Chapter 2 - The Woman in the PhotographThe sound came from the second floor.
Dominic reached the staircase before I did.
“Boys?”
Silence.
He took the stairs two at a time.
I followed, with the diamond-covered woman close behind us.
We found Caleb standing in the hallway beside a broken picture frame.
Glass glittered across the hardwood.
Benjamin stood frozen near the wall.
Adrian was holding a photograph.
Dominic stopped.
His face changed.
“Give me that.”
Adrian tightened his fingers around the photograph.
“No.”
“Adrian.”
“No.”
I had heard that tone before.
Not from Dominic.
From my own daughter.
The night Lily found me packing away Michael’s shirts, she had grabbed one from the box and screamed, “You don’t get to make Daddy disappear.”
I had been so exhausted that I nearly shouted back.
Instead, I sat on the floor and cried with her.
Now I watched Adrian clutch the photograph as though someone might steal the woman inside it.
She was beautiful.
Dark hair.
Bright smile.
She stood beside Dominic on a beach, heavily pregnant, his hand wrapped around her waist.
Elena.
The boys’ mother.
The diamond-covered woman stepped forward.
“Adrian, sweetheart—”
“DON’T!”
His scream shook me.
Benjamin flinched.
Caleb began crying.
Dominic reached for the photograph.
Adrian backed away.
“I said give it to me.”
“No!”
“Adrian.”
“You threw everything away!”
Dominic stopped.
The boy’s face crumpled.
“You threw Mommy away!”
He turned and ran.
“Adrian!”
Dominic followed, but I caught his arm.
It was probably the stupidest thing I could have done.
The woman gasped.
Dominic looked down at my hand on his sleeve.
I released him.
“Don’t chase him.”
“He’s six.”
“Exactly.”
“He could get hurt.”
“He’s running to the east playroom.”
Dominic stared at me.
“How do you know?”
“Because that’s where he hid yesterday after putting toothpaste in my shoes.”
Benjamin whispered, “He likes the window seat.”
Dominic looked at his son.
Then at me.
I lowered my voice.
“Give him two minutes.”
The woman behind us scoffed.
“This is absurd.”
I turned.
She extended her hand.
“Victoria Moretti. Dominic’s sister.”
I shook it.
“Claire Donovan.”
“I know.”
Something about the way she said it bothered me.
“How?”
“Dominic had you investigated.”
I slowly looked at him.
He didn’t deny it.
“I have children.”
“You have employees.”
“I have enemies.”
The answer was so coldly delivered that for a second I wondered whether the rumors I had heard about the Moretti family were more than rumors.
Victoria picked up the broken frame.
“She should know.”
“No,” Dominic said.
“She’s living in the house.”
“For forty-eight hours.”
Victoria gave him a strange look.
“Is she?”
Dominic’s jaw tightened.
I interrupted.
“Know what?”
He ignored the question.
“Stay with Benjamin and Caleb.”
Then he walked toward the playroom.
I followed anyway.
“You’re remarkably bad at following instructions,” he said without turning.
“You hired a nanny, not a soldier.”
That almost made Victoria smile.
We found Adrian curled inside the window seat, photograph pressed to his chest.
Dominic stopped several feet away.
“Buddy.”
“Go away.”
Dominic’s shoulders dropped.
I had never seen a powerful man look so helpless.
He could command employees.
Lawyers.
Security guards.
Probably boardrooms filled with people terrified of disappointing him.
But he had no idea what to do with his grieving six-year-old.
I sat on the carpet.
Not beside Adrian.
Not close enough to trap him.
Just nearby.
“My daughter used to hide her father’s shoes.”
Adrian’s eyes flicked toward me.
“Why?”
“Because he died.”
The room went quiet.
“She thought if his shoes stayed in our house, maybe part of him did too.”
His grip on the photograph loosened slightly.
“Did he come back?”
“No.”
His eyes dropped.
“But I stopped putting his things away.”
“Why?”
“Because she wasn’t ready.”
Dominic looked at me.
I continued.
“There’s no deadline for missing somebody.”
Adrian’s lip trembled.
“Dad took Mommy’s pictures.”
Dominic closed his eyes.
“I couldn’t look at them.”
The confession was barely audible.
Adrian stared at him.
“You made us not look either.”
“That wasn’t what I meant.”
“Yes, it was.”
“No.”
“You closed her room.”
Dominic flinched.
“You told everybody not to talk about her.”
“I thought—”
“You forgot her.”
Dominic crossed the room and sank to his knees.
“No.”
One word.
Broken.
“I never forgot her.”
“Then why can’t we say her name?”
That question seemed to hit Dominic somewhere deep.
Victoria quietly took Benjamin and Caleb into the hallway.
I started to follow.
Adrian grabbed my hand.
“Stay.”
So I did.
Dominic sat opposite his son.
“I thought if we kept talking about your mother, it would hurt you.”
“It already hurts.”
“I know.”
“No, you don’t.”
“I do.”
Adrian shook his head violently.
“You don’t cry.”
Dominic stared at him.
Neither did Michael, I thought.
Not until the night we lost our second pregnancy and I found him sitting alone in our car at two in the morning.
Children mistake hidden pain for absent pain.
Adults do too.
Dominic swallowed.
“I cry sometimes.”
Adrian looked genuinely shocked.
“When?”
“When you’re asleep.”
The boy’s expression changed.
Dominic reached out.
This time Adrian let him.
His father pulled him against his chest.
Adrian resisted for perhaps two seconds.
Then he collapsed.
The crying that came out of him didn’t sound like the tantrum of a spoiled child.
It sounded ancient.
Raw.
Months of grief compressed into a six-year-old body.
Dominic held him.
Then Benjamin appeared in the doorway.
Caleb beside him.
Neither spoke.
Dominic opened one arm.
They ran.
All three climbed onto him.
And Dominic Moretti cried.
Silently at first.
Then not silently.
I turned toward the window because some moments don’t belong to witnesses.
Victoria stood behind me.
Her eyes were wet.
“He hasn't done that since the funeral,” she whispered.
I didn’t respond.
Eventually the boys calmed.
Dominic carried Caleb downstairs while Benjamin held one hand and Adrian the other.
I stayed behind to clean the broken glass.
Victoria helped.
For several minutes, neither of us spoke.
Then she said, “You asked what happened to Elena.”
I looked at her.
“She died in a car accident.”
My chest tightened.
“Was anyone else hurt?”
“No.”
Something in her tone felt incomplete.
“She was alone?”
Victoria stopped picking up glass.
“Yes.”
Then why did she look frightened?
I noticed a photograph beneath the dresser.
I reached for it.
Victoria moved faster.
“No.”
But I had already seen it.
Elena stood beside another man.
The photograph looked older.
Behind them was the Moretti mansion.
On the back, handwritten in blue ink, were four words.
IF SOMETHING HAPPENS, CALL DANIEL.
I turned toward Victoria.
“Who’s Daniel?”
All color left her face.
She snatched the photograph.
“You didn’t see that.”
“Obviously I did.”
Her voice dropped.
“Claire, I mean this sincerely. Take your twenty thousand dollars and leave when the forty-eight hours are over.”
“Why?”
“Because this family has buried enough people.”
Before I could answer, Dominic appeared in the doorway.
Victoria immediately slid the photograph into her pocket.
His eyes narrowed.
“What are you two talking about?”
“Nothing.”
Dominic looked at me.
I had never been particularly good at lying.
“Your sister thinks I should leave.”
His expression hardened.
“Victoria?”
She walked past him.
“You should all leave this house.”
Then she disappeared downstairs.
Dominic watched her go.
“What did she tell you?”
“That Elena died in a car accident.”
His face became unreadable again.
“And?”
“That’s it.”
It wasn’t.
He knew it wasn’t.
I knew he knew.
But before either of us could challenge the lie, Caleb screamed from downstairs.
“CLAIRE!”
I ran.
He was standing beside the kitchen counter holding my phone.
The screen showed an incoming call.
UNKNOWN NUMBER.
I answered.
“Hello?”
For two seconds, there was only breathing.
Then a man said:
“Mrs. Donovan, you need to get your daughter out of school.”
My blood turned cold.
“What?”
“Right now.”
“Who is this?”
The voice lowered.
May you like
“You made a mistake taking the Moretti job.”
The line went dead.
Related Stories
