Chapter 4 - What My Mother Stole from the Dead
I drove home angry.
Victor drove faster.
There is a difference.
He kept both hands on the wheel and said almost nothing while I stared at the photocopied bank record in my lap.
Margaret Bennett.
Two weeks ago.
My mother had spent twenty-eight years telling me that Thomas's key was a mystery.
That she had never used it.
That she had buried the past.
The bank record said otherwise.
When we reached Alessandro’s house, I found Mom sitting beside the fireplace.
She saw my face.
Then she saw the paper.
Her shoulders dropped.
“You opened it.”
She didn't deny it.
“Claire—”
“You opened the box.”
“Yes.”
“Two weeks ago.”
“Yes.”
“And last night you told me you didn't know what the key opened.”
“I was trying to protect you.”
I laughed bitterly.
“That sentence should be illegal for parents.”
“Listen to me.”
“No. You listen.”
Alessandro appeared at the far end of the room.
I pointed at him.
“You stay out of this.”
He stopped.
To his credit, he stayed there.
I turned back to Mom.
“What was inside?”
She looked toward the fire.
“Documents.”
“What documents?”
“Thomas kept records. Payments. Names. Dates.”
Victor entered behind me.
“What names?”
Mom looked at him.
Her hesitation made his face change.
“Margaret.”
“Thomas believed someone close to the Romano family arranged his death.”
“We know.”
“He knew who.”
Silence.
Alessandro crossed the room despite my warning.
“Who?”
Mom reached beneath the cushion beside her.
She removed a small brown envelope.
Inside was a photograph and a handwritten page.
Alessandro read it.
His face went blank.
Victor whispered, “No.”
“What?” I asked.
Alessandro handed me the page.
At the top was one name.
Salvatore Romano.
Alessandro’s uncle.
According to Thomas's notes, Salvatore had been moving money through shell companies for years. Thomas discovered it and planned to expose him.
But there was more.
Thomas believed Salvatore wasn't acting alone.
Someone had warned him that Thomas was investigating.
Someone Thomas trusted.
The second name had been torn from the page.
“Where is the rest?” Alessandro asked.
Mom swallowed.
“Gone.”
“Gone where?”
“That’s why I opened the box.”
She looked at me.
“Two weeks ago, someone mailed me a copy of this photograph.”
The warehouse photograph.
“On the back, someone wrote, You kept his key. We kept his secret.”
My anger cooled.
“Why didn't you tell me?”
“Because I thought if I removed everything from the box, whoever was watching would stop.”
“Did they?”
“No.”
She reached into her sweater pocket and removed another folded note.
It had arrived three days later.
THOMAS HAD TWO DAUGHTERS.
I stared at it.
“What?”
Alessandro took the note.
Victor's face lost color.
Mom began crying.
“I didn't know.”
I sat beside her.
“What does that mean?”
“Thomas never told me.”
Alessandro looked at Victor.
“Did my brother have another child?”
Victor slowly shook his head.
“Not that I knew.”
But his eyes said something else.
“You're lying,” I said.
Victor looked at me.
“I'm not.”
“You do that thing with your jaw.”
“What thing?”
“That thing you're doing right now.”
Alessandro almost smiled despite the situation.
Victor glared at him.
Then Mom spoke.
“There was a woman before me.”
Alessandro turned.
“Who?”
“Elena Moretti.”
Victor closed his eyes.
Alessandro stared at him.
“You knew.”
“I knew they dated.”
“How long?”
“Years.”
“And?”
“And Thomas ended it before he met Margaret.”
“Did she have a child?”
Victor didn't answer.
Alessandro stepped closer.
“Victor.”
“A girl.”
The room became completely silent.
“When?” I whispered.
“1994.”
Four years before the photograph.
Four years before Thomas died.
“Where is she?”
“I don't know.”
“You expect me to believe that?”
Victor looked at me.
“Elena disappeared after Thomas’s funeral. She took the child and left.”
“What was her name?”
“Sofia.”
Sofia Romano.
My half-sister.
Somewhere in the world, I had a sister.
I didn't know whether to laugh, cry, or break a coffee cup myself.
Alessandro sat down.
For the first time since I met him, he looked overwhelmed.
“I have another niece.”
Victor nodded.
“Apparently.”
Mom reached for my hand.
I let her hold it.
“Why does any of this matter now?”
Alessandro looked at Thomas's papers.
“Because if Salvatore killed Thomas to protect something, someone is worried that Claire or Sofia can still expose it.”
“Salvatore is alive?”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“Florida.”
“Then ask him.”
Victor laughed without humor.
“You don't ask Salvatore Romano questions.”
I looked at him.
“I asked Alessandro to pay three dollars for a cup.”
Alessandro's mouth twitched.
“She's going to ask him.”
“No,” Mom said.
“Mom—”
“No.”
Her voice broke.
“I lost Thomas. I lost Daniel. I will not lose you to a twenty-eight-year-old secret.”
I squeezed her hand.
“You won't.”
“You don't know that.”
“No.”
I looked at Alessandro.
“But I'm tired of people deciding that fear is a good enough reason to live inside a lie.”
That evening, Alessandro arranged for Mom to stay under medical supervision.
I hated accepting his help.
But when Dr. Levin explained that her oxygen levels had been unstable, pride became less important.
At 11:30, I couldn't sleep.
I found Alessandro alone in the kitchen.
The feared Alessandro Romano was making grilled cheese.
Badly.
“You're burning it.”
He looked down.
“I know.”
“You’re still cooking it.”
“I was hoping it would recover.”
“Bread doesn't recover.”
I took the pan from him.
“You run half the city and can't make a sandwich?”
“Apparently power has limitations.”
I laughed.
He watched me.
“What?”
“You look like Thomas when you laugh.”
The laughter disappeared.
“Sorry.”
“No.”
I turned the sandwich.
“Tell me about him.”
So Alessandro did.
Thomas loved old motorcycles.
Hated expensive wine.
Played piano terribly.
Fed stray dogs.
Wanted to open a restaurant on the coast.
“He would have liked you,” Alessandro said.
“You don't know me.”
“I know you returned ninety-seven dollars to a man everyone else was afraid to disappoint.”
“That proves I'm financially irresponsible.”
“It proves something.”
I put the sandwich on a plate.
He divided it in half.
For ten minutes, we ate in silence.
Then his phone rang.
Victor.
Alessandro answered.
His expression changed immediately.
“What happened?”
A pause.
“When?”
Another pause.
“Send it.”
He hung up.
“What?”
“Victor found Elena Moretti.”
My heart jumped.
“And Sofia?”
He looked at me.
“Elena died eight years ago.”
The hope collapsed.
“But?”
“Sofia is alive.”
“Where?”
Alessandro’s phone buzzed.
A photograph appeared.
A woman around thirty-two.
Dark hair.
Brown eyes.
She was standing outside a building I recognized instantly.
I stared.
“No.”
Alessandro looked at me.
“What?”
I enlarged the picture.
The building behind Sofia wasn't in Florida.
It wasn't across the country.
It was three blocks from Rosie’s Diner.
And I knew the woman.
She had been sitting in booth nine every Thursday night for almost a year.
Always alone.
Always ordering coffee.
Always asking me one strange question before leaving.
“How’s your mother?”
May you like
My half-sister had been watching me for months.
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