The Three Daughters Who Remembered Their Mother's Murder

“Six fingers?””

Olivia nodded, pointing at the photograph on the altar.

“Grandpa showed us his hand when Mommy took us to visit him. He had an extra finger on his left hand. Mommy said it made him special.””

I stared at the photograph again.

The man in the wheelchair had five fingers.

The telephone receiver still hung loosely in my hand, carrying nothing but static.

For fourteen months, I had believed I understood how my wife died. I had watched a man convicted of her murder receive his sentence. I had buried Isabelle beneath a marble headstone and promised our daughters that their mother was at peace.

Now a woman who claimed to be Isabelle’s sister had admitted to shooting her. My supposedly dead father had called to confess that he had authorized Vincent to do whatever was necessary to protect our family. And the woman in the photograph was someone none of us could identify.

“Ethan,” I said, “do you know anything about a man with six fingers?””

My son examined the picture.

“Not personally. But my mother kept a newspaper clipping about a private clinic in Switzerland. It mentioned a patient who had undergone reconstructive surgery after an industrial accident.””

Mara turned toward him sharply.

“You never told me that.””

“Because you disappeared before I could ask you about it.””

Her face crumpled, but Ethan looked away.

I couldn't blame him. Whatever reasons Mara had for protecting him, she had left him to grow up without a father, while I had spent decades believing he didn't exist.

“Where is the clipping?”” I asked.

“In a storage unit in Queens.””

“Can you get it?””

“Not while Vincent is outside.””

A violent impact shook the chapel doors.

Raymond moved toward the entrance, weapon raised.

“We have to leave now. Those doors won't hold.””

Grace gathered the girls. Elena took the ledger, and Ethan helped Mara toward the narrow side exit.

I remained beside the altar, staring at Isabelle's letter.

There was something I hadn't noticed before.

A sentence at the bottom had been written in a different pen.

If Dominic ever learns who is buried beneath my name, tell him to look inside the family before he looks outside it.

My throat tightened.

“Grace, did Isabelle ever talk about her burial arrangements?””

Grace shook her head.

“She told me she wanted to be cremated. She said she couldn't bear the thought of being trapped underground.””

I remembered the conversation. Isabelle had said it during a thunderstorm, lying beside me in bed while rain tapped against the windows.

I had promised that if anything happened to her, I would honor her wishes.

But when she died, Vincent had insisted on a traditional burial.

He'd told me the family needed a grave to visit. He'd handled the funeral arrangements because I was barely functioning.

I'd signed the papers without reading them.

“Who identified the body?”” I asked.

Raymond answered from the doorway.

“Vincent arranged the identification through a private medical examiner. The police accepted it after the fingerprints matched.””

“Fingerprints?””

He nodded.

“Apparently.””

Mara suddenly grabbed my arm.

“Dominic, Isabelle had a scar on her right wrist. A crescent-shaped scar from a broken glass when we were children. If you want to know whether the woman you buried was your wife, check that.””

I stared at her.

“Why didn't you tell me this before?””

“Because I was afraid of what the answer would mean.””

Another impact shook the doors.

A wooden beam cracked.

Raymond shouted, “Move!””

We escaped through the side exit into the gardens. Cold air struck my face as we hurried along a narrow path between hedges.

The girls were frightened but silent. Olivia held Sophie's hand while Nora clung to Grace.

At the gate, Raymond stopped beside a black SUV.

“Get inside.””

I opened the rear door for my daughters.

Before I could climb in, my phone rang.

An unfamiliar number.

I answered.

“Dominic Romano,” I said.

A woman's voice whispered, “Please don't hang up.””

My heart stopped.

“Who is this?””

“Someone who has been dead for fourteen months.””

The world seemed to tilt.

“Isabelle?””

A breath caught on the other end.

“I'm sorry.””

I couldn't speak.

“I couldn't contact you,” she continued.

“Vincent was watching every call, every message, every person who came near the house. He told me that if I tried to reach you, he would kill the girls.””

My knees weakened.

“Where are you?””

“Somewhere safe. For now.””

“Why didn't you come home?””

“Because I needed proof. And because the woman you buried wasn't me.””

I gripped the car door.

“Whose body was it?””

A long silence followed.

Then Isabelle said, “My sister's.””

I looked at Mara.

She had gone completely still.

“What are you saying?”” I demanded.

Isabelle's voice trembled.

“The woman who shot me was Elena.””

Elena staggered backward.

“No,” she whispered.

“That's impossible.””

The phone crackled.

Isabelle continued.

“Dominic, listen carefully. Vincent didn't create this conspiracy alone. One of the people helping him has been standing beside you since the day we met.””

“Who?””

I heard a door slam on the other end.

Then Isabelle whispered the words that shattered whatever remained of my certainty.

“Don't trust the woman who says she's my sister.””

The call ended.

I slowly lowered the phone.

Across the garden, Elena was crying.