Chapter 3 - THE SILVER ROSARY
The heavy silver rosary slipped from the envelope and hit the hardwood floor with a sharp, metallic clatter.
The sound seemed to echo in the silent room for an eternity.
Anthony stared at the floor. All the color drained from his face, leaving him looking like a ghost. He took a slow, unsteady step forward, his eyes locked on the tarnished silver beads and the small, intricate crucifix.
“That’s…” Anthony’s voice cracked. The feared mob boss sounded entirely broken. “That’s Elena’s.”
I couldn’t breathe. I stared at the envelope in my trembling hand, then down at the rosary.
“Sir, I… I don’t know how this got in my pocket,” I stammered, feeling tears well up in my eyes. “I swear to you on my life, Anthony, I have never seen this before.”
Isabella let out a loud, theatrical gasp, pressing her hands to her mouth.
“You sick, twisted woman!” she screamed at me. “You didn’t just steal from his desk! You robbed his dead wife’s grave? What is wrong with you? Anthony, call the police! Have her arrested right now!”
Mrs. Dalton stepped in front of me, shielding me from Isabella’s wrath.
“Use your brain, you vicious girl!” the elderly housekeeper snapped at Isabella. “Grace has been cooking in the kitchen since five o'clock this morning! She hasn’t left the house in three days! How could she possibly rob a mausoleum?”
Isabella’s eyes darted nervously, but she doubled down.
“She obviously paid someone to do it! She’s trying to drive you insane, Anthony. She wants you to think Elena’s ghost is haunting this house so you’ll cancel the wedding!”
Anthony didn’t seem to hear a word Isabella was saying. He slowly knelt onto the floor and picked up the rosary. He held it in his massive, scarred hands with such extreme gentleness it broke my heart. His thumb ran over the tarnished crucifix.
“She was wearing this,” he whispered, a tear finally escaping his eye and rolling down his cheek. “When they closed the casket. She was holding it.”
He slowly stood up. His grief was instantly replaced by a terrifying, burning rage.
He didn’t look at me. He looked directly at Isabella.
“You bumped into Grace in the hallway earlier tonight,” Anthony said. His voice was no longer a shout; it was a deadly, quiet whisper. “When you were screaming at her for not setting the table fast enough. You shoved past her.”
Isabella stepped back, hitting the edge of the dining table.
“I… I bumped into her because she was in my way!”
“You planted it in her pocket,” Anthony said, taking a step toward her. “You stole the letter from my desk. And you put this rosary in her pocket to frame her.”
“No!” Isabella shrieked. “Why would I have her rosary? I didn’t even know Elena!”
“Then how do you explain this?” I suddenly spoke up.
My voice was shaking, but I forced myself to be loud. I looked down at the cream-colored envelope in my hand.
I had assumed it was the letter Sophie mentioned—the one addressed to Sophie.
But it wasn’t.
“Answer one,” I said, looking up at Anthony. “Isabella didn’t steal Elena’s letter to Sophie. She stole something else to hide it.”
Anthony turned to me. “What are you holding, Grace?”
I turned the envelope around. The handwriting wasn’t Elena’s beautiful, flowing cursive. It was sharp, jagged, and written in thick black ink.
“It’s not addressed to Sophie,” I said, my heart pounding as I read the name on the front. “It’s addressed to Isabella. Someone mailed this to the house yesterday, didn't they? And you hid it in Anthony’s locked drawer because you didn't want him to see it.”
Isabella lunged at me.
“Give me that! It’s mine!”
But before she could reach me, Anthony grabbed her by the arm, violently throwing her back against the table.
“Read it, Grace,” Anthony ordered.
I pulled the thick piece of paper from the unsealed envelope. My hands were shaking so badly I could barely focus on the words, but as my eyes scanned the page, a cold chill washed over my entire body.
“It’s a blackmail note,” I whispered, looking up at Anthony.
“Read it out loud,” he demanded.
I took a deep breath.
“I know what you did at the crash site five years ago. I know you were there before the police arrived. Leave one hundred thousand dollars at the drop tomorrow night, or I tell Anthony the truth about his perfect wife’s accident.”
The room fell into a deathly silence.
Anthony slowly turned to look at the woman he was supposed to marry in three weeks.
“You were at the crash site?” Anthony asked, his voice shaking with a rage so profound the air in the room felt heavy. “My wife slid on black ice in the middle of a storm, on a deserted highway… and you were there?”
Isabella was trapped. The arrogant, screaming woman from five minutes ago was gone, replaced by a cornered animal. She looked at the door, then at the windows, realizing Anthony’s guards were stationed outside every exit.
“Anthony, listen to me,” she pleaded, holding her hands up. “I didn’t do anything to her! I swear on my life! Yes, I was there, but I didn’t hurt her! You have to believe me!”
“Why were you there?” Anthony roared, the sound echoing through the mansion like thunder.
“Because she wasn’t the saint you thought she was!” Isabella screamed back, tears streaming down her face. “Your perfect, angelic dead wife was keeping secrets, Anthony! Big ones! I followed her that night because I knew she was up to something!”
Anthony grabbed her by the shoulders, his fingers digging into her skin.
“Who sent this note?” he demanded. “Who is blackmailing you?”
Isabella sobbed, shaking her head. “I don’t know! I swear, I don’t know! They just sent it in the mail!”
Suddenly, Sophie tugged on the hem of my apron.
I looked down at the little girl. Her eyes were wide, and she was pointing a shaking finger at Isabella.
“She’s lying, Daddy,” Sophie whispered.
Anthony froze. He let go of Isabella and dropped to his knees, making himself eye-level with his daughter.
“What do you mean, sweetheart? What do you know?”
Sophie sniffled, wiping her nose with the back of her hand.
“Isabella was yelling on her cell phone this morning in the library,” Sophie said softly. “She didn't see me reading on the sofa. She told the man on the phone that she wasn't going to pay him.”
Anthony’s eyes widened. “Did she use a name, Sophie? Did she say who she was talking to?”
Sophie shook her head. “No. But she told the man to remember the drawing. She said if he kept asking for money, she would burn the drawing in the library safe.”
Anthony stood up. Without a word, he turned and marched out of the dining room, heading straight down the hall toward the library.
I grabbed Sophie’s hand, and Mrs. Dalton and I hurried after him, with Isabella trailing behind us, weeping hysterically.
When we entered the massive, wood-paneled library, Anthony was already pulling a heavy oil painting off the wall. Behind it was a steel wall safe. He quickly punched in the code. The heavy metal door popped open.
Anthony reached inside and pulled out a single, crumpled piece of paper.
He unfolded it.
I watched as the powerful mafia boss stared at the paper. His broad shoulders slumped. He looked as if someone had just driven a knife into his chest.
“Anthony?” I asked softly, taking a step forward. “What is it?”
He didn’t answer. He simply turned the paper around so I could see it.
It wasn’t a document. It wasn’t a photograph.
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It was a crayon drawing. A child's drawing.
And as I looked at the crude stick figures drawn by a four-year-old Sophie, I realized exactly what Isabella had been hiding—and it changed everything we thought we knew about the night Elena died.
