Chapter 8 - THE CHILD WE NEVER KNEW ABOUT
"Why didn't anyone tell me my wife was pregnant?"
My voice echoed through the ballroom.
Giulia stood beside the piano.
Mia had gone upstairs with her mother's friend from the housekeeping staff.
For the first time since finding the cassette, we were alone.
Giulia wiped her cheeks.
"Because I didn't know whether Chiara had told you."
I stared at her.
"What do you mean?"
"She came to the clinic asking for a private appointment. Dr. Price was away, so another physician saw her."
"Who?"
"Dr. Elaine Mercer."
I remembered the name.
Mercer had worked with the foundation's maternal health program.
"Was Chiara pregnant?"
Giulia nodded.
"Yes. The appointment confirmed an early pregnancy."
My heart seemed to stop.
Eight years ago, Chiara and I had been trying to have a child.
We'd spent three years visiting specialists.
There had been disappointments.
False alarms.
Nights when Chiara cried quietly because she thought she'd let me down.
I'd always told her she hadn't.
That I loved her whether we had children or not.
And now I was learning that she had died carrying our baby.
I sat on the piano bench.
My legs wouldn't hold me.
"How far along?"
"Almost seven weeks."
I covered my face.
For eight years, I had mourned my wife.
Now I was mourning someone I'd never known existed.
Giulia sat a careful distance away.
"I'm sorry."
I shook my head.
"Why would she hide that from me?"
"She didn't seem happy about keeping it secret. She seemed frightened."
"Of the pregnancy?"
"Of what someone might do if they knew."
I looked up.
"Did she say that?"
"Not directly. She asked Dr. Mercer whether her medication could harm the pregnancy. Then she requested that the appointment remain confidential."
I remembered the last evening with Chiara.
She'd been at the piano.
She'd stopped playing and asked whether I thought we'd make good parents.
I'd laughed.
I'd told her she'd be wonderful and I would probably spoil our child.
She had smiled.
Then she'd started crying.
I'd held her.
I thought she was grieving another disappointment.
Now I understood she might have been trying to tell me.
I had been so distracted by work that I'd missed it.
The realization hurt worse than anything I'd felt in years.
Giulia touched my sleeve.
"Mr. Moretti, she loved you."
I nodded.
I knew that.
But love didn't erase regret.
That evening, Rebecca Sloan returned with preliminary findings.
The tablets had been submitted to a certified laboratory.
No conclusions yet.
But the archived pharmacy records showed something disturbing.
Chiara's prescription had been changed through an electronic request from Dr. Price's account.
The request was later reversed.
Rebecca looked at me.
"That doesn't prove which tablets she took, or whether medication caused her death. But it gives us grounds to investigate the alteration."
I nodded.
"Find Price."
"We're working on it."
Then she placed a photograph on the desk.
It showed Richard Hale entering an office building three days earlier.
He was older.
His hair had thinned.
But the black stone ring was still on his finger.
"He's in Chicago," Rebecca said.
I felt my hands tighten.
"Where?"
"His company operates from a leased office downtown."
"Then bring him in."
"We're pursuing the evidence, Mr. Moretti. I won't risk a prosecution by moving too quickly."
I leaned forward.
"He may have harmed my wife."
"Then allow us to establish that lawfully."
For a long moment, I said nothing.
Eight years earlier, I would have handled Richard myself.
I had men who would have followed my orders without question.
But Chiara had spent her life trying to make our family better.
I couldn't honor her by turning her memory into another act of violence.
"Do what you need to do," I said.
Rebecca nodded.
Then she added, "There's something you should understand. Richard may not be our only suspect."
She showed me a bank transfer dated three days before Chiara died.
A payment had been sent from Richard's consulting company to an account controlled by a medical supply vendor.
The vendor was connected to Dr. Price.
But the payment description was strange.
SPECIAL DELIVERY — PRIVATE RESIDENCE.
I remembered the medical cooler Giulia described.
The one she'd seen sent to Richard's property after Chiara died.
"Can we recover it?" I asked.
"We've obtained authorization to search the property."
I stood.
"I'm coming."
Rebecca studied me.
"You'll remain outside the search area."
"Fine."
The house sat at the end of a narrow road beyond the city.
It had been empty for years.
The windows were boarded.
The garden had grown wild.
Investigators entered first.
I waited beside Rebecca's car with Lorenzo.
My brother held our father's pocket watch.
He'd been turning it over in his hand for nearly an hour.
"She was pregnant," he said quietly.
I nodded.
He swallowed.
"I didn't know."
"Neither did I."
Lorenzo looked toward the house.
"Chiara told me once that she wanted a little boy who looked like you."
I laughed despite myself.
A broken sound.
"She told me she wanted a daughter who played piano."
He placed a hand on my shoulder.
For a moment, we stood together without speaking.
Then an investigator emerged.
They had found the medical cooler.
Inside were old shipping labels and a sealed metal case.
Rebecca entered the house.
Twenty minutes later, she returned carrying an evidence photograph.
"The case contained archived medication samples and a small ledger."
"What's in the ledger?"
"Payments. Dates. Initials."
I studied the photograph.
Several entries matched the foundation transfers.
One line had been circled.
C.B. — FINAL APPROVAL.
Carlo Bellini.
My godfather.
The man who claimed he'd tried to save Chiara.
Lorenzo stared at the initials.
"That doesn't make sense."
"Why?"
"Because Carlo was the person Chiara asked to secure her evidence."
Rebecca closed the folder.
"It may mean he was involved. It may mean someone used his initials. We need to establish which."
I looked toward the empty house.
For eight years, everyone had pointed at someone else.
Lorenzo.
Valentina.
Richard.
Carlo.
Price.
And Chiara had left clues because she hadn't known whom to trust.
Then Rebecca's colleague brought another item from the house.
A small wooden box.
The lid had been removed.
Inside was a tiny knitted yellow baby sweater.
I recognized the stitching.
Chiara knitted when she was nervous.
My throat closed.
Rebecca spoke gently.
"We also found a photograph beneath it."
She held it out.
Chiara sat beside the piano.
Her hand rested over her stomach.
On the back, she'd written:
For Dante. When the time is right.
Below that was another sentence.
IF ANYTHING HAPPENS TO ME, THE ANSWER IS IN THE ORIGINAL RECORDING.
I stared at the words.
"The cassette isn't the original," I whispered.
Lorenzo looked at me.
"Carlo said there were two tapes."
I nodded.
One hidden beneath the piano.
Another stolen from Carlo's safe.
But perhaps both were copies.
Chiara had left a third.
An original.
I looked again at the photograph.
The piano stood behind her.
Its polished lid reflected a small brass object.
A metronome.
Chiara's favorite.
Then I remembered something she'd once told me.
Music is the only place I can hide a secret in plain sight.
I turned to Lorenzo.
"We've been searching beneath the piano."
He frowned.
"Yes?"
"But Chiara didn't hide everything underneath it."
I pointed to the photograph.
"She hid the original inside the metronome."
Lorenzo stared at me.
Then he took out his phone and opened a picture of the ballroom taken that morning.
The piano was there.
The bench.
The music stand.
May you like
But the metronome was gone.
And in its place lay a fresh white rose.
