Chapter 3 - THE CHILD'S DRAWING
“Claire?” Luca repeated.
The entire room turned to stare at me. I was still clutching the empty porcelain plate against my apron, my hands shaking so violently I thought I might drop it.
“That’s a lie!” I cried, stepping forward. “Mr. Moretti, you know me. I’ve cared for your mother for four years. I’ve never even seen that watch!”
Vanessa marched toward me, her eyes wild with a sudden, desperate triumph. She wasn't just a wealthy socialite throwing a tantrum anymore; she looked like a cornered animal fighting for her life.
“You play the innocent housekeeper so well,” Vanessa sneered. “But I know who you really are. I had my own people looking into you, Claire. Or should I say... Clara?”
My breath caught in my throat. Nobody had called me Clara since I was seventeen years old.
Vanessa reached into the bodice of her gown and pulled out a crumpled piece of paper. She threw it onto the mahogany dining table.
It was a child’s drawing. Crayon on construction paper. A crude drawing of a blue boat with yellow sunrays.
I felt all the blood drain from my face.
“I found that hidden under your mattress this morning,” Vanessa said, her voice ringing through the quiet room. “A lovely picture. Signed on the back by a little boy named Toby. A boy who just happens to be the son of the man who supposedly killed Luca’s father.”
The guests gasped.
Luca’s expression went completely blank. He looked at the drawing, then at me. “Claire. Is this true? Are you Thomas Bennett’s sister?”
Thomas. My older brother. The man the Moretti family blamed for the crash that killed Antonio Moretti. Thomas had been Antonio’s driver. He vanished the night of the crash, leaving me to raise his infant son, Toby.
“Yes,” I whispered, tears spilling hot and fast down my cheeks. “Thomas is my brother. But he didn't kill your father! He was framed!”
“She infiltrated this house!” Vanessa yelled to the guests. “She’s been plotting to steal the shipping ports to avenge her criminal brother! She forged the signature, and Margaret is helping her!”
Teresa Moretti slammed her fist against the table.
“Enough!” the old woman roared.
Even Luca jumped.
Teresa stood up, ignoring her wheelchair. She walked directly over to me and took the porcelain plate from my trembling hands. She set it gently on the table.
Then, Teresa reached up to the thick, beautiful string of pearls around her neck.
“Claire didn't infiltrate anything,” Teresa said, staring Vanessa down. “I sought her out. I hired her. Because I knew Thomas was innocent.”
Vanessa scoffed. “You’re delusional, old woman.”
“Am I?” Teresa asked quietly.
She gripped the center pearl of her necklace and pulled hard. The string snapped. Pearls scattered across the floor like marbles, but Teresa held the center bead.
She twisted it. It came apart in her hands, revealing a tiny, gold micro-key.
“My husband gave me this key the night he died,” Teresa whispered, placing it on the table next to the child's drawing. “He said if anything ever happened to him, this key would prove who really sabotaged his car. And it wasn't Claire’s brother.”
Luca stared at the key. “What does it open, Mama?”
“A locker at the Saint Charles train station,” Teresa said. “But there’s a problem. I went there yesterday. The locker was empty.”
May you like
Teresa turned her piercing gaze back to Vanessa.
“But the security footage showed exactly who emptied it.” Teresa pulled a folded photograph from her pocket and tossed it onto the table. “And it wasn't you, Vanessa. It was your husband.”
