Chapter 6 - A Photograph That Should Never Have Existed
The Bellamy family house stood at the end of a quiet Oak Park street, surrounded by mature trees and modest brick homes.
It was nothing like Dante's mansion.
Its porch railing needed painting.
The flower beds were empty for winter.
A ceramic bluebird still hung beside the front door, exactly where Rosa's mother had placed it seventeen years earlier.
Seeing it nearly broke Rosa.
She had not visited in months.
Too many memories lived behind those windows.
Her father's laughter.
The smell of Sunday pancakes.
Her mother singing along to old radio songs while washing dishes.
And the final Christmas before everything changed.
Dante parked near the curb.
Two security vehicles remained farther down the street.
Rosa noticed them.
"You brought backup?"
"After someone broke into your apartment and threatened your mother? Yes."
She sighed.
"At least you're admitting it."
"I've been told honesty is important."
She glanced at him.
"Apparently, you're teachable."
His faint smile disappeared when the front door opened.
A woman in her late fifties stepped onto the porch.
"Rosa!"
"Linda."
Linda Walsh had been Margaret Bellamy's closest friend since high school. She had rented the house after Rosa and her mother moved into a smaller apartment.
Now she looked frightened.
"Two men came through the back door. I was upstairs when I heard them."
"Are you hurt?"
"No. They left when I called out."
"What were they looking for?"
"I don't know. They went straight to your old bedroom."
Rosa exchanged a glance with Dante.
Upstairs, the room appeared almost exactly as she remembered.
Pale-yellow walls.
A white wooden bed.
A bookshelf beneath the window.
And a ceiling decorated with dozens of faded glow-in-the-dark stars.
Except someone had pulled the bed away from the wall.
The wardrobe doors stood open.
And the ceiling had several fresh scratches.
"They knew," Rosa whispered.
Dante looked around.
"Knew what?"
"That Dad hid things here."
She climbed onto a sturdy chair and touched the largest plastic star directly above her old bed.
It loosened.
Beneath it was a small folded piece of paper.
Rosa carefully removed it.
A message written in her father's familiar handwriting.
To my little astronomer: The brightest star isn't always in the sky. Sometimes it waits where we kept the sun.
Rosa smiled through sudden tears.
"That was Dad."
Dante stood beside the chair.
"Do you know what it means?"
She nodded slowly.
"When I was little, he called our family photographs pieces of sunshine."
She looked toward the bookshelf.
On its lowest shelf sat a battered yellow photograph album.
The intruders had knocked several books aside, but the album remained untouched.
Rosa opened it.
Birthdays.
School plays.
Vacations.
Her parents' wedding.
She turned the pages until she reached a photograph taken at Navy Pier when she was eight.
Her father was holding her on his shoulders.
Her mother stood beside them, laughing into the wind.
Tucked beneath the photograph was a tiny brass key.
Rosa stared at it.
"Found you."
Dante leaned closer.
"Any idea what it opens?"
She examined the key.
A small number had been engraved into its head.
317.
"Maybe a locker."
Dante took out his phone.
"Marco, check storage facilities and safe-deposit records associated with Thomas Bellamy."
Rosa continued turning pages.
Halfway through the album, another photograph slipped free.
It showed her father standing in front of a waterfront construction site.
Beside him were Victor Hargrove's father, Richard Hargrove, and Carlo Moretti.
A fourth person stood near the edge.
A beautiful woman with dark hair, wearing a cream-colored coat.
Dante took the photograph.
His expression changed.
"What's wrong?" Rosa asked.
He pointed toward the woman.
"Do you know her?"
"No."
"Her name is Meredith Sloan."
"Who is she?"
"Senior legal adviser to Hargrove Development. Before that, she worked for my family."
Rosa looked more closely.
Meredith was smiling.
Her arm rested comfortably against Carlo's.
Something about their familiarity troubled her.
"Why would Dad have this picture?"
"I don't know."
Then Dante turned it over.
A handwritten date appeared on the back.
March 12.
Seven years earlier.
Five weeks before Thomas Bellamy died.
Underneath, someone had written:
The day they agreed to bury the truth.
Rosa's breath caught.
"That isn't Dad's handwriting."
"No," Dante said.
He recognized it.
It belonged to Elena Moretti.
His mother.
They drove directly to Elena's house.
At sixty-seven, Elena Moretti still possessed the commanding presence of a woman who had raised a son inside a complicated family without surrendering her principles.
She opened the door herself.
When she saw Rosa, her hand flew to her mouth.
"Rosie?"
Rosa barely had time to answer before Elena embraced her.
"Oh, sweetheart."
The tenderness undid something inside Rosa.
For seven years, she had believed the Moretti family had rejected her.
Yet Elena held her as though a beloved daughter had finally come home.
"I thought you'd gone away," Elena whispered.
Rosa pulled back.
"That's what Dante was told too."
Elena looked toward her son.
Understanding slowly crossed her features.
"Carlo."
Dante held out the photograph.
"Mother. Explain this."
Elena examined it.
Her face paled.
"Where did you find it?"
"Thomas Bellamy's family album."
Elena sat down.
For a long moment, she said nothing.
Then she began speaking.
"Thomas came to me because he knew your father."
Dante frowned.
"My father died years before the East Harbor project."
"Yes. But Thomas remembered him as a man who believed the Moretti name should stand for something better than fear."
She looked at Rosa.
"Your father discovered that a new waterfront development had been approved despite serious foundation defects."
Rosa slowly sat opposite her.
"Did he tell you?"
"He brought me copies of his inspection reports. He believed several executives were concealing the defects to avoid losing millions."
"Who?"
Elena's hands trembled.
"Richard Hargrove. Carlo. And Meredith Sloan."
Dante felt a familiar anger rising.
"Why didn't you tell me?"
"Because Thomas asked me to wait until he secured the originals."
"And then he died."
Elena nodded.
"He called me the afternoon before his accident."
"What did he say?"
"He told me someone inside the project had changed the engineering measurements."
Rosa pressed her palms together.
"Did he say who?"
Elena looked at the photograph.
"No. But he said the evidence was hidden somewhere his daughter would understand."
Rosa glanced at the brass key.
317.
Elena continued.
"After Thomas died, I tried to contact Margaret. Carlo told me the family wanted privacy. Then I became ill again, and everything became confused."
She reached toward Rosa.
"I'm sorry."
Rosa shook her head.
"You didn't know."
Dante stood near the window.
His mother's explanation confirmed his worst fear.
The man who had separated him from Rosa had also been involved in the project connected to her father's death.
Elena looked toward her son.
"There's one more thing."
Dante turned.
"What?"
She pointed at the photograph.
"That picture shouldn't exist."
"Why?"
"Because Meredith told me she'd destroyed every photograph taken that day."
Rosa looked down at the image.
"Why would she do that?"
Elena's answer came softly.
"Because Thomas wasn't the only person who discovered what they were doing."
Dante leaned forward.
"Who else?"
Elena hesitated.
Then she spoke a name.
"Your father."
Dante went still.
"My father died fifteen years ago."
Elena nodded.
"Yes."
"And East Harbor was only approved eight years ago."
"I know."
She looked directly at him.
"Your father had been investigating the land transactions long before construction began."
For a long moment, nobody spoke.
Then Elena opened a drawer and removed an old envelope.
Inside was a second photograph.
Dante's father stood beside Thomas Bellamy outside a warehouse.
Both men were much younger.
May you like
On the back, Thomas had written:
If anything happens to either of us, follow the money.
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