Chapter 4 - The Words Matteo Had Buried for a Year
I waited until Matteo was asleep.
Then I called Clara into my office.
The photograph lay face down on my desk.
She walked in carrying a glass of water.
“You wanted me?”
“Close the door.”
Her expression changed.
She did.
I turned the photograph over.
For the second time since meeting her, Clara lost control of her face.
Only for a second.
But I saw it.
“Samuel Hayes,” I said.
She looked at the picture.
“My father.”
“I know.”
“No, you didn't.”
“I do now.”
She remained standing.
“Sit.”
“I'd rather stand.”
“Fine.”
I tapped the image.
“My wife knew your father.”
“I know.”
The room felt suddenly smaller.
“How?”
“Because he treated her.”
“For what?”
Clara didn't answer.
I stood.
“What was wrong with Elena?”
“You should ask her doctor.”
“Your father disappeared.”
“Yes.”
“Three days after my wife was killed.”
“I know.”
“Where is he?”
“I don't know.”
I came around the desk.
She didn't move.
“Clara.”
“I haven't seen him in almost two years.”
“Why?”
Her eyes hardened.
“Because he abandoned us.”
“Us?”
“My sister and me.”
“The girl in the photograph?”
She nodded.
“What happened to her?”
“That's not relevant.”
“It became relevant the moment you entered my house without telling me your father knew my wife.”
“I never lied.”
“You omitted it.”
“Your application asked whether I had personally worked for the Rossi family. I hadn't.”
“You knew who I was before you came here.”
“Of course I did.”
“Why take the job?”
Her jaw tightened.
“Money.”
“Not good enough anymore.”
Silence.
I moved closer.
“Did your father send you?”
“No.”
“Did he tell you anything about Elena?”
“No.”
“Did you know about the bombing before it happened?”
Her face changed instantly.
Anger.
Real anger.
“If you believe I had anything to do with the death of your wife, call your guards and have me removed.”
“I asked a question.”
“And I answered it.”
“You answered half.”
“Because half is all you deserve.”
That sentence would have gotten almost anyone else thrown out.
Instead I found myself asking, “Why do you hate him?”
“My father?”
“Yes.”
Clara looked away.
“When my sister got sick, he disappeared.”
“What illness?”
“Autoimmune encephalitis.”
I knew enough to understand it could be catastrophic.
“She was seventeen,” Clara continued. “Confusion. Seizures. Memory loss. Weeks in intensive care. I stopped working to take care of her.”
“And your father?”
“He left.”
“Why?”
“He said he had made a mistake and people were going to come looking for him.”
My pulse slowed.
“What mistake?”
“He wouldn't tell me.”
“When?”
Clara looked at the photograph.
“Three weeks before your wife died.”
The room went silent.
I felt the shape of the puzzle shifting.
“Did he contact you afterward?”
“One voicemail.”
“What did he say?”
Her eyes met mine.
“He said, ‘If anything happens to Elena Rossi, don't believe the first story you hear.’”
I went still.
“You kept this from me?”
“I didn't know what it meant.”
“You knew my wife was dead.”
“Yes.”
“And you still came into my house.”
“To work.”
“You expect me to believe that?”
“I expect nothing from you.”
My phone vibrated.
Dominic.
I ignored it.
Clara stared at me.
“If you fire me, tell Matteo yourself.”
The name changed everything.
I hated that she knew it.
“He trusts you.”
“He's starting to trust himself.”
“That's not an answer.”
“It should be.”
My phone buzzed again.
I answered.
“What?”
Dominic's voice was tight.
“Come downstairs.”
“Why?”
“Matteo's awake.”
My chest tightened.
“What happened?”
“He says he remembers more.”
I ran.
Matteo sat upright in bed, breathing hard.
A lamp illuminated his pale face.
He looked at Clara first.
Then at me.
“I had the dream again.”
I sat beside him.
“You're safe.”
“No.”
“You are.”
He shook his head.
“It wasn't a dream.”
Clara stood on the opposite side of the bed.
“What do you remember?”
He closed his eyes.
“Mom was crying.”
My heart twisted.
“When?”
“In the car.”
Before the explosion.
“What did she say?”
Matteo's fingers curled into the blanket.
“She told me if something happened, I had to remember a number.”
I exchanged a look with Clara.
“What number?”
Matteo whispered it.
“4172.”
I repeated it.
“4172?”
He nodded.
“What does it mean?”
“I don't know.”
Then his eyes filled.
“She said Dad couldn't know.”
That hurt more than I expected.
“Why?”
Matteo started crying.
“I don't know.”
Clara touched his arm.
“You don't have to remember all of it tonight.”
But he kept going.
“She was holding something.”
“What?”
“A key.”
“What kind?”
“Small.”
“Where did she put it?”
Matteo looked toward his wheelchair.
For a moment, nobody understood.
Then he pointed.
“In there.”
Dominic stepped forward.
“Where?”
Matteo touched the side of the chair.
“Mom put it inside before we left.”
We searched the wheelchair.
Nothing.
Then Clara noticed a thin seam beneath the right armrest.
Dominic removed two screws.
A narrow plastic panel lifted free.
Inside was a tiny brass key wrapped in faded tissue paper.
And written across that paper, in Elena's handwriting, were four numbers.
4172.
May you like
Below them were three words.
TRUST CLARA HAYES.
