Chapter 7 - THE THIRTEENTH WINDOW
“Where is the book?”
Dante's voice was urgent.
I stared at Antonio.
For sixteen years, I'd kept my father's battered storybook in a cardboard box.
I remembered the faded blue cover.
The illustrations of a little house surrounded by snow.
The strange way my father used to pause over certain pages.
And the words he repeated every Christmas.
Always count the windows, Maddie. Houses tell you things people won't.
I'd thought it was simply his way of making a bedtime story more interesting.
Now I wasn't so sure.
“The book is in my apartment,” I said.
Dante turned toward Vincent.
“Have someone retrieve it.”
“No.”
Everyone looked at me.
I swallowed.
“I'll get it myself.”
“Madison, this is dangerous.”
“So is letting strangers search through my father's belongings.”
Dante studied me.
Then nodded.
“I'll take you.”
We left Briarwood before sunrise.
Evelyn stayed with Antonio.
Gabriel remained under Vincent's supervision while security reviewed the estate records.
Dante insisted that a physician examine his father.
For the first time in sixteen years, Antonio's medical care would be managed by someone outside the circle that had controlled his life.
During the drive to Manhattan, Dante sat beside me.
Neither of us spoke for several minutes.
Finally, he said, “I'm sorry about tonight.”
I looked at him.
“Which part?”
He gave a small, humorless smile.
“All of it.”
I stared out the window.
“My father died when I was twelve. Hannah was eight.”
Dante listened.
“He worked constantly. We barely saw him during his final year.”
“Did your mother ever tell you why?”
“She said he was trying to pay off debts.”
Dante lowered his eyes.
“Maybe he was protecting you.”
I looked at him.
“Maybe. But protecting someone by keeping them in the dark still hurts.”
He didn't argue.
I wondered whether he was thinking about his father.
Or his mother.
Perhaps both.
We reached my apartment shortly after seven.
It was a modest building on Manhattan's Upper West Side.
Nothing like the Ferraro mansion.
The elevator rattled.
The hallway smelled of coffee and fresh bread.
Dante looked completely out of place in his expensive black suit.
I almost smiled.
Then I remembered why we were there.
Inside my apartment, I went straight to the bedroom closet.
A cardboard box sat on the top shelf.
I lifted it down.
Inside were the few things I'd kept from childhood.
My mother's old knitting needles.
A photograph of Hannah wearing a birthday crown.
Dad's silver bracelet.
And the storybook.
I picked it up.
The cover was worn.
The pages had yellowed.
Dante stood beside me.
“May I?”
I handed him the book.
He opened the first page.
A handwritten dedication filled the inside cover.
For Madison and Hannah.
No matter how dark the night becomes, always look for the window with the light.
Dante turned the pages.
The story followed two sisters who lived in a house with thirteen windows.
Every window showed a different part of the world.
A garden.
A church.
A hospital.
A train station.
A bakery.
But the thirteenth window remained dark.
Dante frowned.
“There's no thirteenth window in the illustrations.”
I nodded.
“Dad used to make us count them.”
Dante turned back.
Each picture showed twelve windows.
Every time.
He examined the pages more closely.
Then stopped.
“Madison.”
I leaned forward.
“What?”
“Look at the numbers.”
Tiny numbers were hidden inside the illustrations.
Some appeared on bricks.
Others on clocks.
One was stitched into a curtain.
Dante began writing them down.
Thirteen numbers.
He arranged them in the order they appeared.
They formed a sequence.
4-1-7-10-18-3-6-12-5-9-2-11-8.
He looked toward me.
“Four-one-seven.”
I remembered the silver key.
“The locker number.”
Dante nodded.
He turned to the final page.
The two sisters stood outside the house.
One held a lantern.
The other held a small silver bracelet.
I looked down at the bracelet inside my box.
It matched the drawing.
“Dad gave me this when I turned ten.”
Dante picked it up.
The bracelet was delicate.
Silver links.
A small heart-shaped charm.
And an inscription.
Be brave, Maddie.
He examined the clasp.
“May I open it?”
I nodded.
He gently lifted the tiny heart.
Inside was a folded strip of paper.
I stared.
I'd worn that bracelet for years.
Never realizing the charm could open.
Dante carefully unfolded the paper.
There were no names.
Only a short sentence.
The thirteenth window is the one that was never built.
Dante frowned.
“What does that mean?”
I looked toward the storybook.
The house appeared on every page.
Twelve windows.
One missing.
Then I noticed something.
The chimney.
On the final illustration, it leaned slightly to the left.
On every other page, it leaned right.
I pointed.
“Look.”
Dante examined the picture.
The chimney wasn't a chimney.
It was a narrow stone tower.
A tiny clock had been drawn near the top.
Dante recognized it immediately.
“St. Catherine's Hospital.”
I looked at him.
“What's that?”
“An old hospital in Albany. The Ferraro Foundation funded its renovation sixteen years ago.”
My pulse quickened.
“Did my father work there?”
Dante nodded.
“According to the records, Martin Vale audited its construction accounts.”
He looked at the numbers again.
“Maybe this is a location.”
“Or a code.”
Dante reached for his phone.
He contacted Vincent and asked him to retrieve the original construction plans.
While we waited, I examined the inside cover.
There was something strange about the paper.
A faint indentation.
As though someone had written on the page above it.
I held the book toward the window.
The morning light revealed several words.
Ask the daughter who remembers.
I stared.
“Hannah.”
Dante looked at me.
“What?”
“My sister remembers everything from childhood.”
He smiled faintly.
“Then let's ask her.”
We drove directly to Hannah's apartment.
She opened the door wearing an oversized sweater.
Her face lit up when she saw me.
“Maddie!”
Then she noticed Dante.
Her smile faded.
“Who's this?”
“A friend from work.”
Dante extended his hand.
“Dante Ferraro.”
Hannah stared.
“The Ferraro?”
He nodded.
She looked at me.
“Maddie, what have you gotten yourself into?”
I almost laughed.
“It's a long story.”
Inside, I showed Hannah the book.
Her expression softened.
“Dad's Christmas story.”
I pointed toward the final page.
“Do you remember anything unusual about it?”
She studied the illustration.
Then smiled.
“Of course.”
I leaned closer.
“What?”
“Dad always said the thirteenth window belonged to us.”
“Why?”
“Because he couldn't draw it.”
I frowned.
“Couldn't?”
Hannah nodded.
“He said it wasn't on the outside of the house.”
Dante leaned forward.
“Where was it?”
Hannah pointed toward the fireplace in the illustration.
“Behind the wall.”
I stared.
Dante looked at the clock tower.
Then at the numbers.
Vincent's message arrived.
He had recovered the original construction plans for St. Catherine's Hospital.
Dante opened them.
A narrow storage room had been sealed during renovations sixteen years earlier.
Its location matched the space behind the illustrated fireplace.
And the room carried a handwritten designation.
WINDOW 13 — ARCHIVE TRANSFER.
Then Hannah touched the silver bracelet.
“Maddie?”
I turned.
She looked worried.
“There's something else Dad told me.”
“What?”
“He said if anyone ever asked about the thirteenth window, we should never tell them where it was.”
Dante frowned.
“Why?”
Hannah looked directly at him.
“Because the person who built that room was the same person who told everyone our father died.”
I felt my stomach tighten.
“Who was it?”
May you like
Hannah pointed toward Dante.
“YOUR MOTHER.”
