Chapter 5 - THE POSTCARD FROM A MOTHER WHO NEVER STOPPED WAITING
“Six months ago?”
Dominic stared at the faded postcard.
Rosa Alvarez nodded.
“It arrived in April.”
“And you didn't tell me?”
She lowered her eyes.
“I wanted to. More than anything.”
“Then why didn't you?”
Rosa reached for her coffee cup, but her hands shook too badly to lift it.
“Because the next day someone came to my house.”
Arthur sat forward.
“Who?”
“A man wearing a dark coat. He didn't threaten me directly. He said Charles Hartwell would be disappointed if private family correspondence became public.”
Dominic's expression hardened.
“Did he identify himself?”
“No. But he knew where my grandchildren attended school.”
I felt my stomach tighten.
Rosa looked ashamed.
“I told myself you were grown, wealthy, protected. I thought maybe Katherine had her reasons for staying away.”
Dominic stared at the postcard.
For several moments, he said nothing.
Then he gently laid it on the table.
“Rosa, nobody should have frightened you like that.”
She began crying.
Dominic moved beside her chair.
“I'm not angry because you were afraid. I'm angry because people spent twenty years making everyone I loved afraid.”
Arthur covered his face.
Something shifted in the room.
Until that moment, Dominic had been searching for an explanation.
Now he understood that several people had carried pieces of the truth, each convinced silence was protecting someone else.
But he still needed the bank box.
And there was something about the postcard that bothered him.
“The lighthouse,” he said. “Do you recognize it?”
Rosa nodded.
“Portland Head Light.”
Dominic examined the photograph printed on the front.
Below the lighthouse, someone had drawn a tiny blue star.
Not printed.
Drawn by hand.
He remembered the child's picture Rosa had shown him.
A blue house.
A yellow sun.
And a little star beside the door.
“Katherine used to draw that star,” Rosa said softly.
Arthur looked up.
“Because it was her signature.”
Dominic carefully placed the postcard in an envelope.
“We'll find out where she mailed it.”
Marco shook his head.
“The postal markings are incomplete. It may have been routed through another city.”
“Then we'll start with what we know.”
We returned to the mansion shortly before midnight.
Vivian was sitting alone in the breakfast room.
Her engagement ring lay on the table beside a cup of untouched tea.
Dominic stopped when he saw her.
“Why are you still here?”
“I wanted to give you something.”
He didn't move closer.
Vivian reached into her purse.
She placed a small silver bracelet on the table.
It carried three charms.
A lighthouse.
A tiny star.
And a heart.
Dominic stared.
“Where did you get that?”
“My mother.”
Arthur slowly approached.
He recognized the bracelet.
“Margaret wore that when she visited the bank.”
Vivian nodded.
“She gave it to me shortly before she died. She said it belonged to a woman whose life our family had ruined.”
Dominic looked at her.
“You knew about Katherine?”
“Not her name. Not until tonight.”
“Why didn't you tell me about the bracelet when Arthur mentioned the deposit box?”
Vivian lowered her eyes.
“Because I was afraid my father would know I'd kept it.”
Dominic stared at the charms.
“Your father?”
“After my mother died, he searched her belongings. He took her journals, her files, even the letters she kept in her desk.”
“What was he looking for?”
“I don't know.”
Vivian touched the bracelet.
“But my mother hid this inside one of my childhood books.”
She swallowed.
“She left a note.”
“Where is it?”
Vivian opened her purse again.
The paper was yellowed and worn.
Dominic unfolded it.
The handwriting was delicate.
VIVIAN, ONE DAY YOU MAY BE ASKED TO CHOOSE BETWEEN YOUR FATHER'S APPROVAL AND DOING WHAT IS RIGHT. I HOPE YOU CHOOSE BETTER THAN I DID.
Dominic read it twice.
Vivian began crying.
“I thought marrying you would solve everything.”
“You knew my signature had been obtained dishonestly.”
“Yes.”
“And you said nothing.”
“Yes.”
“Then love wasn't enough to stop you.”
She looked at him.
“No.”
The honesty hurt them both.
Dominic returned the note.
“Keep it. Your mother wanted you to remember.”
Vivian reached for his hand.
He gently stepped away.
“I don't know whether I can ever trust you again.”
“I understand.”
“You need to speak to the investigators. Tell them everything, including what you did to my phone.”
“I will.”
Dominic nodded.
For the first time that evening, Vivian didn't ask him to forgive her.
She simply sat there and accepted what she'd done.
The following morning, Dominic went to the bank with Arthur and independent attorney Helen Price, a sharp, gray-haired woman who had no connection to the Hartwells.
I accompanied Arthur because he'd insisted he needed someone beside him.
The bank manager examined the tiny key.
Then she examined the number engraved inside the watch.
“Box 418,” she said.
Dominic nodded.
“It belonged to my father.”
The manager checked the records.
Her expression changed.
“Mr. Moretti, the box was opened seventeen days ago.”
Arthur gripped my arm.
“By whom?”
The manager hesitated.
“A person listed as an authorized secondary custodian.”
“Margaret Hartwell?” Dominic asked.
“No.”
“Then who?”
The manager turned the screen slightly.
“Elaine Mercer.”
Dominic closed his eyes.
His family attorney.
Again.
Helen Price leaned forward.
“Please preserve the access records and surveillance in accordance with the legal request I brought.”
The manager nodded.
They proceeded to the vault.
Box 418 was long and narrow.
When the manager opened it, Dominic found a leather envelope, a small bundle of papers, and an old brass key.
The envelope contained his father's handwriting.
ARTHUR, IF DOMINIC EVER LEARNS THE TRUTH, GIVE HIM EVERYTHING. HE DESERVES MORE COURAGE FROM US THAN WE SHOWED HIM.
Arthur began to cry.
Dominic gently placed one hand on his shoulder.
The next page contained insurance documents from the garage fire.
There were photographs of the burned vehicle.
An engineer's report identifying an accelerant.
And a typed note describing a locked side door.
But the final document was different.
It was a copy of a property deed.
The waterfront parcel had been transferred years earlier.
Not to Dominic.
Not to his father.
But to a trust established for Katherine Vale.
Dominic stared.
“The property already belongs to my mother?”
Helen Price examined the deed.
“Potentially. We need to verify whether this transfer was recorded and whether later transactions were valid.”
Arthur whispered, “Your father wanted to protect her.”
Dominic continued searching.
At the bottom of the box was an old receipt for a safety deposit envelope.
It bore Elaine Mercer's signature.
Beside it was a recent handwritten inventory note.
One item had been removed seventeen days earlier.
A cassette recording labeled:
GARAGE — OCTOBER 14 — CHARLES HARTWELL.
Dominic looked up.
“Elaine took the recording.”
Then Helen examined another line in the inventory.
Her expression changed.
“Dominic, this is worse.”
“What?”
“The recording wasn't the only thing she removed.”
She pointed to a second entry.
A signed letter from Katherine Vale.
Dated six months earlier.
Addressed to Dominic.
Underneath was a note in Elaine's handwriting:
DELIVERY AUTHORIZED ONLY UPON CHARLES HARTWELL'S DEATH.
Dominic stared at the paper.
Then he looked at Arthur.
“My mother tried to contact me.”
Arthur could barely speak.
May you like
Dominic's voice broke.
“And someone has been keeping her letters from me.”
