Chapter 2 - THE MAN IN THE PASSENGER SEAT
“Your mother says you were in the car, Mr. Moretti.”
The words left my mouth before I could decide whether saying them would cost me my life.
Luca Moretti stood perfectly still.
Across the dining table, twenty-six guests stared at him.
His mother sat in her wheelchair, her trembling left hand resting against mine.
Vanessa Bellini was the first to speak.
“That proves it! She's confused!”
But Luca wasn't watching his fiancée.
He was looking at me.
“Say that again, Claire.”
I swallowed.
“Your mother says you were sitting beside her when the accident happened.”
“That isn't possible.”
His voice was quiet.
More frightening than a shout.
“I was in New York that night.”
Mrs. Moretti shook her head.
Her fingers moved.
Not my son.
I blinked.
“Wait.”
Luca stepped closer.
“What?”
I turned toward his mother.
“Mrs. Moretti, are you saying it wasn't Luca?”
She nodded.
Then she signed something that made my stomach tighten.
His coat.
“Someone was wearing your coat,” I translated. “Your mother's saying she saw your coat on the passenger seat.”
Luca glanced toward the security chief standing near the doorway.
“Marco. My gray cashmere overcoat. The one with the black leather collar.”
Marco answered immediately.
“You haven't worn it since September, sir.”
“Where is it?”
“In the east-wing closet.”
“Bring it.”
Vanessa gave a nervous laugh.
“Luca, surely we aren't going to turn dinner into a criminal investigation because a frightened maid thinks she understands—”
“Claire understands my mother.”
The room fell silent.
Luca looked directly at Vanessa.
“And apparently, she's the only person in this house who's been listening to her.”
Vanessa's cheeks reddened.
I'd never seen anyone speak to her that way.
Three months of watching her command servants, insult nurses, and rearrange Mrs. Moretti's belongings had convinced me she could make almost anyone retreat.
But Luca didn't move.
“Everyone remains seated until I understand what happened.”
One of the guests, a Chicago businessman named Richard Hale, shifted uncomfortably.
“Luca, some of us have families waiting.”
“So did my mother,” Luca replied.
Nobody stood again.
Marco returned with a garment bag.
Inside hung an expensive gray overcoat.
Luca examined the collar.
Then the pockets.
He found nothing.
“Mother,” he said gently, kneeling beside her wheelchair. “Is this what you saw?”
She touched the sleeve.
Her eyes filled.
Then she shook her head.
I signed a question.
What is different?
She traced a small circle near the second button.
I looked closer.
“She's asking about something that used to be here.”
Luca frowned.
“My father's watch chain.”
He opened the inside pocket.
“Dad gave me a silver pocket watch when I turned twenty-one. I kept it in this coat during the winter.”
“Where's the watch now?” I asked.
“In my study.”
His mother began moving her fingers rapidly.
No.
Watch in car.
I translated.
Luca's expression hardened.
“That watch disappeared the week before the accident.”
Vanessa pressed her napkin against her mouth.
“Darling, you never told me that.”
“Because I thought I'd misplaced it.”
Mrs. Moretti grabbed my wrist.
Passenger took it.
Before I could translate, Marco received a message through his earpiece.
His face changed.
“Sir. The gray coat was removed from the closet this afternoon. Housekeeping returned it less than an hour before dinner.”
Luca turned.
“Who removed it?”
Marco hesitated.
“Miss Bellini's assistant.”
Vanessa straightened.
“I had it sent for cleaning. You spilled coffee on it months ago.”
Luca examined the spotless fabric.
“Then why does the label say it was last dry-cleaned in August?”
Vanessa looked toward the dinner guests.
“This is humiliating.”
“No,” Luca said. “What's humiliating is discovering my mother may have been frightened in her own home for three months while I believed she was receiving excellent care.”
His words struck me harder than I expected.
Because I understood something.
He wasn't only angry at Vanessa.
He was angry at himself.
I looked toward Mrs. Moretti.
She had stopped watching the coat.
Instead, she stared at the elderly gentleman seated three chairs away.
His name was Dr. Samuel Whitcomb.
He had supervised her recovery after the accident.
He was also the doctor who supposedly recommended the Wisconsin facility.
When our eyes met, he looked away.
Mrs. Moretti's fingers moved.
Doctor knows.
I leaned closer.
“What does he know?”
She signed again.
Ask about September three.
I whispered the translation to Luca.
He rose slowly.
“Dr. Whitcomb.”
The physician set down his wineglass.
“Yes?”
“Where was my mother on September third?”
“At Saint Catherine's Hospital.”
“In intensive care?”
“Yes.”
“Was she conscious?”
“Not consistently.”
Luca placed the care-facility paperwork in front of him.
“Then explain how she signed these documents that afternoon.”
The doctor adjusted his glasses.
“I wasn't responsible for the legal arrangements.”
“That's not what I asked.”
Whitcomb glanced toward Vanessa.
It lasted barely a second.
But Luca noticed.
So did I.
“Tell him,” Vanessa said sharply. “Tell him his mother's condition is deteriorating.”
Dr. Whitcomb didn't answer.
Then he removed his glasses.
“There were complications after the accident that I wasn't entirely comfortable with.”
Vanessa pushed back her chair.
“Samuel!”
Luca raised one hand.
“Let him speak.”
The doctor looked exhausted.
“Your mother received a sedative on September third. The dosage was higher than I authorized.”
“Who administered it?”
“I've been trying to determine that.”
“Three months?”
The doctor's jaw tightened.
“Your mother was transferred out of my direct supervision. Certain records became difficult to access.”
Vanessa laughed bitterly.
“This is absurd. He's trying to protect himself.”
But Mrs. Moretti was signing again.
Not hospital.
Before.
I translated slowly.
“The medication started before she went to the hospital.”
Luca looked at his mother.
“Someone drugged you before the accident?”
She nodded.
Then touched her throat.
Her eyes filled with tears.
Tea.
One word.
I remembered the silver tea service Vanessa ordered brought to Mrs. Moretti's room every evening.
Vanessa folded her arms.
“Are we seriously accusing someone of poisoning a confused elderly woman because she remembers drinking tea?”
“No,” Luca replied.
“We're finding out whether someone did.”
He turned toward Marco.
“Secure the medication cabinet. Nobody removes anything.”
Then he looked at Dr. Whitcomb.
“You'll review my mother's original records tonight.”
The doctor nodded.
Vanessa reached for her handbag.
“I'm leaving.”
“The gates are closed,” Luca said.
“You can't keep me here!”
“I can ask you to stay while the police are contacted. Marco, have the officers meet us at the front entrance.”
For the first time that evening, Vanessa looked genuinely afraid.
But it wasn't the police who frightened her.
I realized that when Mrs. Moretti began tapping her fingers against the armrest.
Three taps.
Pause.
Two taps.
Then one.
She repeated the pattern.
I crouched beside her.
“Is that a number?”
She nodded.
“Three-two-one?”
Another nod.
“Room 321?”
She shook her head.
Then signed two words.
Garage locker.
Luca stared at her.
“We don't have numbered lockers in the garage.”
Marco spoke from behind him.
“We did at the old family warehouse.”
The doctor suddenly stood.
“Luca, there's something else you should know.”
Every face turned toward him.
“When your mother arrived at the emergency department, she was wearing a silver bracelet.”
Luca frowned.
“My mother's medical alert bracelet?”
“No. A narrow bracelet with seven small blue stones.”
Mrs. Moretti began crying.
Luca knelt immediately.
“Mom?”
She grabbed his hand.
And for the first time that night, she managed to force out three broken words.
“Not... mine... hers.”
I looked at her fingers.
She was spelling a name.
Slowly.
Precisely.
P-A-T-R-I-C-I-A.
Luca's face drained of color.
“My aunt Patricia died twenty-two years ago.”
Mrs. Moretti shook her head desperately.
May you like
Then signed the sentence that would change everything.
“Patricia's bracelet was on the woman driving my car.”
