Chapter 3 - THE NAME THAT SHOULD NEVER HAVE BEEN THERE
“Arthur Bellamy is my grandfather,” Rachel said.
Alessandro stared at her.
The silence lasted so long that she began to wonder whether she had said something wrong.
“My mother's father,” she explained. “But we haven't spoken to him in years.”
Teresa's face had gone completely white.
Alessandro looked down at the message written in Elena's handwriting.
IF I DIE, ASK WHO OWNS RACHEL.
Rachel stepped backward.
“What does that mean?”
Nobody answered.
She looked from Alessandro to Teresa.
“Why would your wife know my name? I was thirteen when she died. I'd never even heard of this family.”
Alessandro's expression hardened.
“That's what we're going to find out.”
Rachel felt suddenly exposed.
She had entered the Romano household eleven months earlier as a housekeeper.
Now the man who employed her was holding a secret message about her family.
“Did you know who I was when you hired me?” she asked.
“No.”
“Then why is my name in your wife's handwriting?”
“I don't know, Rachel.”
“Please don't lie to me.”
Her voice trembled.
Alessandro looked genuinely hurt.
“I'm not lying.”
Teresa reached toward her.
“Sweetheart, your mother was named Margaret, wasn't she?”
Rachel nodded.
“Margaret Bennett. Bellamy before she married Dad.”
“And your father?”
“Daniel Bennett.”
Teresa closed her eyes.
“I knew Margaret.”
Rachel stared.
“My mother died when I was sixteen.”
“I know.”
“Then why didn't you ever tell me?”
“Because I didn't realize who you were until several months after you started working here.”
Rachel felt as though the floor had moved.
“You knew?”
“I recognized your mother's smile. Then I saw her photograph in the little frame you keep beside your bed.”
Rachel's eyes filled.
“And you let me keep calling you Mrs. Romano?”
Teresa began crying.
“I was afraid telling you would put you in danger.”
Alessandro stepped between them.
“Mom, explain.”
Teresa looked at the rosary.
“Margaret was Arthur Bellamy's eldest daughter. He sent her away after she refused to help him cover up what he'd done.”
“What had he done?” Rachel demanded.
“He had taken control of money that belonged to you and your sister.”
Rachel almost laughed.
“We don't have money.”
Teresa looked at her sadly.
“You were never supposed to grow up poor.”
Alessandro unfolded Elena's note again.
“Mom, the word is owns. Not owes.”
“I know.”
“What does it mean?”
Teresa struggled to answer.
“Arthur used to call the children connected to his trusts his property. It was an ugly expression. Margaret hated it.”
Rachel folded her arms around herself.
She thought about her younger sister, Sophie, whose rehabilitation bills were overdue every month.
Their father had worked two jobs before dying from a heart attack.
Their mother had sold her wedding jewelry to cover their rent.
If Teresa was telling the truth, the Bennett family had suffered for years while money intended for them sat somewhere else.
But something bothered Rachel.
“My mother never said we were entitled to a trust.”
“Because Arthur threatened Daniel's business,” Teresa said. “And later, when Margaret tried to reopen the matter, Elena helped her.”
Alessandro raised his head.
“Elena?”
Teresa nodded.
“Your wife found records showing Arthur was moving money between family foundations. Margaret was trying to recover the funds meant for her daughters.”
Rachel's hands began shaking.
“So Elena was helping my mother?”
“Yes.”
“And she died?”
Teresa looked away.
Rachel understood the implication.
“Did my grandfather hurt her?”
“We don't know that yet,” Alessandro said.
But his face told Rachel he feared the answer.
He examined the key on the faded ribbon.
“Elena's desk first.”
They went to the adjoining sitting room.
The desk stood beside a window overlooking the dark gardens.
Alessandro had not opened it in thirteen years.
He had once found Elena there writing Christmas cards, her reading glasses perched on her nose and a cup of tea cooling beside her.
Now the room smelled of furniture polish and unopened memories.
Rachel handed him the key.
His fingers hesitated before turning it.
Inside were old stationery, a fountain pen, several photographs, and a small jewelry box.
Alessandro opened the box.
Empty.
Then Rachel noticed a narrow indentation beneath the velvet lining.
“Sir?”
He lifted the velvet.
A brass luggage tag lay underneath.
On one side was engraved:
E. ROMANO
On the other:
PHILADELPHIA — LOCKER 214
Alessandro frowned.
“Elena didn't travel with brass luggage tags.”
Rachel picked it up.
A faded train ticket was folded beneath it.
The departure date was two days before Elena's fatal crash.
The destination was Harrisburg.
And the ticket had been purchased in the name of Margaret Bennett.
“My mother,” Rachel whispered.
Alessandro examined the ticket.
“Your mother and Elena were supposed to meet.”
Rachel nodded slowly.
“Mom went away for a weekend around that time. She came home crying.”
“What did she tell you?”
“That she had lost something important.”
“Did she say what?”
Rachel tried to remember.
“She said sometimes doing the right thing costs more than people can afford.”
Teresa lowered herself into a chair.
“Margaret knew.”
Alessandro turned.
“Knew what?”
“That Elena was collecting evidence against Arthur. Margaret warned her to stop.”
Rachel stared.
“My mother wouldn't have wanted Elena hurt.”
“Of course not.”
“Then why did she warn her?”
Teresa's voice broke.
“Because Arthur had already destroyed one family.”
Before Alessandro could respond, he noticed a small photograph tucked into the back of the desk.
It showed Elena standing beside Margaret Bennett.
They were smiling in front of a modest brick house.
Rachel recognized it immediately.
“That was our home.”
Her hand went to her mouth.
A younger Rachel stood between the women, wearing a yellow sweater.
Sophie, only three years old, sat on the front steps holding a stuffed rabbit.
Rachel stared at the picture.
“I remember that day.”
Alessandro looked at her.
“What happened?”
“A nice lady brought us groceries. Mom said she was an old friend.”
Rachel studied Elena's face.
“She gave Sophie the rabbit.”
Alessandro felt something tighten in his throat.
His wife had been helping a family in trouble.
And he had never known.
He remembered accusing Elena of spending too much time on charity work during their last argument.
He had been angry because she had missed a dinner with investors.
She had told him there were more important things than business.
He had responded that she didn't understand the responsibilities he carried.
He had never apologized.
Now he held proof that she had been doing something far more important than attending another expensive dinner.
Rachel noticed him staring.
“Mr. Romano?”
He cleared his throat.
“She was a good woman.”
Rachel looked down at the photograph.
“So was my mother.”
“Yes,” Alessandro whispered. “I think they both were.”
They returned to Teresa's room.
The elderly woman was exhausted, and Alessandro called an independent physician.
While they waited, he asked his security chief, Marco DeSantis, to locate locker 214 without alerting Vincent.
Marco examined the luggage tag.
“Sir, this isn't from the current railroad system.”
“Then find the original location.”
Marco nodded.
“One more thing. I reviewed the financial authorization Camille used when she threatened Rachel's sister's rehabilitation payments.”
Alessandro frowned.
“What authorization?”
“Camille submitted herself as the family's charitable disbursement supervisor six months ago.”
“Without asking me?”
“The paperwork carries Vincent's approval.”
Rachel looked up sharply.
“Vincent controls Sophie's payments?”
Marco nodded.
“The checks come through the Elena Romano Foundation.”
Alessandro felt cold.
His wife's foundation had been paying Rachel's sister's rehabilitation bills.
Rachel looked stunned.
“I applied for help through a hospital social worker. Nobody told me it was connected to this family.”
Alessandro turned toward Marco.
“Get the original application.”
“I already did.”
Marco placed a printed page on the desk.
The document listed Rachel Bennett as Sophie's legal financial contact.
But someone had added a handwritten note:
EMPLOYMENT AT ROMANO ESTATE REQUIRED FOR CONTINUED ASSISTANCE.
Rachel read it twice.
“My sister's medical treatment was tied to my job?”
Marco nodded.
“Apparently.”
Alessandro's anger was immediate.
“Who authorized that condition?”
Marco pointed to the signature at the bottom.
Vincent Romano.
Rachel stepped away.
“This wasn't a coincidence.”
“No,” Alessandro said. “It wasn't.”
Someone had arranged for her to enter the house.
Someone had made certain she could not afford to leave.
And someone had been watching her long before Camille accused her of hurting Teresa.
Rachel remembered the first day she arrived.
Vincent had been standing in the foyer.
He had smiled and said he was pleased the staffing agency had found someone dependable.
She had thought he was being kind.
Now she wondered whether he had known exactly who she was.
Alessandro turned toward his security chief.
“Where is Vincent?”
“His Miami conference was canceled four days ago. His last confirmed location was Philadelphia.”
“Find him.”
Marco hesitated.
“There's something else.”
He opened a photograph on his tablet.
It showed a parking receipt from Hawthorne Medical Center.
The car belonged to Camille Whitmore.
Rachel stared at the timestamp.
“That was yesterday morning.”
Alessandro looked at his security chief.
“Why was Camille there?”
“We don't know. But the visitor register shows she met Dr. Evelyn Shaw.”
Teresa suddenly sat upright.
“No.”
Alessandro turned.
“Mom?”
Teresa's fingers closed tightly around the rosary.
“Camille wasn't supposed to know Evelyn's name.”
Rachel glanced at the little photograph of Elena and Margaret.
Then she noticed something hidden beneath its paper backing.
A second photograph.
Much older.
It showed Arthur Bellamy standing beside Alessandro's father outside a courthouse.
Between them stood a young woman holding a newborn baby.
Someone had written three words across the bottom.
THE FIRST BENEFICIARY — 2000.
Rachel examined the woman's face.
She had seen those eyes before.
In her mother's old photographs.
But it wasn't Margaret.
It was Teresa.
And the baby in her arms was wearing a tiny gold heart necklace.
Alessandro stared at the picture.
“Mom,” he asked, “whose baby were you holding?”
Teresa began to cry.
“Vincent.”
Alessandro looked at the date again.
The photograph was twenty-six years old.
Vincent was supposed to be thirty-four.
May you like
He raised his eyes.
“Then why is my thirty-four-year-old brother a newborn in a photograph taken twenty-six years ago?”
