Chapter 3 - THE WATCH THAT STOPPED AT 2:17
“Where is that watch now?”
Luca's question came so sharply that several guests turned toward us.
“At home,” I answered. “My brother found it this morning.”
Henry reached for the edge of the table.
“Did he open it?”
I shook my head.
“It's an old pocket watch. The back is stuck.”
Henry's expression changed.
“Marco used to say some doors weren't meant to be opened with keys.”
Luca stared at him.
“What does that mean?”
“I don't know if the mechanism still works.”
Richard Bellini stood again.
“This has gone far enough. You're allowing a housemaid and a senile old man to drag my family through the mud.”
Luca turned toward him.
“Your daughter tried to make Henry eat off the floor. You watched. And now you want me to protect your reputation?”
Richard opened his mouth.
Nothing came out.
Luca addressed Anthony.
“Make sure everyone gets home safely. Nobody is to photograph or remove anything from this table.”
Then he looked at me.
“Olivia, I need to see that watch.”
I didn't move.
He was a man whose name frightened people throughout Chicago.
I was a housemaid who had spent the previous winter choosing between replacing her shoes and buying her brother a new coat.
And suddenly he wanted to enter my home.
“My brother doesn't know anything about this,” I said.
“Then we won't frighten him.”
“You don't understand. Noah gets anxious around strangers.”
Luca lowered his voice.
“Then you speak to him first.”
It was the first thing he'd said that sounded less like an order and more like a request.
Henry stepped beside me.
“Please, Olivia. If that watch belonged to Marco, it may explain why your mother kept it.”
I looked toward the broken plate still lying on the marble floor.
Thirty minutes earlier, Henry had been kneeling there while Vanessa laughed.
Now eighty wealthy guests were watching him as though he held the fate of their families in his shaking hands.
I made my decision.
“Fine. But nobody touches Noah without my permission.”
Luca nodded.
“Agreed.”
Our apartment was forty minutes from the Moretti estate.
It sat above a laundromat on a street where the sidewalks cracked every winter.
When Luca's black SUV stopped outside, I suddenly felt embarrassed.
Not because our home was poor.
Because I knew how men like him looked at places like ours.
But Luca only studied the building.
“Your brother lives here with you?”
“Yes.”
“Does he work?”
“He's learning computer repair. He's good with his hands.”
I almost smiled.
Noah could fix a broken radio with parts he'd collected from discarded appliances.
But he still forgot to turn off the kitchen light.
Inside, the apartment smelled of tomato soup.
Noah sat at the small kitchen table wearing a gray sweatshirt.
His dark hair was messy.
Beside him lay the silver watch.
“Liv?”
He glanced past me.
His eyes widened.
“Why are there men in suits?”
“It's okay,” I said quickly. “They're here because of Mom.”
Noah's expression changed.
“What happened?”
I sat beside him.
“Remember that watch you found?”
He nodded.
“It's broken.”
“A man who knew Mom thinks it might belong to someone important.”
Noah looked at Henry.
For several seconds, neither moved.
Then Noah whispered, “You're the driver.”
Henry's face drained of color.
“What did you say?”
Noah pointed at him.
“You drove the blue car.”
I stared at my brother.
“Noah, you were little. How could you remember that?”
He shrugged.
“Dreams, mostly.”
Henry sat down heavily.
“Do you remember anything else?”
Noah looked uncomfortable.
“Mom said not to talk about the dreams.”
Luca remained near the doorway.
He hadn't spoken.
For once, his silence seemed deliberate.
Noah picked up the watch.
“When I pressed this little button, it made a click.”
He demonstrated.
A narrow compartment opened beneath the face.
Inside was a tiny strip of yellowed paper.
Henry covered his mouth.
Noah handed it to me.
Written in faded blue ink were four words.
ROSE WINDOW. THIRD BELL.
Luca read them over my shoulder.
“The church?”
Henry nodded.
“St. Agnes.”
My heart sank.
The church where I'd seen the little girl in the yellow coat.
But the building had closed years earlier.
I remembered driving past it with Noah.
The windows had been boarded up.
The steeple stood crooked against the winter sky.
“What's a rose window?” Noah asked.
“A round stained-glass window,” I answered.
He nodded, then examined the watch again.
“There's something else.”
He turned it over.
Along the edge of the engraved initials were three shallow scratches.
Not random.
Three short lines.
Like marks someone had made with a nail.
Henry leaned closer.
“Marco always marked the things he wanted Catherine to recognize.”
Luca frowned.
“Why wouldn't he just tell her?”
“Because he was afraid someone was listening.”
I looked at Henry.
“You keep saying my mother protected those children. But you've never explained why.”
Henry folded his hands.
“Because I gave my word to Marco that I wouldn't tell anyone until I knew the children were safe.”
“Are they safe now?”
He didn't answer.
That frightened me more than anything he'd said.
We returned to St. Agnes shortly after midnight.
The church stood behind an iron fence, its brick walls darkened by years of rain.
Anthony had arranged access through the parish caretaker, a retired maintenance worker named Mr. Donnelly.
He carried a flashlight and wore a heavy wool coat.
“Never thought I'd see another Moretti come through these doors,” he muttered.
Luca stopped.
“You knew my father?”
“Everyone here knew Marco. He paid for the roof after the storm of '09.”
I looked at Luca.
He seemed surprised.
Apparently, even sons could know only part of their fathers.
Inside, the church smelled of dust and old wood.
The rose window stretched above the main entrance.
Its colored glass showed a woman holding a child.
Henry counted the decorative bells carved into the stone beneath it.
One.
Two.
Three.
At the third bell, Luca found a narrow brass plate.
It had been screwed into the wall.
Anthony used a small tool to remove it.
Behind the plate was a folded piece of heavy paper wrapped in faded blue cloth.
I recognized the cloth immediately.
My mother had owned a blue winter coat.
She'd worn it every Christmas until the elbows became thin.
After her death, I had kept it.
The piece of fabric in Luca's hands matched the lining.
Inside was a photograph.
Marco Moretti stood beside my mother.
Between them were two children.
The girl in the yellow coat.
And Noah.
On the back, my mother had written:
THEY WERE NEVER BROTHER AND SISTER. BUT THEY MUST NEVER BE SEPARATED.
Luca stared at the words.
“Then who are they?”
Henry looked as though he might collapse.
Before he could speak, Mr. Donnelly cleared his throat.
“There's something you should know.”
We turned.
He pointed toward the girl's face.
“That little one came here last month.”
My heart stopped.
“Last month?”
He nodded.
“A young woman. Dark hair. Same eyes.”
Luca stepped forward.
“Did she give you a name?”
Mr. Donnelly hesitated.
“She called herself Rose.”
“Where is she?”
“I don't know. But she left something in the parish office.”
He led us down a narrow hallway.
Inside a wooden drawer was a white envelope.
Across the front, in careful handwriting, were five words.
FOR OLIVIA CARTER. NOT LUCA.
My name.
Not Luca's.
Not Henry's.
Mine.
I opened the envelope.
Inside was a photograph of Noah standing outside our apartment.
Taken only three days earlier.
May you like
And beneath it, written in red ink:
“YOUR BROTHER REMEMBERS MORE THAN YOU THINK. ASK HIM WHAT HAPPENED TO THE GIRL IN THE YELLOW COAT.”
