Chapter 6: The Girl Who Saw Everything
Olivia's small finger hovered over the laptop screen.
In the upper-right corner of the video, a faint reflection appeared in the glass of a framed picture. It showed a bedroom wall, a window, and the corner of a wooden wardrobe.
But the camera angle was wrong.
I knew my daughters' bedroom. I'd spent countless nights sitting beside their beds, watching them sleep, wishing I could trade every dollar I owned for one whispered word.
The camera in the image was positioned too high to be mounted above the beds.
It was looking down from somewhere across the room.
"Where did Mommy show you the other camera?"" I asked.
Olivia pointed toward the wardrobe.
"Behind the horse.""
I remembered the wooden rocking horse Isabelle had bought for Nora's third birthday. It sat beside the wardrobe, gathering dust since the funeral.
"How do you know it's there?""
"Mommy told us a secret game," Olivia said.
"She said if we ever saw the red light, we should look for the horse with the broken ear.""
Grace closed her eyes.
"Oh, Isabelle.""
I looked at the countdown.
Four minutes and twelve seconds.
Vincent was waiting for an answer, and every second we spent talking brought us closer to whatever he had planned.
"Can you access the security network from here?"" I asked Elena.
She shook her head.
"The archive system is isolated. We need the control room.""
"Then how is Vincent communicating with us?""
Grace examined the transmitter beneath the desk.
"That device has its own connection. It doesn't need the house network.""
I pulled it free and crushed it beneath my heel.
The laptop continued counting down.
Three minutes and forty seconds.
A new message appeared.
Time is running out, Dominic.
I typed a reply.
I don't have the original evidence.
Vincent responded immediately.
Your wife hid it. You know where she would have put it.
I glanced at the sealed envelope.
The letter had ended with a sentence I'd overlooked in my anger.
The truth is where we began.
Where we began.
Elena watched my face.
"What does that mean?""
I thought about our life together. Isabelle and I had met at a charity auction in Manhattan. We'd married in a small church in Brooklyn, then bought the Long Island mansion after Olivia was born.
But Isabelle had always said our real beginning came before all of that.
It was the day we met in a hospital corridor.
I'd been visiting an injured employee. Isabelle had been sitting outside the pediatric ward, holding a little girl who had fallen asleep against her shoulder. She'd smiled at me and asked whether I knew where to find the cafeteria.
We'd spent an hour talking over terrible coffee.
I'd never forgotten that afternoon.
"The hospital," I whispered.
Elena frowned.
"What hospital?""
"The one where we met.""
I opened the photograph of Isabelle and Vincent again. Behind them stood a building with a distinctive stone archway.
I recognized it.
St. Catherine's Hospital in Queens.
The place where Isabelle and I had first met.
"She hid the evidence there," I said.
Vincent's reply arrived before I could send another message.
Good. Now we're getting somewhere.
My blood ran cold.
He had been listening to everything.
I looked at the transmitter fragments on the floor.
There had to be another device.
I searched the desk, the cabinets, the ceiling tiles. Grace checked the doorframe. Elena examined the laptop.
Then Nora tugged at my jacket.
"Daddy?""
I knelt.
"Yes, baby?""
"Vincent isn't in the house.""
I blinked.
"What?""
She pointed at the video of her bedroom.
"That's an old picture. The blanket is different.""
I looked closer.
She was right.
The blanket on the bed was pink, the one Isabelle had replaced three months before her death. Since then, I'd bought the girls new bedding twice.
The image was prerecorded.
Vincent had not been watching my daughters sleep that afternoon.
He had wanted me to believe he was.
The distinction mattered. If he wasn't using the house's cameras, he might not know where we were.
I examined the laptop again.
The countdown continued.
Two minutes and twenty seconds.
"He's bluffing," I said.
Elena shook her head.
"Maybe. But why would he bother if he didn't have something planned?""
A sudden metallic bang shook the archive door.
Then another.
Someone was trying to break in.
I pulled my pistol from my waistband.
"Everyone behind the cabinets.""
Grace gathered the girls.
Elena crouched beside them.
The door shook again.
A man's voice came through the metal.
"Mr. Romano! Open the door!""
Raymond.
I hesitated.
"How do I know it's you?""
"Because Vincent's men are on the stairs, and if you stay in there, they'll kill you.""
I moved closer to the door.
"Why should I trust you?""
"Because I have the original police report from Isabelle's murder. And because I know who fired the shot.""
I looked at Elena.
She nodded once.
I unlocked the door.
Raymond stumbled inside, blood running from a cut above his eyebrow. He slammed the door shut behind him and leaned against it.
"They're coming," he gasped.
"Who fired the shot?"" I demanded.
Raymond looked at the girls.
Then he looked at me.
"Vincent didn't pull the trigger.""
My jaw tightened.
"Then who did?""
Raymond reached into his jacket and pulled out a folded document.
"The shooter was a woman named Mara Voss.""
Elena went rigid.
"That's impossible.""
Raymond looked at her.
"Do you know her?""
Elena's face had gone white.
"She's our sister.""
For a moment, no one spoke.
Elena had told me she and Isabelle were twins. Now another sister had emerged from the shadows.
"How many secrets did my wife have?"" I demanded.
"Three," Elena whispered.
"One for each of us.""
Raymond spread the document across the desk.
It was a police photograph taken at the crime scene. A woman stood beside a dark sedan, her face partially hidden beneath a baseball cap.
A silver ring glinted on her hand.
Not Vincent's ring.
A matching ring.
Elena stared at the image, tears streaming down her cheeks.
"Mara was supposed to be dead.""
"Apparently," Raymond said, "someone made sure the police believed that.""
I looked at the document again.
A second photograph had been stapled to the back.
It showed Mara standing beside a young boy outside a courthouse.
On the back, someone had written a name.
*Ethan Romano.*
My name.
My surname.
But I had never had a son.
I looked at Elena.
"What is this?""
She opened her mouth, but before she could answer, Raymond's radio crackled.
Vincent's voice filled the archive.
"Raymond, I know you're in there.""
A pause.
Then he spoke again, and this time his voice had lost every trace of warmth.
"Dominic, ask Elena about the boy she gave away.""
Elena began to shake.
I stepped toward her.
"Who is Ethan Romano?""
She stared at the photograph as though it were a ghost.
Then she whispered, "He's your son.""
The words struck me harder than any bullet.
"That's impossible.""
"Dominic, please—"
"You told me Isabelle was your only connection to my family. You told me you were her sister. Now you're saying I have a son?""
Elena covered her face.
"Isabelle discovered the truth just before she died. She was trying to find him.""
I looked at the photograph of the boy.
He had dark hair, my jawline, and the same small scar above his left eyebrow that I'd received when I was twelve.
I couldn't breathe.
"Where is he now?""
Elena lowered her hands.
"I don't know.""
Raymond's radio crackled again.
Vincent laughed.
"Oh, Elena. You always were a terrible liar.""
Then came a sound from the other side of the door.
Three slow knocks.
Vincent spoke softly.
"I know exactly where Ethan is.""
A pause followed.
"And if Dominic wants to see his son alive, he'll bring me the key.""
I felt the brass key pressing against my pocket.
The archive door began to open.
And from somewhere beyond it, a young man's voice called out.
"Dad?""
I turned toward the doorway.
May you like
The voice spoke again.
"Please don't let him take me back.""
