Chapter 3 - THE TEA THAT CONNECTED TWO DEAD MOTHERS
“Yes,” I whispered.
Gabriel's question seemed harmless until I remembered exactly how Sophia had behaved.
She hadn't simply handed me the tea.
She had watched.
Standing beside our kitchen island in her cream-colored designer dress, she'd smiled while I lifted the cup.
“Drink all of it, Claire,” she'd said. “You'll feel better.”
I had taken three sips.
Then nausea rolled through me.
I pushed the cup away.
Sophia's smile disappeared for one brief moment.
“It's supposed to be good for you.”
“I don't like the taste.”
She'd reached for the cup immediately.
“Then I'll get rid of it.”
Now, sitting inside Gabriel's guest bedroom, I felt a fresh chill.
“She took the cup,” I said.
Madison looked at Gabriel.
“Did you hear that?”
He nodded.
“But it doesn't prove what was in it.”
“Why would she take it?”
“Maybe she was cleaning up,” he said. “Maybe she didn't want anyone else tasting it. We don't know yet.”
I appreciated that answer more than he realized.
Vincent had spent three years turning my fears into accusations.
Gabriel was the first Moretti who seemed willing to separate suspicion from proof.
Madison opened her laptop.
“I'll contact the investigator.”
“No,” Gabriel said quietly. “Let the fire department and police preserve what remains at the house. We shouldn't send anyone there ourselves.”
He looked at me.
“Your job is to recover.”
I almost laughed.
For three years, recovering had meant keeping myself presentable enough for Vincent's parties.
Now it meant learning how to breathe without crying.
At eleven the following morning, Vincent walked into Sophia Reynolds's penthouse overlooking Lake Michigan.
She was eating breakfast beside a window.
White roses covered the dining table.
Dozens of birthday arrangements filled the room.
She looked up in surprise.
“Vincent.”
“Did you visit Claire before the fire?”
Sophia lowered her fork.
“What?”
“Yesterday evening. Did you go to my house?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“She wasn't feeling well.”
“How did you know?”
Sophia's face tightened.
“Because she called me.”
Vincent stared at her.
Claire hadn't trusted Sophia enough to ask her for a glass of water.
“Show me.”
“Show you what?”
“The call.”
Sophia reached for her phone.
Then hesitated.
“I deleted my recent calls. My assistant was organizing things.”
Vincent remained standing.
“Did you give her tea?”
Sophia looked genuinely confused.
“Tea?”
“Answer.”
“Yes. I brought her some herbal tea. She was nervous.”
“Nervous?”
“Vincent, she was upset because you were attending my birthday.”
He closed his eyes.
There it was again.
The assumption that Claire's pain existed only to inconvenience him.
“She was pregnant.”
Sophia's face went white.
“What?”
“She told me. Before I left.”
“Vincent…”
“And I didn't believe her.”
Sophia covered her mouth.
For a moment, her reaction seemed real.
Then tears filled her eyes.
“I didn't know.”
Vincent studied her.
He'd known Sophia since they were children.
She had been beside him when his mother died.
She had held his hand at his father's funeral.
For years, he had confused their shared history with loyalty.
“Where did you buy the tea?”
“A specialty shop.”
“Which one?”
“I don't remember.”
Vincent turned toward the door.
Sophia rose abruptly.
“Wait.”
He stopped.
“You're frightening me.”
For the first time, Vincent didn't soften.
“Good,” he said. “Maybe now you understand what Claire felt.”
That afternoon, a doctor from the hospital's maternal health team met with Madison and me by secure video appointment.
Her name was Dr. Rebecca Hall.
She spoke gently, but she didn't avoid the truth.
“Claire, your blood testing showed the presence of a prescription sedative that wasn't listed among your medications.”
I gripped the edge of my blanket.
“Was it enough to hurt my baby?”
“We can't say it caused the pregnancy loss. Your medical records describe abdominal pain before the fire, followed by smoke exposure, significant trauma, and internal bleeding after your fall.”
“Then why test for it?”
“Because the screening result raised questions about possible exposure. We're confirming the findings.”
Madison leaned forward.
“Could it explain her dizziness?”
“Potentially. But it wouldn't explain everything.”
I remembered the weakness in my legs.
The strange heaviness behind my eyes.
I'd thought it was exhaustion.
“Was there something wrong with my pregnancy before that night?”
Dr. Hall paused.
“You had a condition that required urgent evaluation. Prompt treatment might have changed the outcome, but I can't promise it would have.”
The words struck harder than accusation.
I had begged Vincent to take me to a hospital.
Not because I was jealous.
Not because I wanted attention.
Because something was wrong.
And I had been right.
After the appointment ended, I asked Madison to leave me alone.
I lay on my side and cried until my ribs hurt.
Not loudly.
There was no strength left for that.
I cried for the little heartbeat I had heard only once.
For the tiny pair of yellow socks hidden in my dresser.
For the name I had secretly chosen.
Grace.
Two hours later, Gabriel returned with a small wooden box.
He placed it on the table.
“This belonged to my mother.”
Inside was a faded blue ribbon, an old wristwatch, and a photograph of two women laughing on a porch.
One was Eleanor Bennett.
The other was a beautiful dark-haired woman.
“My mother,” Gabriel said. “Isabella Moretti.”
I picked up the photograph.
“She looks like Vincent.”
“He inherited her eyes.”
Gabriel sat opposite me.
“When I was twenty-three, our mother became seriously ill. She died after weeks in the hospital. Her doctors believed she had complications from an existing condition.”
“Why did you mention tea?”
“Because she complained about its unusual taste the night she became ill. Later, my father became convinced somebody had tampered with her medication.”
“Was he right?”
“We never found proof.”
I studied his face.
“What happened to your father?”
Gabriel looked toward the lake.
“He discovered money moving through accounts he didn't recognize. He thought someone inside the organization was working with our enemies.”
“And you helped him?”
“I tried.”
“Vincent?”
Gabriel's jaw tightened.
“Vincent was sixteen. He trusted a man named Richard Reynolds.”
My breath caught.
“Sophia's father?”
“Yes.”
“He was practically a second father to Vincent.”
“That was the problem.”
Gabriel opened the wooden box again.
He lifted the silver watch.
Its hands had stopped at 11:17.
“Our father gave this to me the day he died.”
I frowned.
“Why did it stop?”
“Someone smashed it during the struggle.”
“Who?”
Gabriel hesitated.
“Vincent.”
I stared at him.
“You're saying Vincent killed his father?”
“No.”
“Then what happened?”
Gabriel closed the watch in his palm.
“I saw Vincent holding the gun. But I never saw him fire.”
That evening, I found an envelope beneath my bedroom door.
Not slipped there by a stranger.
Gabriel had left it after asking Madison to make sure I wanted to read it.
Inside was a copy of an old newspaper photograph.
Antonio Moretti's funeral.
Vincent stood beside Richard Reynolds.
Sophia, barely sixteen, held Vincent's arm.
Behind them stood a woman I recognized.
My mother.
She wasn't watching the coffin.
She was staring at Richard Reynolds.
And on her face was an expression I had never seen before.
Fear.
I turned the picture over.
In my mother's familiar handwriting were seven words.
Richard knows what happened to Isabella. Don't trust him.
I carried the photograph to Gabriel.
“Where did you find this?”
He examined the writing.
His face changed.
“This wasn't on the original.”
“What do you mean?”
“My photograph never had writing on the back.”
We looked at each other.
Someone had added my mother's warning to the copy.
Someone who knew where I was.
Then Gabriel noticed a second line written along the bottom edge.
It was smaller.
May you like
Almost hidden.
Ask Vincent why he kept the nursery key.
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