Chapter 3 - THE BRACELET WITH SEVEN BLUE STONES
“The woman driving your mother's car was wearing Aunt Patricia's bracelet?”
Luca sounded as though he couldn't believe the words himself.
His mother nodded.
Then pressed her hand against her chest.
She was crying so hard I worried she might lose her breath.
I reached for a napkin.
“Mrs. Moretti, please. You're safe.”
Vanessa made a small, impatient sound.
“Claire, stop encouraging this.”
Luca turned toward her.
“Not another word.”
His fiancée stared at him.
He lowered his voice.
“You've spoken for my mother for three months. Tonight, she gets to speak for herself.”
I gently took Mrs. Moretti's hands.
“Can you tell us about the bracelet?”
She nodded.
My sister.
Her wedding.
Blue stones.
Luca closed his eyes.
“I remember it.”
His voice had softened.
“Aunt Patricia wore that bracelet every Christmas. She used to let me count the stones when I was little.”
Mrs. Moretti smiled through her tears.
Then she signed again.
I gave it away.
“To whom?” I asked.
Her fingers hesitated.
Woman in car.
Luca stood.
“Marco. Find the bracelet.”
Vanessa shook her head.
“That's ridiculous. How are we supposed to locate a piece of jewelry that disappeared decades ago?”
“It didn't disappear,” Luca said.
“My mother gave it to someone.”
Dr. Whitcomb stepped forward.
“Perhaps we should move Mrs. Moretti somewhere quieter. She's exhausted.”
His concern sounded genuine.
But I couldn't forget his hesitation over the hospital records.
Mrs. Moretti gripped my hand.
Stay.
I nodded.
“I'm staying.”
Luca looked at Marco.
“Have the guests escorted into the adjoining sitting room. Anyone who wants to give a statement can speak with the officers when they arrive.”
Richard Hale protested.
“I have an early flight.”
“Then give your statement quickly.”
Within minutes, the dining room had emptied except for Luca, Vanessa, Dr. Whitcomb, Marco, Mrs. Moretti, and me.
The candles burned low.
The untouched dessert plates looked strangely ordinary after everything that had happened.
Vanessa sat down again.
For the first time, I noticed how tired she looked.
Her makeup was perfect.
But her hands weren't steady.
“Luca,” she whispered. “You're letting this maid destroy us.”
I felt my face burn.
“I haven't accused you of anything.”
“You've accused me of forging documents.”
“Your signature is on the transfer request,” Luca answered.
“Because you gave me permission to handle her care!”
“I gave you permission to arrange appointments. Not to send my mother out of state without discussing it with her.”
Vanessa's eyes shone.
“You were never here.”
The accusation struck him.
“You know why.”
“Yes. Chicago, New York, Miami. Meetings. Shipments. Men calling you every ten minutes. And every time your mother cried or refused her medication, who did you call?”
Luca said nothing.
“Me,” Vanessa answered. “You called me.”
I watched his expression change.
Not forgiveness.
But recognition.
She had carried responsibilities he'd left to her.
That didn't explain the forged paperwork.
But it explained why he had trusted her so completely.
Mrs. Moretti touched my sleeve.
Bracelet.
Picture.
I translated.
Luca frowned.
“What picture?”
His mother pointed toward the hallway.
Library.
We moved into the small library beside the dining room.
Marco pushed her wheelchair while Luca walked beside her.
Vanessa followed reluctantly.
The library smelled of polished wood and old books.
Family photographs covered the fireplace mantel.
Mrs. Moretti pointed toward a framed picture from Luca's childhood.
It showed two women standing beside a rose garden.
One was Mrs. Moretti, much younger.
The other had the same dark eyes and gentle smile.
A silver bracelet circled her wrist.
“Patricia,” Luca whispered.
His mother nodded.
Then pointed toward the lower corner.
At first, I saw only the edge of another person's shoulder.
Luca lifted the photograph closer to the light.
A third woman had been partially cut out of the frame.
Only her arm remained.
Around her wrist was another bracelet.
Identical.
“Two bracelets?” I asked.
Mrs. Moretti nodded.
Luca stared at the picture.
“Aunt Patricia had two made?”
His mother signed.
For sisters.
Dr. Whitcomb looked away.
I noticed.
So did Luca.
“Doctor,” Luca said, “you've known my mother for nearly thirty years. Do you recognize the third woman?”
Whitcomb hesitated.
“Yes.”
“Who is she?”
“Her name was Eleanor Shaw.”
Mrs. Moretti immediately began signing.
Ellie.
My friend.
Patricia's friend.
Luca frowned.
“I've never heard of her.”
“That's because your father didn't approve of the friendship,” Whitcomb said.
Vanessa crossed her arms.
“What does this have to do with the accident?”
“That's what we're finding out,” Luca replied.
Whitcomb stepped toward the fireplace.
“Eleanor worked at the family's former shipping office. She and Patricia were close. After Patricia died, Eleanor left Chicago.”
“Why?”
The doctor looked toward Mrs. Moretti.
“That's not my story to tell.”
Mrs. Moretti signed with increasing urgency.
Eleanor came back.
Before crash.
My pulse quickened.
“When?”
She held up two fingers.
“Two days before?”
A nod.
Asked forgiveness.
“For what?”
Mrs. Moretti closed her eyes.
For a moment, she seemed too exhausted to continue.
Then she signed.
Watch.
Luca's head snapped up.
“My father's pocket watch?”
She nodded.
Marco glanced toward him.
“Sir, we should check the old warehouse locker.”
Luca agreed.
He turned to me.
“Claire, would you stay with my mother?”
I opened my mouth.
Then hesitated.
If he left, Vanessa might regain control of the room.
And Mrs. Moretti knew it.
She gripped my sleeve.
Both.
I translated.
“She wants us both to hear whatever comes next.”
Luca examined his mother's face.
Then took out his phone.
“Marco, send someone you trust to the warehouse. Have them photograph locker 321 before opening it.”
Vanessa's expression changed.
“Which warehouse?”
“The old West Fulton property.”
Her hand tightened around her handbag.
“That's been empty for years.”
“Not entirely.”
I saw something flicker in her eyes.
Recognition.
Then fear.
Mrs. Moretti suddenly pointed at Vanessa.
Her fingers moved rapidly.
She knows Eleanor.
Vanessa stared at her.
“No.”
“Vanessa?” Luca asked.
“I don't know anyone named Eleanor Shaw.”
Mrs. Moretti shook her head.
Different name.
I translated.
Vanessa turned toward me.
“Stop.”
But Mrs. Moretti was already spelling.
Seven letters.
I watched carefully.
Then looked toward Luca.
“She says Eleanor changed her last name.”
“To what?”
I swallowed.
“Bellini.”
Vanessa stood motionless.
For several seconds, nobody spoke.
Then Luca asked the question hanging over the entire room.
“Vanessa, is Eleanor Shaw related to you?”
Vanessa's eyes filled.
She slowly removed the delicate gold bracelet from her wrist.
Underneath was a pale scar.
A thin white line shaped like a crescent.
“My mother's name was Eleanor,” she whispered.
Luca stared.
“You told me your mother died when you were fourteen.”
“She did.”
Mrs. Moretti shook her head.
Vanessa's voice broke.
“She's dead, Luca. I buried her myself.”
His mother began signing again.
Not Eleanor.
Other woman.
I felt cold.
“What other woman?”
Mrs. Moretti pointed toward Vanessa's wrist.
Scar.
Same scar.
Vanessa stepped backward.
“No.”
Luca looked between them.
“What does that mean?”
Mrs. Moretti's fingers moved once more.
I could barely translate.
“She says the woman driving the car had the same scar as Vanessa.”
Vanessa covered her wrist.
Then whispered something none of us expected.
“That's impossible. My mother gave me that scar when she tried to stop me from opening her locked suitcase.”
Luca stepped closer.
“What was inside it?”
Vanessa looked at his mother's photograph.
May you like
Her face crumpled.
“A silver pocket watch with your father's initials—and a picture of a little girl your family paid to keep hidden.”
