looked at Detective Mitchell.
“Why would Vincent draw this?”
Helen reached for the envelope.
“Because the boy saw something no one believed.”
She opened it.
Inside was a photograph taken outside the community center the week Elena died.
Richard Reynolds stood beside Elena's car.
And in his hand was a small black device.
Detective Mitchell examined the photograph.
Then she looked at Gabriel.
“Do you recognize this?”
Gabriel nodded.
“An old remote ignition controller.”
I felt cold.
Helen placed another page beside the photograph.
It was a handwritten statement signed by Elena Moretti.
May you like
The first sentence made my knees weaken.
“If my car crashes, it will not be an accident.”
