Chapter 3 - THE LOCKET IN THE HALLWAY
“I didn’t! I never met her!” Vanessa shrieked, panic finally cracking her perfectly modulated voice. She lunged forward, trying to snatch the photograph from Carmine’s hands, but he stepped back, holding it out of her reach.
From where I stood by the piano, I could clearly see the glossy image under the warm glow of the chandelier. It was an old Polaroid, the colors slightly faded by time. In the center of the frame stood Elena, looking radiant and tired, heavily pregnant with Lucy. She was wearing a simple yellow maternity dress, her hands resting protectively over her swollen belly.
But it was the woman standing next to her that made the air freeze in my lungs.
It was Vanessa.
She looked younger, her hair a mousy brown instead of her current expensive honey-blonde highlights, her clothes plain and ill-fitting compared to the designer red gown she wore tonight. But she was standing shoulder-to-shoulder with Elena, smiling a tight, unnatural smile, her hand resting awkwardly on Elena’s pregnant stomach.
“Who took this picture?” Carmine demanded, his eyes locked on the image. His voice was a low, dangerous rumble. “Where was this taken, Vanessa? You said you moved to the city two years ago. Elena has been gone for three.”
Vanessa backed away, her hands fluttering defensively to her chest. “It’s... it’s a Photoshop! That maid did it! Nell is trying to frame me! She hates me because I told her she was slacking on her duties!”
“I don't know how to use Photoshop, Vanessa,” I said quietly. “And that’s a vintage Polaroid. You can’t digitally alter a physical instant photo.”
I stepped closer to the table, my eyes scanning the background of the picture. There were pale green walls. A bulletin board covered in pastel flyers. A circle of folding chairs. And a small, hand-painted sign taped to the doorframe behind them that read: St. Jude’s Maternal Grief Support.
“I know where that is,” I said, pointing to the sign in the photo. “Elena went to a support group at St. Jude’s clinic for a year after she suffered her first miscarriage. Before she got pregnant with Lucy.”
Carmine looked at me, then back at his fiancée. The pieces were slowly locking into place behind his eyes, and the devastation on his face was agonizing to watch.
“You were in her grief group,” Carmine stated. It wasn't a question. “You knew her intimately. You knew her pain. You knew about me.”
Vanessa burst into tears. It was a spectacular performance, immediate and violent. She dropped her face into her hands, her shoulders shaking with heavy, dramatic sobs.
“Yes! Fine, yes!” she cried, looking up with mascara perfectly smudged beneath her eyes. “I knew her! We were friends, Carmine! We met in the group. I lost my baby, and my husband left me because of it. I was broken. Elena was the only one who understood me. She was so kind to me.”
“Elena never mentioned you,” Carmine said, his voice completely hollow. “She told me about everyone in that group. She never mentioned a Vanessa.”
“I used my middle name back then!” Vanessa pleaded, taking a step toward him. “I was so ashamed of my divorce. Elena was my secret confidante. When she died, I was devastated. I started volunteering at her foundation to honor her. And when I saw you... Carmine, I was so lonely. And you were so lonely. I knew if I told you I knew Elena, you’d just see me as a tragic reminder of her death. You never would have given me a chance. I just wanted to love you the way she did!”
A murmur rippled through the guests. A few of the older women looked sympathetic. Vanessa was spinning a web of tragic romance, painting herself as a broken, desperate woman who had lied only out of deep, profound love.
I felt sick to my stomach. She was good. She was terrifyingly good.
“She’s lying,” I said, though my voice trembled slightly against the weight of the room. “Elena didn't have secret confidantes. She told you everything, Mr. Orsini.”
“Shut up, Nell!” Vanessa spat, her tears instantly vanishing for a fraction of a second before she resumed her weeping. “You’re just domestic help! You have no idea what Elena kept from her husband!”
Before Carmine could respond, a small, sleepy voice drifted into the dining room from the grand hallway.
“Daddy?”
Everyone turned. Standing in the arched doorway was four-year-old Lucy. She was wearing her pink fleece pajamas, her dark curls sleep-tousled around her cherub face. She was rubbing her right eye with a small fist, awakened by the shouting.
“Lucy, sweetheart, what are you doing out of bed?” Carmine said, his harsh demeanor instantly melting into frantic paternal warmth. He rushed over to his daughter, kneeling on the hardwood floor to pull her into a hug. “Daddy’s sorry it’s loud down here. Go back upstairs to Mrs. Gable.”
“I can’t sleep,” Lucy mumbled, burying her face in her father’s neck. Then she pulled back and held out her small left hand. Her little fingers were clutching something shiny and silver. “The lady dropped Mommy’s necklace in the hallway.”
Carmine froze.
He looked down at his daughter’s open palm.
I stepped forward, my eyes locking onto the object. It was a heavy, antique silver locket, engraved with a delicate pattern of ivy leaves.
My breath hitched. I knew that locket.
Elena had worn it every single day. She had never taken it off, not even to shower. It was a family heirloom from her grandmother. When Elena had suffered a sudden, fatal aneurysm while walking in the botanical gardens three years ago, her body had been rushed to the hospital. Carmine had been out of the country on business. By the time he arrived at the morgue to say goodbye, the coroner had handed over her personal effects. Her wedding ring, her watch, her earrings.
But the silver locket had been missing. The police assumed it had been stolen by a passerby in the chaos of her collapse, or lost in the grass of the park. Carmine had hired private investigators to scour pawn shops for a year, desperate to get it back, but it had vanished.
And now, my boss’s four-year-old daughter was holding it in her hand.
Carmine gently took the locket from Lucy’s fingers. His hands were visibly shaking. He looked up, his dark eyes fixing on Vanessa with a terrifying, absolute clarity.
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“Lucy,” Carmine whispered, never taking his eyes off his fiancée. “Which lady dropped this?”
Lucy pointed a small, innocent finger directly at Vanessa’s red designer gown. “The angry lady. It fell out of her sparkly purse when she was walking fast to the bathroom.”
