Chapter 4 - LUCIA’S ROOM
-4
Daniel Webb agreed to return to Chicago under police protection.
He refused to explain more over the phone.
That alone told Detective Torres the case was bigger than a missing child.
Claire barely slept.
At six the next morning, she sat at Vincent Moretti’s kitchen island wearing borrowed sweatpants and one of Rosa’s oversized sweaters.
The Moretti estate had twelve guest bedrooms, but Claire still felt uncomfortable sleeping there.
Yesterday she had been staff.
Today security guards were positioned outside her door.
The change was almost absurd.
Vincent entered carrying coffee.
“You’re awake.”
“I could say the same.”
He placed one mug near her.
She looked at it.
“No poison?”
His mouth almost twitched.
“Marco watched me make it.”
“That doesn’t make me feel better.”
“Good.”
She took the coffee.
For a moment they sat without speaking.
Then Vincent said, “I’m sorry.”
Claire looked up.
“For what?”
“For Vanessa.”
“You didn’t tear my dress.”
“I brought her into this house.”
“That isn’t the same thing.”
“I should have known what kind of person she was.”
Claire considered that.
“You can know someone is difficult without imagining they’ll publicly rip another woman’s clothes.”
He looked down.
“She’s done smaller things.”
“To staff?”
“Yes.”
“And you ignored them.”
He did not defend himself.
Claire respected that.
“I rationalized them,” he said. “Stress. Wedding pressure. Personality.”
“That’s what people do when cruelty is inconvenient.”
Vincent looked at her.
“You’re right.”
Claire sipped coffee.
“That was easier than arguing.”
“I’m learning.”
Eleanor entered moments later.
She had clearly not slept either.
“Claire.”
“Yes?”
“Will you come upstairs with me?”
Vincent looked concerned.
“Mom?”
“I want to show her Lucia’s room.”
The room had remained locked for twenty years.
Not untouched exactly.
Rosa dusted.
Carpets were cleaned.
Windows opened in spring.
But nothing had been removed.
Lucia’s bookshelf remained filled with children’s stories.
Stuffed animals sat beside the bed.
A tiny pair of ballet shoes hung from a hook.
Claire stopped in the doorway.
“Oh.”
Eleanor stood behind her.
“I couldn’t change it.”
Claire understood.
Grief sometimes turned rooms into evidence that someone had existed.
On the dresser stood a photograph of Lucia.
Seven years old.
Dark hair.
Serious eyes.
Claire felt tears gather.
“That’s her.”
Eleanor closed her eyes.
“You remember?”
“I remember her asking whether I was a firefighter.”
A broken laugh escaped Eleanor.
“She loved firefighters.”
“She seemed disappointed when I said bakery.”
“She loved pastries more.”
Claire smiled.
Then her attention caught on a drawing pinned near the desk.
A child’s drawing.
Two stick figures.
One small.
One large.
Flames colored orange around a building.
The large figure wore purple.
Claire stepped closer.
“What is that?”
Eleanor followed her gaze.
“I don’t know.”
“Who drew it?”
“Lucia.”
“When?”
“I found it after the funeral.”
Claire’s heart accelerated.
The larger figure had brown hair.
A purple square body.
Above it, written unevenly:
BAKERY LADY.
Claire’s hand went to her mouth.
“That’s me.”
Eleanor began crying.
“How?”
“Lucia drew this after the fire.”
Silence.
That was impossible if Lucia died during transport.
Vincent entered behind them.
“What?”
Claire pointed.
“Look.”
He stared at the drawing.
Then at his mother.
“When did you find this?”
“A week after the funeral.”
“Where?”
“In Lucia’s room.”
“That means she came home.”
Eleanor shook her head.
“No. She couldn’t have.”
“Someone brought the drawing.”
Claire examined the paper.
“Could she have drawn it before?”
“She never met Claire before the fire.”
No one spoke.
Then Vincent noticed something in the corner.
A date.
December 20.
Two days after the fire.
Eleanor swayed.
Vincent caught her.
“My daughter was alive.”
The sentence was not a question.
Claire felt cold.
Lucia had been alive at least forty-eight hours after the fire.
Someone knew.
Someone returned a drawing to the estate.
Why?
Vincent carefully removed the drawing.
Behind it was another piece of paper.
A child’s handwriting.
MOMMY I WAS GOOD.
DON’T BE MAD.
UNCLE RICHARD SAYS I HAVE TO STAY QUIET.
Eleanor collapsed against Vincent.
“No.”
Claire felt fury rise.
Not dramatic fury.
The kind that made her hands cold.
A seven-year-old child had believed her mother was angry with her.
Somebody had told her that.
Vincent’s face became terrifyingly calm.
“Marco.”
The security chief appeared immediately.
“Find Richard Caldwell.”
“We’re working on it.”
“Work faster.”
Claire looked around the room.
“If somebody put this here, they wanted Eleanor to find it.”
Vincent frowned.
“Or they wanted to torment her.”
Eleanor looked at the note.
“Richard.”
Claire crouched beside her.
“Mrs. Moretti—”
“Eleanor.”
Claire paused.
“Eleanor, why was Lucia at that apartment?”
Eleanor looked toward Vincent.
He seemed to realize there was something he did not know.
“Mom?”
She wiped her eyes.
“It wasn’t our home.”
“I know.”
“It belonged to your grandfather’s company.”
“Why were you there?”
Eleanor hesitated.
“Because I was leaving your father.”
Vincent went still.
“What?”
“Salvatore and I were separated.”
“You never told me.”
“You were twenty-one. Your father said it was temporary.”
“Why were you leaving?”
Eleanor stared at Lucia’s bed.
“Because someone had threatened her.”
Claire’s stomach tightened.
“Who?”
“I didn’t know.”
She stood slowly.
“Three weeks before the fire, I received an envelope.”
“What was inside?”
“Photographs of Lucia leaving school. Riding her bicycle. Sleeping.”
Vincent’s eyes darkened.
“What did Dad do?”
“He wanted to find whoever sent them.”
“Why move you to the apartment?”
“He thought the estate was compromised.”
Claire looked at the drawing again.
“Who knew the apartment location?”
“Salvatore. Richard. Two guards.”
“One of the guards died in the fire?”
Eleanor nodded.
“And the other?”
“Disappeared afterward.”
Vincent frowned.
“Name?”
“Anthony Bell.”
Marco immediately typed it into his phone.
Claire returned to Lucia’s desk.
A small music box sat beside the lamp.
She opened it.
Nothing happened.
“Broken?”
Eleanor nodded.
“Lucia used to hide things inside.”
Claire turned it over.
A faint click sounded.
The bottom panel slid.
Inside was a small brass key.
Everyone froze.
Vincent picked it up.
A paper tag was tied around it.
Marco looked up.
“Could be a safe-deposit box.”
Eleanor stared.
“Lucia couldn’t have arranged that.”
“No.”
Claire’s fingers brushed something else inside.
A folded photograph.
She opened it.
Richard Caldwell stood beside a hospital bed.
Lucia lay beneath blankets.
Alive.
Date stamp: December 21.
Three days after the fire.
Eleanor made a strangled sound.
Vincent took the photograph.
On the back, someone had written:
SHE THINKS HER MOTHER LEFT HER.
Vincent looked at Claire.
“This wasn’t hidden by Lucia.”
“No.”
“Then who?”
A noise came from the hallway.
Footsteps.
Fast.
Marco moved first.
The door flew open.
Vanessa stood there.
Her hair was disheveled.
Her face pale.
She looked at the photograph.
Then the key.
And before anyone could stop her, she lunged for it.
Vincent caught her wrist.
“What the hell are you doing?”
Vanessa struggled.
“Give me that key.”
“Why?”
“My father told me about it.”
Everyone froze.
Claire stared.
“When?”
Vanessa began crying.
“Last night.”
Vincent’s voice went cold.
“You spoke to Richard after police took your phone?”
“He called the house line.”
“What did he say?”
“That if you found a key in Lucia’s room, I had to destroy it.”
Eleanor looked at her in horror.
“And you came here to do it?”
Vanessa’s face crumpled.
“He said if I didn’t, he would tell you something that would ruin me.”
Vincent released her slowly.
“What?”
Vanessa shook her head.
“Tell me.”
Her eyes filled.
“He says I’m not his biological daughter.”
Silence.
Vincent frowned.
“What does that have to do with Lucia?”
“I don’t know.”
Vanessa’s breathing became ragged.
“He said everything I think I know about my childhood is a lie.”
Claire stared at her.
Vanessa looked back.
For once there was no superiority in her face.
Only terror.
Then Marco’s phone rang.
He answered.
Listened.
Looked at Vincent.
“We traced key number 314.”
“Where?”
“First Chicago Bank.”
“Safe-deposit?”
“Yes.”
“Registered to who?”
Marco hesitated.
“To Lucia Moretti.”
Eleanor whispered, “She was seven.”
Marco nodded.
“The box was opened three times after her official death.”
Vincent’s eyes narrowed.
“By who?”
“The authorized guardian.”
Claire already knew.
“Richard Caldwell.”
Marco nodded.
“And the most recent access?”
“Six months ago.”
May you like
The room became silent.
Six months ago was exactly when Vanessa and Vincent became engaged.
