Chapter 3 - THE MAN WHO WAS SUPPOSED TO BE DEAD
“Gavin isn't dead.”
My voice sounded strange, even to me.
Roman looked at his sister.
“Elena. Explain.”
She stared at the maintenance invoice.
“Vincent said one of the employees involved in the car's service had died. He said there was no point asking questions about his work.”
“When?” Roman demanded.
“After I came home from rehabilitation.”
I looked between them.
“Who is Vincent?”
Roman's jaw tightened.
“Vincent Orsini. My mother's financial manager. He's handled the family's legitimate business accounts for almost twenty years.”
Elena gave a humorless laugh.
“He also handles everybody else's life when they let him.”
Roman ignored that.
He turned back to me.
“When did you last see your husband?”
“October, three years ago.”
The answer hurt more than I expected.
Gavin and I had been married for seven years.
He was charming when we met. Funny. Attentive. The kind of man who remembered birthdays and brought home grocery-store flowers just because they were yellow.
Then came the gambling.
The excuses.
The unpaid bills.
And finally, the discovery that he'd used my identity to obtain three loans.
By the time I understood what he'd done, he was gone.
“I filed a police report,” I said. “I challenged the accounts. But the lenders kept sending statements, and I couldn't afford to stop working long enough to fight everything properly.”
Roman looked down at the invoice.
“Gavin worked for South Harbor?”
“He told me he worked in transportation accounting.”
“Doing what?”
“Payroll. Vendor payments. Service contracts.”
Roman tapped the signature.
“This isn't a mechanic's inspection. It's the authorization releasing the car back into service.”
I looked closer.
That made sense.
Gavin could have signed something like that.
But something else bothered me.
“Why would Vincent tell Elena he was dead?”
Neither answered.
Elena turned toward the window.
“Because Vincent doesn't like people asking about that car.”
Roman's eyes narrowed.
“What do you mean?”
She swallowed.
For a moment, the only sound was the ticking clock beside the piano.
Then she spoke.
“The morning of the accident, Mom was supposed to take the blue Cadillac.”
Roman went very still.
“What?”
“She always used the blue car for appointments downtown. But Vincent came to breakfast and said it needed new tires.”
“Why didn't you tell me?”
“Because you never asked me what happened that morning.”
The words landed like a slap.
Roman lowered his gaze.
Elena continued.
“Vincent said the black sedan had just been serviced. He insisted we use that one.”
I looked at the invoice again.
The black sedan.
Six days earlier.
Authorized by Gavin Turner.
A cold feeling moved through my stomach.
Roman approached the window.
“Elena, after the accident, the police told me the other driver was drunk. Witnesses confirmed he crossed into your lane.”
“He did,” she said. “I remember the headlights.”
Her voice trembled.
“I remember Mom turning the wheel. I remember the guardrail breaking.”
Then she looked directly at her brother.
“But that wasn't the part I was afraid to tell you.”
Roman took one step closer.
“What part?”
Elena's hands tightened around the wheels of her chair.
“I asked Mom to turn around.”
“Why?”
“Because the weather was getting worse. I wanted to go home.”
I waited.
“Mom said she had an appointment that couldn't wait. We argued.”
Roman crouched beside her chair.
“Elena—”
“She died seventeen minutes later.”
Tears slipped down her cheeks.
Roman reached toward her hand.
She pulled away.
“For three years, Vincent told me that if I hadn't argued with her, she might have noticed the other car sooner.”
My chest ached.
“Elena, that's not how accidents work.”
“I know that now.”
But her expression told me she had spent three years trying to believe it.
Roman looked devastated.
“Why didn't you tell me he said that?”
“Because he told me you agreed.”
Roman went completely still.
“What?”
Elena's voice broke.
“He said you blamed me, too.”
I watched the color drain from Roman's face.
For a man who could order dangerous men across Chicago, he suddenly looked helpless.
“I never blamed you.”
“You stopped coming to my room.”
“I thought you wanted to be alone.”
“You stopped asking me to play piano.”
“I thought it hurt you.”
“You stopped treating me like your sister!”
Roman had no answer.
Finally, Elena whispered, “And Vincent kept telling me you were giving me space.”
I looked at the invoice in my hand.
A dead man who wasn't dead.
A car switched at the last minute.
A grieving sister who had spent three years believing her brother blamed her for their mother's death.
Someone had carefully separated these people.
And someone had profited from keeping them that way.
Roman stood slowly.
“I need to speak with Vincent.”
Elena grabbed his sleeve.
“No.”
He looked at her.
“Why?”
“Because there's something else.”
She wheeled toward the piano bench and lifted its padded lid.
Inside were old music books, a faded photograph, and a small blue velvet pouch.
She removed the pouch.
Her fingers shook as she opened it.
Inside was their mother's silver bracelet, decorated with tiny musical notes.
One charm was missing.
“Vincent gave me this after the funeral,” Elena said.
Roman stared at it.
“I know.”
“He said Mom was wearing it when she died.”
“She was.”
Elena shook her head.
“No, Roman.”
She turned the bracelet over.
“The clasp was broken before we left the house. Mom put it in her blue music portfolio because she didn't want to lose it.”
Roman stopped breathing for a moment.
May you like
Elena looked up.
“Vincent told me the bracelet was recovered from the wreck. So how did he get something that wasn't even inside the car?”
