Chapter 2 - THREE DAYS LATE
For several seconds, nobody moved.
Dominic Moretti stood in the center of the living room with the photograph in one hand and his son staring at him from the staircase.
Isabella could hear the old clock in the hallway.
Tick.
Tick.
Tick.
Then Dominic looked at the date again.
His face lost color.
“No.”
Leo flinched.
Dominic immediately noticed.
His voice softened.
“Not you, son.”
He turned the photograph over beneath the lamp.
Elena stood in the picture wearing a pale wool coat, smiling tiredly as she held baby Leo against her shoulder. Dominic stood beside her, younger and less guarded.
On the back, in Elena’s handwriting, were the words:
Dominic, if anything happens to me, don’t let Leo believe it was his fault.
Underneath was the date.
March 18.
Dominic had been told Elena died on March 15.
Isabella’s stomach tightened.
“Could the date be wrong?”
Dominic shook his head.
“Elena never wrote dates wrong.”
“How can you know?”
“Because she dated everything.”
His thumb moved over the corner of the photograph.
“Birthday cards. Grocery lists. Notes inside books.”
Leo whispered from the stairs.
“Uncle Marco said Mommy died because I cried.”
Dominic’s head lifted.
Leo gripped the railing.
“He said she was driving because I wouldn’t stop crying.”
Dominic crossed the room.
Slowly.
Not like a mafia boss approaching someone who had betrayed him.
Like a father approaching a frightened animal.
He stopped several feet away.
“Leo.”
The boy wouldn’t look at him.
“Did Marco tell you that once?”
Leo shook his head.
“Lots.”
Isabella closed her eyes.
Dominic’s jaw tightened.
“What exactly did he say?”
Leo rubbed one bare foot against the stair.
“He said Mommy turned around to give me my bunny.”
Dominic froze.
“What bunny?”
“My blue one.”
Leo swallowed.
“The one with the long ear.”
Dominic stared at him.
“Elena never took that rabbit in the car.”
Leo finally looked up.
“But Uncle Marco said she did.”
Dominic’s expression changed again.
Not anger.
Recognition.
“Elena hated that rabbit.”
Isabella blinked.
Dominic almost smiled despite himself.
“She said it shed stuffing everywhere. It stayed in Leo’s crib.”
He looked at the photograph.
“Marco invented the story.”
Leo’s lower lip trembled.
“So Mommy didn’t crash because of me?”
“No.”
The answer came immediately.
Strong enough to shake the room.
“No, Leo.”
Dominic stepped closer.
“You did nothing to your mother.”
“But Uncle Marco—”
“Was wrong.”
Leo’s eyes filled.
Dominic opened his arms, then stopped halfway.
He seemed uncertain whether his own son would come to him.
That hesitation hurt Isabella more than anything she had seen all day.
Leo looked at Lily.
Lily nodded.
Just once.
Then Leo ran down the last steps.
Dominic dropped to his knees.
His son crashed into him.
For one stunned second Dominic did nothing.
Then he wrapped both arms around the boy.
Leo began crying into his father’s shoulder.
“I thought you were mad at me too.”
Dominic shut his eyes.
“Never.”
“You don’t like when I’m loud.”
A terrible silence followed.
Dominic looked over Leo’s head at Isabella.
She saw the realization land.
Every rule.
Every quiet hallway.
Every controlled meal.
Every time Dominic believed he was protecting his grieving son from chaos.
Leo had interpreted it as punishment.
Dominic pulled back.
“Look at me.”
Leo did.
“I thought quiet made you feel safe.”
“It makes me scared.”
Dominic’s face crumpled for only a second.
Then he kissed Leo’s forehead.
“I didn’t know.”
Lily came down two steps.
“Can we laugh now?”
Isabella almost told her to stay quiet.
Dominic answered first.
“Yes.”
Lily considered him.
“Even big laugh?”
Dominic gave a broken laugh of his own.
“Even big laugh.”
It should have been the first step toward healing.
Instead, the photograph made everything worse.
Dominic carried it into the dining room and set it beneath the brighter chandelier.
“March eighteenth,” he murmured.
Isabella stood beside him.
“You were told Elena died on the fifteenth?”
“At 11:40 that night.”
“How?”
“A car burned outside Providence.”
His voice became colder.
“Marco identified Elena’s bracelet in the wreckage.”
Isabella looked at him sharply.
“Not her body?”
“The body was badly burned.”
“And you never—”
“I saw enough.”
The words were clipped.
Ashamed.
Defensive.
“I had people confirm everything.”
“Marco’s people?”
Dominic looked at her.
That was answer enough.
He took out his phone.
Then stopped before making the call.
“No.”
“What?”
“I’m not warning him.”
Isabella understood.
“You think Marco knows something.”
“I think my brother told my six-year-old son for years that he killed his mother.”
His voice dropped.
“And I think there are very few innocent explanations for that.”
Leo had gone back upstairs with Lily.
A few minutes later, small footsteps returned.
Leo held something in his hand.
A silver wristwatch.
“Dad?”
Dominic looked over.
Leo came closer.
“I found this with Mommy’s picture.”
Dominic stared at the watch.
He didn’t take it.
“Where?”
“In my closet.”
“Where in your closet?”
“Inside my winter coat.”
Dominic’s eyes narrowed.
“What winter coat?”
Leo pointed upstairs.
“The green one Grandma gave me.”
Dominic finally accepted the watch.
The second his fingers touched it, his entire posture changed.
Isabella recognized that reaction now.
Memory.
Pain.
“This was Elena’s father’s.”
He turned the watch over.
An inscription was engraved across the back.
For E. Time tells the truth. — Papa
Dominic pressed the winding crown.
Nothing.
Then he opened the clasp.
Something fell onto the table.
Not jewelry.
A tiny rolled strip of paper.
Isabella picked it up.
Dominic carefully unrolled it.
Five numbers were written inside.
3 - 18 - 47 - 11 - 2.
“What does that mean?” Isabella asked.
Dominic shook his head.
Leo peered up.
“That was Mommy’s game.”
Dominic looked at him.
“What game?”
“The numbers.”
Leo pointed at the photograph.
“She used to hide things.”
“You remember that?”
Leo nodded.
“Mommy said numbers help secrets stay safe.”
Dominic crouched.
“Did she tell you what these numbers mean?”
Leo looked uncertain.
Then he pointed toward the library.
“Books.”
They entered the library together.
Dominic stared at the shelves.
Three.
Eighteen.
Forty-seven.
Eleven.
Two.
He moved to the third bookcase.
Counted eighteen books.
Pulled out the forty-seventh page.
Line eleven.
Second word.
His finger stopped.
Isabella leaned closer.
The word was:
Marco.
Nobody spoke.
Dominic repeated the sequence using the next book.
Another word appeared.
knows.
A third.
hospital.
Isabella felt cold travel down her arms.
Dominic moved faster now.
Another book.
Another page.
Another line.
Another word.
When he finished, six books were lying open across the carpet.
The message read:
Marco knows hospital. Ask about red bracelet.
Dominic stared at the sentence.
Then at the silver watch in his palm.
He seemed to forget Isabella was standing beside him.
“The bracelet.”
“What about it?”
Dominic turned.
“Elena was wearing a red bracelet the morning she disappeared.”
“But you said Marco identified a bracelet in the wreckage.”
Dominic’s expression hardened.
“It wasn’t red.”
Isabella stopped breathing.
“What color was it?”
“Gold.”
Upstairs, Lily laughed.
Leo laughed with her.
Dominic looked toward the ceiling.
Then he closed his hand around Elena’s watch.
“My brother identified the wrong bracelet.”
Before Isabella could answer, Dominic walked to a locked cabinet in the library and removed an old black evidence box.
He placed it on the desk.
Inside lay photographs from the crash.
Charred metal.
Broken glass.
A burned handbag.
And a gold bracelet.
Dominic stared at it.
Then Isabella noticed something.
A tiny charm hung from the clasp.
A letter.
Not E.
Not L.
An M.
She pointed.
“Dominic.”
He looked.
His face became frighteningly still.
The gold bracelet Marco had used to identify Elena’s body had never belonged to Elena at all.
It belonged to someone whose name began with M.
And Dominic knew exactly who.
“My mother,” he whispered.
Then his eyes lifted toward the hallway.
May you like
“She gave this bracelet to Marco’s wife.”
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