Chapter 2 - The Voice Behind the Walls
Adrian listened to Clara's sentence four times.
Nobody spoke.
On the fifth replay, Matteo finally walked away from the computer.
“What does that mean?”
Adrian didn't answer.
He was watching the waveform on the screen as if the shape of Clara's voice might reveal something her words did not.
“If Adrian discovers what happened three years ago, Isabella won't be the only person who loses everything.”
The recording ended there.
No second voice.
No explanation.
No date visible inside the audio itself.
Samuel checked the metadata.
“This was transferred onto the device eleven days ago.”
“Recorded here?” Adrian asked.
“I can't tell.”
Matteo folded his arms.
“You think Clara planted it?”
Adrian looked sharply at him.
“No.”
“You don't know that.”
“Rosie showed it to me.”
“That doesn't prove anything.”
“It proves Clara didn't tell her daughter to hide it.”
Matteo laughed without humor.
“She's three, Adrian.”
“Exactly.”
Adrian knew how adults behaved when they were trying to manipulate him.
Rosie had displayed none of it.
No rehearsed words.
No nervous glance toward a parent.
No question about whether she had performed correctly.
She had simply found something strange and told him.
Still, Clara's voice existed on the recording.
That could not be ignored.
“Where is Isabella?” Adrian asked.
Matteo checked the time.
“She went into the city this afternoon.”
“Why?”
“Final fitting for the wedding.”
Of course.
Seventeen days.
Invitations had been sent.
Three hundred guests.
A cathedral.
A reception at the Morelli estate.
Hotels booked.
Security arranged.
Food ordered.
Two families preparing for an event that half the city considered inevitable.
Adrian suddenly felt no attachment to any of it.
“Don't contact her.”
Matteo studied him.
“You're not confronting her?”
“Not until I know what I'm confronting her about.”
That was the difference between Adrian and his younger brother.
Matteo reacted.
Adrian waited.
Most people eventually revealed more when they believed nobody was watching.
The irony did not escape him.
Adrian turned to Samuel.
“Search this entire office.”
“For additional devices?”
“Everything.”
“Tonight?”
“Now.”
Samuel nodded.
Matteo followed Adrian into the hallway.
“What about Clara?”
Adrian stopped.
“Nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“Not tonight.”
“Adrian, her name is literally on the file.”
“And whoever owns that recording wanted the file stored on the device.”
Matteo's expression changed.
“You think it was planted deliberately?”
“I think someone recording me for six weeks doesn't suddenly become careless eleven days ago.”
“So the Clara file was meant to be found?”
“I don't know.”
Adrian looked downstairs.
Somewhere in the staff wing, Clara was probably preparing Rosie to leave.
“That's why I'm not accusing anyone.”
He descended the staircase.
The Morelli house was enormous, but houses became small after enough years. Adrian knew which floorboard creaked near the library and which kitchen door needed extra pressure before it latched.
He heard Rosie before he saw her.
She was singing.
Not actual words.
Just the improvised melody children invent when nobody has taught them yet that music requires structure.
Adrian stopped outside the kitchen.
Clara stood near the back entrance struggling to button Rosie's little coat.
“Hold still.”
“I am holding.”
“You're spinning.”
“That's holding with turning.”
Adrian leaned against the doorway.
Clara looked up.
Her smile disappeared.
“Mr. Morelli.”
“Leaving?”
“Yes.”
“Do you have transportation?”
“The bus.”
Adrian glanced through the window.
Rain had begun.
“I'll have Daniel drive you.”
“You don't need—”
“I know.”
Clara hesitated.
Adrian was watching her too carefully.
“Did Rosie cause a problem earlier?”
“No.”
“Because she's been talking about a secret ever since.”
Rosie immediately covered her mouth with both hands.
Clara stared at her.
Adrian almost smiled.
“You're terrible at secrets.”
“I didn't tell!”
“You just did.”
Rosie considered this injustice.
Clara looked between them.
“What secret?”
Adrian crouched beside Rosie.
“We agreed not to tell yet, remember?”
Rosie nodded dramatically.
Clara's suspicion deepened.
Adrian stood again.
“I need to speak with you tomorrow.”
The color in Clara's face changed.
Only slightly.
But Adrian noticed.
“About what?”
“Three years ago.”
This time there was no mistaking it.
Clara went pale.
Adrian heard Matteo's warning in his mind.
Her name is literally on the file.
Clara picked up Rosie's bag.
“I don't understand.”
“Yes, you do.”
Silence.
Rosie looked at her mother.
“Mommy?”
Clara forced a smile.
“Everything's okay.”
Adrian did not believe her.
Neither, apparently, did Rosie.
The little girl reached for Clara's hand.
Adrian softened his tone.
“Tomorrow morning. Nine.”
Clara nodded.
She hurried toward the door.
“Clara.”
She stopped.
Adrian stared at her.
“If there's something I should know, tomorrow would be a good time to tell me.”
For several seconds she seemed ready to speak.
Then she looked at Rosie.
“Goodnight, Mr. Morelli.”
She left.
Adrian remained in the kitchen long after the door closed.
Matteo entered behind him.
“That looked innocent to you?”
“No.”
“What now?”
“Now we wait.”
At 9:07 the next morning, Clara had not arrived.
At 9:15, Adrian called the staff entrance.
No sign of her.
At 9:22, he called her telephone.
Straight to voicemail.
Matteo stood near the window.
“She ran.”
Adrian ignored him.
At 9:30 he called Clara's mother.
No answer.
At 9:36 Adrian ordered Daniel to drive to Clara's apartment.
The response arrived twelve minutes later.
The apartment was empty.
No Clara.
No Rosie.
Several drawers left open.
A child's stuffed rabbit missing.
Two suitcases gone.
Matteo stared at Adrian.
“She definitely ran.”
Adrian looked toward the window.
Why?
Because she had been caught?
Or because she was afraid?
His telephone rang.
Unknown number.
Adrian answered.
Nobody spoke.
“Hello?”
Static.
Then a child's voice.
Very faint.
“Sir?”
Adrian's heart stopped.
“Rosie?”
“Mommy says we have to go away.”
“Where are you?”
“I don't know.”
In the background Clara said something Adrian could not hear.
Then Rosie whispered:
“Mommy is crying.”
The connection crackled.
“Rosie, listen to me. Give the phone to your mother.”
“She says no.”
“Tell her Adrian wants to help.”
A pause.
Rosie repeated the message away from the receiver.
Then Adrian heard Clara.
“Mr. Morelli?”
“Where are you?”
“You shouldn't have called.”
“You called me.”
“Rosie pressed your number.”
Adrian almost laughed despite the situation.
“Of course she did.”
Clara remained silent.
“Tell me what's happening.”
“I can't.”
“You can.”
“No.”
“Then tell me why you left.”
Another silence.
When Clara finally answered, her voice had changed.
“You mentioned three years ago.”
“Yes.”
“I knew this day would come.”
“What happened three years ago?”
Clara breathed shakily.
“Ask Isabella.”
Adrian looked at Matteo.
“I'm asking you.”
“You're marrying her.”
“Not an answer.”
“Then don't marry her until you know why she came to my hospital room the night Rosie was born.”
Adrian froze.
“What did you say?”
Clara continued before he could interrupt.
“She told me that if I ever told you the truth about that night, she would make sure you never believed me.”
“Clara—”
“I'm sorry.”
The call disconnected.
Adrian stared at the phone.
Matteo had heard enough to understand.
“What hospital room?”
Adrian didn't answer.
His mind had already moved backward three years.
Three years ago.
A winter charity gala.
A young temporary catering employee named Clara Bennett.
One evening Adrian barely remembered.
A conversation on the terrace.
Clara laughing.
Adrian offering his coat because she was freezing.
Nothing more.
At least—
Nothing he remembered.
But Clara had just connected Isabella, Rosie, a hospital and himself in the same sentence.
Matteo whispered the question Adrian had not allowed himself to form.
“Adrian…”
Adrian looked at him.
“Rosie is three.”
“I know.”
“And Clara said Isabella went to her hospital room the night Rosie was born.”
“I heard.”
Matteo hesitated.
“You don't think…”
Adrian's expression became unreadable.
“No assumptions.”
But for the first time in three years, Adrian Morelli remembered something about Rosie's eyes.
Not their color.
Their shape.
May you like
And they looked exactly like the eyes in the childhood photograph hanging upstairs in his mother's room.
His own.
