Chapter 3 - The Trunk of the Car
Vincent stared at the gold watch on Mark’s wrist. For a decade, the DeLuca family had been told that the elder DeLuca had been robbed and killed in an alley, his prized watch stripped from his body. Now, it was sitting on the wrist of Caroline’s secret husband. “Take it off,” Vincent said. Mark hesitated. The confusion on his face was beginning to morph into genuine fear as he looked at the hard, unsmiling faces of the DeLuca men surrounding the room. “Take the watch off, Mark,” Vincent repeated. Mark unclasped the watch and handed it over. Vincent turned it over in his palm. I could see the familiar engraving on the back: Forever, Helen. Vincent slowly placed the watch into his mother’s trembling hands. Then, he turned to his guards. “Lock the doors. Nobody leaves.” Caroline let out a choked sob. “Vincent, I didn’t know! I bought that watch at a pawn shop in the Diamond District! I just thought it was handsome. It’s a coincidence.” “There are no coincidences in my family,” Vincent said. He stepped closer to Caroline. She shrank back against the fireplace mantel. “You stole three million dollars. You tried to throw my mother into a holding apartment. You lied about your marriage. But if you had anything to do with my father’s death, Caroline, the police will be the absolute least of your worries.” “I swear!” she cried, her perfect makeup ruined. “I just wanted the money. We were bankrupt. Mark didn’t know about the engagement, and I didn’t know the watch was your father’s! I’m just a thief, Vincent. I’m not a murderer.” It was a pathetic, humiliating confession. But something bothered me. I looked at Mark. He was standing near the entryway, sweating profusely, but he wasn’t looking at the guards. He was looking out the heavy front windows, toward the dark driveway. “Are you alone, Mark?” I asked. The entire room turned to me. I was just the caregiver, but the panic in Mark’s eyes was too loud to ignore. “Mark?” Vincent demanded. “Who is in the car?” “Nobody,” Mark stammered quickly. Too quickly. “I came alone.” Vincent nodded to his head of security. The guard opened the front door and marched out to the idling black sedan. A moment later, the guard returned. He was carrying a little girl. She was perhaps six years old, wearing a pink winter coat over pajamas, clutching a stuffed rabbit. Her eyes were wide and terrified. Caroline let out a scream and lunged forward, but a guard caught her by the arms. “Don’t touch her!” Caroline shrieked. “Don’t you dare touch my daughter!” Vincent looked at the child, then at Caroline. “You have a daughter.” “She’s innocent,” Mark begged, dropping to his knees. “Please, Mr. DeLuca. Caroline told me to pack the car with everything we owned. She said after we dropped your mother off at the apartment, we were taking a private flight to Paris. We were supposed to start over.” Vincent looked at the little girl. The harsh lines of his face faltered for a fraction of a second. He was a ruthless man, but he drew a hard line at children. He looked at me. “Nora. Take the child to the kitchen.” I walked forward, extending my hand. The little girl hesitated, then grabbed my fingers tightly. I led her away from the screaming and the guards, pushing the swinging kitchen door shut behind us. I knelt down to her eye level. “Hi, sweetie,” I said softly. “I’m Nora. What’s your name?” “Mia,” she whispered. “Mia, you’re very brave. Let’s get you some hot chocolate.” As I stood up, Mia’s stuffed rabbit slipped from her arms. It hit the floor, and the back seam split open. Something fell out of the stuffing. It wasn’t a toy. It was a thick, rubber-banded stack of passports. I picked them up. There were three passports for Mia, Mark, and Caroline. But there was a fourth passport tucked underneath. I opened it. The photo inside belonged to Helen DeLuca.
