Chapter 2 - The Photograph in Vincent’s Drawer
Nobody explained anything.
That was the first thing that made me angry.
Vincent simply stared at the necklace hanging against my uniform as though a ghost had walked into his library.
Renzo locked the door.
Mia stood between us holding the old photograph.
And I was expected to remain calm.
“Who is Isabella?” I asked.
Vincent didn't answer.
“Mr. Castalano?”
“Where did you get the pendant?”
“My mother.”
Vincent’s jaw tightened.
“What was her name?”
“Laura Hayes.”
Renzo and Vincent exchanged a glance.
I caught it.
“What?”
Renzo looked away.
“What aren't you telling me?”
Vincent took the photograph gently from Mia.
“Your mother gave you the necklace?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“I don't know. I've had it since I was little.”
“Did she ever explain where it came from?”
“No.”
Vincent turned the photograph over.
There was handwriting on the back.
He stared at it before handing it to me.
Isabella and Vincent — Lake Como, 1998.
My knees nearly weakened.
1998.
The year I was born.
I looked again at the woman.
There was something familiar about her smile.
Something in the eyes.
I had spent my childhood trying to remember my mother’s face from the handful of years we'd had together. Laura Hayes had disappeared when I was six.
My father told me she had abandoned us.
He never discussed her again.
“That's not my mother.”
Vincent’s expression remained unreadable.
“I know.”
“Then why does she have the same necklace?”
“Because there were two.”
The room became very quiet.
Mia tugged my skirt.
“Mommy, can I have crackers?”
I almost laughed from the absurdity.
“Yes, baby.”
Renzo opened the door and called Mrs. Bell.
I hesitated before letting Mia leave.
Vincent noticed.
“She’ll remain with Mrs. Bell.”
“That's what I thought this morning.”
For the first time, something almost like guilt crossed his face.
Fair point.
When Mia was gone, I turned back.
“Start talking.”
Renzo looked surprised.
Vincent wasn't.
Perhaps nobody spoke to him that way.
At that moment, I didn't care.
Vincent poured himself water.
“Isabella Castalano was my older sister.”
Was.
The word landed heavily.
“She died twenty-eight years ago.”
“Then how—”
“The photograph was taken months before her death.”
“And the necklace?”
“Our grandmother had them made. One for Isabella. One for our cousin Sofia.”
“My mother wasn't named Sofia.”
“No,” Vincent said. “But Laura Hayes knew her.”
The room seemed to tilt.
“How?”
“We don't know.”
“You're telling me my mother was connected to your family?”
“Yes.”
“And you never knew?”
“No.”
I laughed once, without humor.
“I've worked in your house almost a year.”
“I didn't recognize you.”
“Should you have?”
Vincent’s gaze settled on my face.
“No.”
Something about the answer hurt more than it should have.
Renzo opened a cabinet and removed an old file.
Vincent gave him a warning look.
“She deserves to know,” Renzo said.
Know what?
Renzo placed the file on the desk.
Inside were photographs, newspaper clippings, handwritten notes, and photocopies of records.
One photograph showed Isabella.
Another showed a second woman.
My mother.
Younger.
But unquestionably Laura Hayes.
I grabbed the edge of the desk.
“What is this?”
Vincent spoke quietly.
“Your mother worked for my family.”
I stared at him.
“No.”
“She wasn't domestic staff.”
“Then what?”
Vincent hesitated.
“She was Isabella’s closest friend.”
Everything my father had told me suddenly felt fragile.
Laura had supposedly grown up in Ohio.
She had supposedly met my father in college.
She had supposedly hated New York.
Yet here she was standing outside the Castalano estate twenty-eight years earlier.
“Why would my father lie?”
“I don't know.”
“Why did she disappear?”
“I don't know.”
“Is she alive?”
That time Vincent didn't answer quickly enough.
My stomach turned.
“You know something.”
“Elena—”
“Is my mother alive?”
“We don't know.”
“You just said—”
“She disappeared twenty years ago. Our people searched for her.”
“Your people?”
Vincent's eyes hardened slightly.
“Because Laura contacted me shortly before she vanished.”
I stopped breathing.
“You?”
“I was twenty-one.”
“What did she want?”
“She said she had information about Isabella’s death.”
Renzo looked toward the windows.
Vincent continued.
“She asked to meet me. She never arrived.”
My childhood rearranged itself inside my head.
My mother hadn't simply vanished from our family.
She had been trying to meet Vincent.
“Why didn't you tell the police?”
“We did.”
“And?”
“They found her car two days later.”
“Where?”
“Near Albany.”
I swallowed.
“Was there…”
“No body.”
My legs weakened.
Vincent pulled out a chair.
I sat.
For several minutes, nobody spoke.
Then I remembered something.
“My father.”
Vincent’s expression sharpened.
“What about him?”
“He died three years ago.”
“How?”
“Heart attack.”
Renzo and Vincent exchanged another look.
I slammed my palm on the desk.
“Stop doing that!”
Renzo blinked.
“Doing what?”
“Looking at each other every time I say something!”
Vincent leaned forward.
“Your father’s name?”
“Daniel Hayes.”
Renzo went completely still.
Vincent's eyes turned cold.
“You know him.”
Renzo quietly said, “Not personally.”
“But?”
He looked at Vincent.
Vincent gave a slight nod.
Renzo opened his tablet.
“Daniel Hayes worked for a private accounting firm in Manhattan before moving to Ohio.”
“So?”
“The firm handled companies connected to Vincent’s father.”
My skin prickled.
“My father never told me he'd lived in New York.”
Renzo tapped the screen.
“He left in October 1998.”
Three months after I was born.
The room became unbearably quiet.
Vincent picked up the photograph again.
“Isabella died in November.”
I looked from him to Renzo.
“What are you saying?”
“We aren't saying anything yet,” Vincent replied.
I hated how controlled he sounded.
“This is my life.”
“Which is precisely why I won't give you conclusions without evidence.”
For once, I couldn't argue.
That evening, Vincent insisted a driver take Mia and me home.
I refused twice.
He ignored me twice.
At seven-thirty, a black SUV stopped outside my apartment building.
Mia slept against my shoulder.
Before I got out, Renzo handed me an envelope.
“Vincent asked me to give you this.”
Inside was a copy of the photograph.
On the back, beneath the original handwriting, someone had written a phone number.
“What's this?”
“Laura's old number.”
“That won't work after twenty years.”
“No.”
“Then why give it to me?”
“Because look underneath.”
There was another line.
Written faintly in pencil.
If anything happens to me, ask Vincent about Bellini Station.
My pulse accelerated.
“What is Bellini Station?”
Renzo stared ahead.
“I don't know.”
“Does Vincent?”
“He says no.”
I looked at him.
“You don't believe him.”
Renzo didn't respond.
That was answer enough.
The next morning, I arrived at the estate expecting Vincent to summon me.
He didn't.
Instead, I found Mia sitting at the breakfast table eating pancakes.
Vincent sat opposite her reading financial reports.
“What is happening?”
Vincent didn't look up.
“Mia informed Mrs. Bell that pancakes taste better here.”
“They do,” Mia confirmed.
“You brought her into the dining room?”
“She walked.”
I stared at him.
His mouth almost twitched.
Over the next three days, something strange happened.
Vincent started appearing wherever Mia happened to be.
If she colored in the sitting room, he took phone calls nearby.
If she ate lunch in the kitchen, he mysteriously needed coffee.
Mia stopped calling him Angry Man.
Mostly.
She called him Mr. Vincent.
And Vincent began keeping cookies in his study.
I told myself it meant nothing.
Then Friday evening, I was cleaning the library when Vincent entered.
“You should go home.”
“I have twenty minutes left.”
“I'll survive without twenty minutes of dusting.”
“I need the hours.”
His expression changed.
“Is money a problem?”
Embarrassment burned through me.
“No.”
“Elena.”
“I said no.”
He studied me.
I hated how easily those eyes seemed to see through people.
Then Mia ran into the room carrying a drawing.
“Mr. Vincent!”
She held up a picture made with purple and green crayons.
Three stick figures stood beneath a giant yellow sun.
“That’s Mommy. That's me. That's you.”
Vincent stared.
I stared too.
He was holding Mia’s hand in the drawing.
Something shifted in his face.
“Mia,” I said gently, “why don't you show Mrs. Bell?”
She ran out.
Vincent continued looking at the drawing.
“You can throw it away,” I said.
He folded it carefully.
“I wasn't planning to.”
My heart did something inconvenient.
Then the lights went out.
The entire estate went black.
Vincent instantly changed.
“Elena, stay here.”
Footsteps thundered in the corridor.
Renzo appeared with a flashlight.
“Backup generator should've started.”
“Where’s Mia?” I asked.
Silence.
My stomach dropped.
“Mia?”
I ran toward the hallway.
“MIA!”
Vincent was beside me immediately.
We searched the sitting room.
Empty.
Kitchen.
Empty.
Then Mrs. Bell called from upstairs.
“Elena!”
We found Mia standing outside Vincent’s study.
She wasn't alone.
A man wearing a maintenance uniform was crouched beside the locked door.
When he saw Vincent, he ran.
Security chased him down the corridor.
I grabbed Mia.
Vincent examined the study door.
The lock had been damaged.
Renzo arrived seconds later.
“He wasn't one of ours.”
Vincent looked at him.
“Then how did he get inside?”
Nobody answered.
Mia tugged Vincent’s sleeve.
“The man dropped this.”
She opened her tiny hand.
A silver crescent pendant rested on her palm.
My pendant.
Except mine was still around my neck.
Vincent took it.
His face drained of color.
On the back were two engraved letters.
L.H.
Laura Hayes.
My mother.
And suddenly the question wasn't whether my mother had known the Castalanos.
May you like
It was whether somebody had just entered the estate carrying proof that she might still be alive.
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