Chapter 7 - THE BETRAYAL INSIDE THE FAMILYI called Rebecca Ellis back six times.
No answer.
The seventh call went straight to voicemail.
I stood alone in the corridor outside the conference room, staring at my phone while my mind raced through every possible meaning of her warning.
Someone your husband has trusted his entire life.
Lorenzo?
Daniel?
Richard?
Someone else entirely?
Vincent had known Richard Vale since childhood.
But Rebecca had specifically said the person who arranged my mother's crash wasn't Anthony Moretti.
That didn't eliminate Richard.
It simply meant the person responsible might have worked for Anthony.
Or used him.
I called Margaret Whitmore.
She answered immediately.
"Claire?"
"I just received a call from Rebecca Ellis."
There was a pause.
"Who?"
"The federal investigator my mother contacted before she died."
Margaret's voice sharpened.
"Where is she?"
"I don't know. She said she has the original report about my mother's accident."
"Did she tell you where it is?"
"No."
"Did she say anything else?"
I repeated the warning.
Margaret was silent for several seconds.
Then she said, "Don't confront anyone. Send me the number she called from, and preserve the voicemail and call logs."
"I will."
"Claire, are you still at the mansion?"
"Yes."
"Stay with trusted people until we can assess this. I'm contacting the appropriate authorities."
I ended the call.
When I returned to the library, Vincent was standing beside the fireplace.
He looked up.
"Where have you been?"
"Taking a call."
He studied my expression.
"Something happened."
I hesitated.
For months, I'd told him things were wrong.
For months, he'd dismissed me.
But this wasn't about our marriage anymore.
It was about my mother's death.
"Rebecca Ellis contacted me," I said.
Vincent stiffened.
"The investigator?"
"Yes."
"What did she say?"
"That someone you trust arranged my mother's accident."
His expression changed.
"Who?"
"She didn't tell me."
Vincent ran a hand through his hair.
"Claire, I know things between us are terrible, but you have to believe I would never hurt your family."
I looked at him.
"Did I accuse you?"
"No."
"Then stop defending yourself and start thinking."
He nodded.
For once, he listened.
We sat across from each other.
I opened the old photograph from 1999.
Anthony Moretti.
Charles Whitcomb.
Richard Vale.
Three men.
One criminal operation.
One dead nurse.
I stared at Richard.
"He worked for your uncle before joining Moretti Global."
"Yes."
"Did he handle Anthony's personal business?"
Vincent frowned.
"Sometimes."
"Vehicles?"
"Probably."
"Drivers?"
"Yes."
My chest tightened.
"What about security?"
Vincent looked at me.
"Richard coordinated private security for several family properties."
I felt my pulse quicken.
"Did he coordinate security in 1999?"
Vincent nodded slowly.
"That was before I worked at the company, but yes."
I showed him my mother's notebook.
The license plate.
The black sedan.
The warning.
"Who would have known my mother visited this estate that night?"
Vincent thought.
"Household staff. Security. My father."
"And whoever managed the security records."
Vincent's face went pale.
"Richard."
I nodded.
"But we still need proof."
We contacted Thomas.
He had served as the family's driver for thirty-one years.
When he entered the library, he looked troubled.
"Is something wrong, ma'am?"
I gestured toward a chair.
"Thomas, I need to ask you about December 14, 1999."
His expression changed immediately.
He didn't sit.
"What about it?"
I felt my stomach tighten.
"You remember that date?"
He looked toward Vincent.
Then back at me.
"Yes, ma'am."
"Why?"
Thomas swallowed.
"That was the night Miss Eleanor came to the house."
My heart stopped.
"You knew her?"
He nodded.
"She was a kind young woman. Very frightened that evening."
I leaned forward.
"What happened?"
Thomas looked down.
"Mr. Lorenzo told me to take her home."
I stared at him.
"You drove her?"
"No, ma'am. She refused."
"Why?"
"She said someone might follow the estate's car. She thought she'd be safer driving herself."
A chill moved through me.
"What happened next?"
Thomas hesitated.
"I saw a black sedan leave the service driveway about ten minutes after she departed."
I held my breath.
"Who was driving?"
He closed his eyes.
"Richard Vale."
Vincent rose abruptly.
"Are you certain?"
Thomas looked at him.
"Yes, sir."
"Why didn't you tell anyone?"
"I told Mr. Anthony the next morning."
My stomach dropped.
"What did he say?"
Thomas swallowed.
"He told me Richard had been sent to retrieve a document from another property. He said it was none of my concern."
I stared at him.
"Did you know my mother died that night?"
Thomas lowered his head.
"Not until two days later."
"And you never connected the two?"
His eyes filled with tears.
"I did, ma'am."
The silence that followed seemed unbearable.
He continued quietly.
"But Mr. Anthony warned me that making accusations against important people could ruin my career."
Vincent looked furious.
"Thomas, you should have come to Father."
"I was afraid, sir."
I looked at the elderly man.
The guilt in his face was real.
But so was the damage caused by his silence.
"Did you ever tell anyone else?"
Thomas hesitated.
"Yes."
"Who?"
"Mrs. Moretti."
"Isabella?"
He nodded.
"She asked me about Miss Eleanor after the accident. I told her everything."
I felt a sharp ache.
Isabella knew Richard had followed my mother.
And she had hidden the notebook.
Perhaps she had been trying to gather proof.
Perhaps she had spent the remaining years of her life carrying the same guilt as Lorenzo.
"What did she do?" I asked.
Thomas looked toward the garden.
"She told me she would find the truth."
A soft voice came from the doorway.
"She tried."
We turned.
Margaret Reeves stood there.
Her cane trembled in her hand.
"Isabella was the bravest woman I ever knew after Eleanor."
I rose.
"What happened to her?"
Margaret entered slowly.
"After your mother's death, Isabella began investigating Anthony and Richard."
Vincent looked stunned.
"Mother never told me."
"She was trying to protect you."
Margaret sat.
"She suspected Anthony had been involved in Daniel's disappearance, but she didn't know the full truth. When Eleanor died, Isabella realized the people responsible might be willing to kill."
I felt sick.
"Did she discover anything?"
Margaret nodded.
"She found old payment records and correspondence. That's why she helped Eleanor hide the evidence."
"Where are those records now?"
"Some may be in the garden case. Others were kept separately."
"Where?"
Margaret looked at Lorenzo's portrait on the wall.
"Isabella had a private apartment in Manhattan. She kept a locked filing cabinet there."
Vincent frowned.
"Mother's apartment was sold after she died."
Margaret nodded.
"But the contents were placed in storage."
Lorenzo entered the room.
"I still have them."
We all turned.
He looked exhausted.
"Her belongings are in the estate's west storage building."
My heart began racing.
"Then we need to examine them."
Lorenzo nodded.
"I'll have Thomas bring the boxes."
But Margaret shook her head.
"Not without documenting everything properly. These could be original records with evidentiary value."
I agreed.
Margaret Whitmore arranged for the forensic team to inventory and examine the storage area.
By evening, investigators had located four locked metal boxes bearing Isabella's initials.
The locks were opened under documented procedures.
Inside were old photographs.
Hospital correspondence.
Bank statements.
A diary.
And a sealed file labeled:
ELEANOR BENNETT — DECEMBER 1999.
I stood beside the table as Margaret Whitmore carefully opened it.
The first document was a copy of a vehicle accident report.
The second was a handwritten statement from a witness.
The third was a photograph of the road where my mother died.
I stared at it.
Snow-covered asphalt.
A damaged guardrail.
A steep embankment.
And a dark vehicle partially visible at the edge of the frame.
My throat tightened.
Margaret studied the witness statement.
"Claire, you should see this."
I took it.
The witness described seeing a black sedan accelerate toward a small blue car shortly before the collision.
The sedan allegedly struck the rear quarter panel.
The blue car spun.
Then disappeared over the embankment.
The witness had reported the incident.
But the original police report listed the crash as weather-related.
I felt dizzy.
"My mother's car was blue."
Margaret nodded.
I read the rest.
The witness had recorded part of the sedan's plate number.
It matched the number in my mother's notebook.
I looked up.
"Richard followed her."
Vincent's face was ashen.
"Claire..."
"He followed her, and someone forced her off the road."
I couldn't finish.
For twenty-seven years, I'd imagined my mother losing control on an icy highway.
I'd imagined her frightened and alone.
Now there was evidence she'd been deliberately targeted.
And the man who might know why had eaten dinner with me dozens of times.
My knees weakened.
Vincent moved toward me.
I didn't push him away this time.
He steadied my elbow.
For a moment, I let him.
Then I straightened.
"I'm okay."
He nodded, although we both knew I wasn't.
Margaret continued reviewing the documents.
Then she stopped.
"There's another letter."
It was handwritten by Isabella.
Addressed to Lorenzo.
The paper was yellowed and folded.
Margaret read aloud.
Lorenzo, if you ever discover this letter, please understand that Eleanor did not die because of the weather.
Anthony and Richard were involved in something terrible. I am afraid Anthony ordered the crash, but I believe Richard carried it out.
I have tried to confront Richard twice. Both times, he denied everything.
There is a recording that may prove his involvement. I have hidden it where Anthony cannot find it.
I leaned forward.
"A recording?"
Margaret continued.
If I cannot finish this, ask Thomas about the summer house. He knows which room I kept locked.
Thomas stared at the letter.
"Good Lord."
Lorenzo turned toward him.
"What summer house?"
Thomas swallowed.
"The cottage by the lake."
Vincent frowned.
"Mother's painting studio?"
Thomas nodded.
"She kept a small room behind the studio locked. She told me never to let anyone inside without her permission."
I felt hope flare.
"Is the cottage still there?"
"Yes, ma'am."
I looked at Margaret.
"We need to inspect it."
She nodded.
"I'll coordinate with the investigators."
But before anyone moved, Daniel hurried into the room.
His face was white.
"Where's Sophia?"
Vincent looked up.
"I thought she was with you."
Daniel shook his head.
"She's gone."
My stomach tightened.
"What do you mean, gone?"
"Her car is missing. Her phone is off."
He held up a piece of paper.
"She left this."
I took it.
The note was short.
I'm sorry, Daniel. Richard says he has Lily. He wants the flash drive. I have to go.
My blood ran cold.
Daniel's face crumpled.
"He has my daughter."
The room erupted.
Vincent grabbed his phone.
Lorenzo called security.
Margaret immediately instructed Daniel to preserve the note and all recent messages, then contacted law enforcement.
I stared at the paper.
Sophia had left voluntarily.
But only because someone claimed to have her child.
There was no way to know whether Richard was telling the truth.
And that made the situation even more dangerous.
Daniel looked at me.
"Claire, please. I know what Sophia did to you. I know we both hurt your family. But Lily is four years old."
His voice broke.
"She's innocent."
I looked at the man who had spent his whole life searching for a family.
Now he was terrified of losing the one he'd built.
"Give the authorities everything," I said. "Every message Richard sent. Every address. Every contact."
He nodded desperately.
Then my phone vibrated.
Another message.
An image.
Sophia sat in the back of a black SUV.
Her eyes were red.
Beside her was a child's pink backpack.
Underneath the image were six words.
BRING THE FILES OR THE FAMILY PAYS.
I showed Margaret immediately.
She contacted the investigators handling the threats.
And as officers began working to locate Sophia and Lily, I looked at Vincent.
For once, there was no arrogance in his face.
Only fear.
"Claire," he said quietly, "this is bigger than any of us."
I nodded.
"Yes."
Then I looked at the photograph of the pink backpack.
"And that's exactly why we're going to stop trying to handle it like a family scandal."
May you like
I picked up my mother's notebook.
"We're going to tell the truth."
Related Stories
