Chapter 3 - What Rosalind Hid Behind the Roses
Elias did not remember crossing the hallway.
One moment he was standing in the bedroom staring at Adeline.
The next, he was downstairs inside his office while Rafael placed a plastic evidence sleeve onto the desk.
Inside was a photograph.
Rosalind.
Elias recognized the tilt of her head immediately.
The slight, private smile.
The pale coat he'd bought her in Milan.
Beside her stood Samuel Vance.
Neither appeared threatened.
Neither appeared surprised.
They were walking out of a brick building beneath bright afternoon sunlight.
The timestamp in the lower corner read February 18.
Rosalind had supposedly died February 3.
Fifteen days earlier.
“No,” Elias said.
Rafael remained silent.
Elias picked up the photograph.
He studied every detail.
Rosalind's face.
Her posture.
Her hands.
Wedding ring visible.
“This could be altered.”
“Yes.”
“It could be someone who resembles her.”
“Yes.”
“Say something besides yes.”
Rafael lowered his voice.
“I don't know what you want me to say.”
Elias turned the photograph over.
Handwritten words covered the back.
YOU BURIED THE WRONG WOMAN.
For three years, Elias had avoided Rosalind's grave except on the anniversary of her death.
He had considered grief a private weakness.
Now grief became something else.
Suspicion.
He remembered her funeral.
Closed casket.
He remembered demanding to see her before burial.
The physician had advised against it because her illness had changed her appearance.
He had trusted the physician.
Dr. Marcus Vale.
A respected specialist.
Dead eight months later from an apparent heart attack.
Elias's mind began assembling pieces.
“I want the medical records.”
Rafael nodded.
“Tonight.”
“Already requested.”
“I want Dr. Vale's entire history.”
“I'll handle it.”
“And Matteo?”
“In the security room.”
“Why did he have this?”
“He says he doesn't know.”
Elias looked up.
“Bring him.”
Five minutes later, Matteo Greco entered.
Forty-six.
Broken nose.
Gray beginning at his temples.
He had guarded Elias for nine years.
Tonight blood stained the side of his head where the intruders had struck him.
“What happened?” Elias asked.
“I was checking the west monitors when someone cut the feed. I went outside. Two men jumped me.”
“And the photograph?”
Matteo looked genuinely confused.
“What photograph?”
Elias slid it across the desk.
Matteo's face changed.
Not recognition.
Shock.
“You found that on me?”
“In your coat.”
“I've never seen it.”
“Someone put it there.”
“Obviously.”
“Who?”
“I don't know.”
Elias watched him.
Matteo held eye contact.
Most liars either overperformed or avoided direct focus.
Matteo did neither.
“What did the attackers want?”
“They didn't ask questions.”
“Then why leave you alive?”
Matteo touched the wound near his temple.
“Maybe they thought I was dead.”
Possible.
Not satisfying.
Elias looked again at the photograph.
“Where were you fifteen days after Rosalind died?”
Matteo froze.
“Excuse me?”
“February eighteenth. Three years ago.”
“I don't remember.”
“Find out.”
Matteo nodded.
As he turned to leave, Elias said, “If you're hiding something from me—”
Matteo stopped.
“I know.”
“No. You don't.”
Elias's voice became quiet.
“If Rosalind survived and anyone in this house knew, there isn't a country far enough away.”
Matteo looked back.
“I loved your wife too.”
The words surprised Elias.
Matteo continued.
“She treated security guards like people. Remembered our birthdays. Asked about our children. If she were alive and I knew…”
He shook his head.
“You would have known.”
After he left, Rafael closed the door.
“You believe him?”
“I believe he believes what he said.”
“Different thing.”
“Yes.”
Rafael poured two drinks.
Elias ignored his.
“What do we know about the photograph?”
“Paper is recent.”
“So planted.”
“Probably.”
“Why?”
“To destabilize you.”
Elias looked toward the ceiling.
Adeline was upstairs.
So was the child.
If Samuel Vance had orchestrated tonight, the photograph wasn't random.
It was bait.
But bait only worked when it resembled something a man wanted desperately to believe.
Elias hated whoever understood him that well.
“Bring Adeline downstairs.”
“She's recovering.”
“Then I'll go upstairs.”
Bernadette blocked him at the bedroom door.
“No.”
Elias stared.
“Move.”
“She needs rest.”
“I need answers.”
“You've needed therapy for fifteen years. I don't see you rushing toward that.”
“Bernadette.”
The door opened.
Adeline stood behind her, pale but upright.
She wore a robe over her nightdress.
The baby slept in her arms.
“I heard you.”
Bernadette turned.
“You should be in bed.”
“So should everyone.”
Adeline looked at Elias.
“What happened?”
He handed her the photograph.
The instant she saw it, her entire body stiffened.
“You've seen this.”
“No.”
“Wrong answer.”
“I haven't seen the photograph.”
“But you've seen Rosalind after her death?”
Adeline's silence was louder than any confession.
Elias felt the blood leave his face.
“Answer me.”
Adeline looked toward the child.
Then Bernadette.
“Once.”
The word nearly knocked him backward.
“When?”
“Six days after the funeral.”
Elias could hear nothing but the storm.
“Where?”
“A motel outside Albany.”
“She was alive.”
“Yes.”
Elias's hand tightened around the photograph.
“And you never thought to tell me?”
“She told me not to.”
“My wife was alive.”
“She was dying.”
“I buried someone.”
“I know.”
“Who?”
“I don't know.”
His voice rose.
“Who did I bury?”
The baby startled.
Adeline immediately rocked her.
Elias stopped.
He hated himself for frightening the child.
When he spoke again, his voice was lower.
“Tell me everything.”
Adeline nodded slowly.
“Rosalind discovered someone was poisoning her.”
Bernadette covered her mouth.
Elias didn't move.
“What?”
“Not enough to kill her immediately. Enough to mimic illness.”
“How?”
“Medication. Small doses over months.”
“Who?”
“She didn't know.”
“You expect me to believe my wife discovered she was being poisoned and didn't tell me?”
“She tried.”
“No.”
“She said every time she planned to tell you, something happened.”
“What?”
“Someone threatened you.”
Elias almost laughed.
“Rosalind knew threats against me were meaningless.”
“Not threats to kill you.”
Adeline's eyes hardened.
“Threats to make you kill the wrong people.”
That stopped him.
“She believed someone was manipulating your organization. Feeding you intelligence. Provoking conflicts.”
Elias remembered Gabriel.
The rival family he had destroyed.
Had that been manipulation too?
Adeline continued.
“Rosalind became convinced your enemies weren't trying to destroy you from outside.”
“They were using me.”
“Yes.”
The idea was horrifying because it was believable.
A powerful man was easiest to control when he believed every decision was his own.
“What happened before the funeral?”
“Rosalind arranged the death certificate.”
“How?”
“Dr. Vale.”
“He helped her?”
“Yes.”
“And the body?”
Adeline looked sick.
“I don't know.”
“You're lying.”
“I swear I don't.”
Bernadette spoke quietly.
“Rosalind had access to the old family medical wing.”
Elias turned.
“What does that mean?”
“There were terminal patients supported anonymously by the Falcone foundation. Your mother started the program.”
“So?”
“One woman died that week. Similar age. Similar build.”
Elias stared at Bernadette.
“You knew?”
“No.”
“Think carefully.”
“I knew a patient died. I did not know—”
She stopped.
Her face changed.
“What?”
Bernadette sat down.
“The casket.”
“What about it?”
“It was closed before it arrived at the chapel.”
Elias remembered.
Yes.
Rosalind's supposed condition.
The doctor had advised against viewing.
Everything had been arranged.
He suddenly felt ill.
Adeline continued.
“Rosalind needed the world to believe she was dead because whoever was poisoning her would stop searching.”
“But they didn't.”
“No.”
“She met you six days later.”
“Yes.”
“What did she say?”
“She gave me the ledger.”
“The one hidden in the greenhouse.”
“I gave it back to her after copying part of it.”
“Where is your copy?”
“Destroyed.”
“Why?”
“My father found the location where I was hiding.”
Elias paced.
“And Rosalind?”
“She said she was going somewhere safe.”
“Where?”
“She wouldn't tell me.”
“Did you see her again?”
Adeline's eyes filled.
“No.”
“Did she die?”
“I don't know.”
The possibility was worse than certainty.
For three years, Elias had mourned a dead woman.
Now he had to consider that she might have lived days, weeks, perhaps years.
Alone.
Hiding.
Possibly waiting for him to understand a message he had buried.
“If this photograph is real…”
“It isn't.”
He looked at Adeline.
“How do you know?”
“The date.”
“So?”
“By February eighteenth, Rosalind could barely walk.”
Elias's jaw tightened.
“She looked healthy there.”
“Exactly.”
“Then manipulated.”
“Probably.”
He studied the picture again.
The building behind them.
Brick.
Green awning.
A number partially visible near the doorway.
417.
“Recognize the location?”
Adeline shook her head.
Rafael entered.
“We have the medical files.”
“Already?”
“Somebody made them easy to find.”
Elias didn't like that.
Rafael handed him a folder.
Inside was Rosalind's final hospital report.
Diagnosis: aggressive autoimmune failure complicated by cardiac damage.
Elias scanned the physician notes.
Then stopped.
A blood panel.
Rosalind's blood type was listed as O negative.
Wrong.
Elias knew Rosalind's blood type.
Years earlier, after a car accident, he had donated blood during an emergency because both were A positive.
He looked at Bernadette.
“What was Rosalind's blood type?”
“A positive.”
Rafael understood immediately.
“The records aren't hers.”
Elias's pulse thundered.
Someone had replaced everything.
Maybe years ago.
Maybe tonight.
Then a small paper slipped from the folder.
Not medical.
A receipt.
Greenhouse supply store.
Dated two months before Rosalind's death.
On the back, handwriting.
Rosalind's handwriting.
Elias recognized it instantly.
THE ROOTS REMEMBER WHAT THE FLOWERS FORGET.
Adeline stood.
“The rose beds.”
Elias stared at her.
Then at Bernadette.
Then toward the dark windows.
“Rafael.”
“Yes.”
“Get shovels.”
Twenty minutes later, despite the rain, they returned to the greenhouse.
Security surrounded the building.
Adeline remained inside the house with the baby.
Elias knelt beside Rosalind's oldest white rose bed.
“The roots remember.”
Bernadette pointed toward the center bush.
“That was her favorite.”
They dug.
Six inches.
Nothing.
One foot.
Roots.
Wet soil.
Then metal struck metal.
Rafael stopped.
They cleared the dirt.
A narrow steel box was buried beneath the roots.
Elias's hands shook as he pulled it free.
Combination lock.
Four digits.
He knew immediately.
Rosalind's birthday.
The lock opened.
Inside was a waterproof envelope.
A flash drive.
A key.
And one handwritten letter.
On the front were two words.
For Elias.
He opened it.
The first line made his knees weaken.
My darling, if you're reading this, then I failed to come home.
Elias continued.
Do not trust the photograph. Do not trust my medical records. And whatever you do, do not trust the man who tells you Gabriel's death was avenged.
He stopped.
Rafael looked at him.
“What?”
Elias read the sentence again.
Because there was only one man who had personally told him Gabriel's death had been avenged.
A man who had stood beside him for eleven years.
A man who knew every Falcone secret.
Elias slowly lifted his eyes.
“Call Vincent.”
Rafael's expression changed.
Vincent Moretti.
Elias's closest adviser.
His godfather.
The man who had helped raise him.
Rafael reached for his phone.
Then stopped.
“What?”
Rafael stared at the screen.
“Vincent already called.”
“When?”
“Three minutes ago.”
“Why?”
“He says he has information about Adeline.”
Elias felt cold.
“What information?”
Rafael turned the phone around.
A message filled the screen.
THE WOMAN UPSTAIRS IS NOT ADELINE VANCE.
A second message arrived.
THE REAL ADELINE VANCE DIED SIX YEARS AGO.
And then a photograph loaded beneath it.
A morgue photograph.
A young woman.
Dark hair.
Twenty years old.
A toe tag bearing the name:
May you like
ADELINE VANCE.
---
