Chapter 2 - THE LINEN ROOM WITNESS
The chill in the third-floor hallway felt less like Chicago autumn and more like a vault that hadn't been opened in decades.
Dr. Harris—a lean man with tired eyes and a black leather bag—closed the door behind him softly, leaving me sitting on the edge of a mahogany bench.
“Two fractured metacarpals,” Dr. Harris said, wiping his stethoscope with an antiseptic wipe before looking over his glasses at me. “And deep bruising consistent with a heavy oak door being slammed shut deliberately against your fingers. Not an accidental slip, Claire. Somebody held that door.”
I looked down at my taped fingers.
The white medical tape was tight against my skin, throbbing in rhythm with my pulse.
“Will I be able to work?” I asked.
Dr. Harris let out a dry, humorless laugh. “Work? You won’t be holding a soup tray for at least six weeks unless you want permanent nerve damage. Who did this, Claire?”
Before I could answer, the heavy oak doors at the end of the hall clicked open.
Luca Moretti walked in.
He didn’t knock. He didn't wait for Dr. Harris to finish packing his bag. He simply stepped into the room, his dark overcoat unbuttoned, his presence filling the high-ceilinged space until the walls felt like they were closing in.
“Is she fit for questioning?” Luca asked, his voice low and level.
Dr. Harris snapped his bag shut. “Her hand is broken, Mr. Moretti. Mentally? She’s shaken, but she’s coherent. I’ve given her a mild painkiller.”
Luca nodded once. “Thank you, Doctor. Dante will escort you out.”
As the doctor left, Luca closed the door and locked it with a single, quiet turn of the brass deadbolt.
The sound echoed off the wainscoting.
He walked slowly toward the bench, stopping two feet away. He didn't look like a groom preparing for a multimillion-dollar wedding in forty-eight hours. He looked like a predator who had just discovered a break in his perimeter.
“You lied to me downstairs,” Luca said softly.
“I didn't lie about being hurt,” I whispered.
“You lied about how it happened.” He reached out, his long fingers stopping an inch from my bandaged hand as if checking its temperature. “Vanessa told me you caught it in the linen closet door while carrying towels. But Dr. Harris says those bones didn't break from a simple swing. Someone pinned your hand in the frame and pushed.”
I stared at the Persian rug beneath my shoes.
“If I tell you the truth, Mr. Moretti, I lose my job. And my mother’s medical facility requires payment on the first of every month.”
Luca didn’t blink. “Your mother’s care is fully covered by this estate, Claire. Has been since you were hired six months ago.”
My head snapped up. “What?”
“You think an agency paying minimum wage hires someone with your education?” A faint, bitter smile touched the corner of his mouth. “Your father was an accountant for the dockworkers' union before he passed. You graduated from Northwestern with a degree in library science. You don’t belong scrubbing marble floors on the Gold Coast.”
“Then why did you hire me?”
“Because six months ago, my best man—Julian Vance—insisted we needed a new housekeeper from your specific neighborhood.” Luca’s eyes narrowed. “And yesterday afternoon, Julian walked into my private study while I was at the docks.”
The air in the room grew instantly colder.
“Julian?” I breathed.
“Julian,” Luca repeated. “And according to the security drive security pulled from your locker ten minutes ago, you weren't just putting away sheets at 4:16 today.”
He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a small, flat object.
He laid it on the mahogany bench between us.
It was the silver memory card.
“You walked out of that linen room with this,” Luca said, his voice dropping an octave. “And Vanessa locked you inside because she knew you had it. Tell me why, Claire. Before I decide whether you’re an accomplice or a victim.”
My throat tightened. I reached into my uniform pocket and pulled out a small, folded piece of thick cream stationery that had been tucked beneath the memory card when I picked it up off the linen room floor.
“I didn't steal that card from Julian, Mr. Moretti,” I whispered, unfolding the paper. “Vanessa dropped it when she slammed the door on my hand. But this note… this fell out of her pocket right before she did it.”
Luca took the paper.
His dark eyes scanned the handwritten lines.
In less than three seconds, the color completely drained from his face.
It wasn't Julian’s handwriting. It was Vanessa’s elegant, slanting cursive.
“If Julian gets the ledger from the safe tonight, meet me at the boathouse at midnight. Bring the second passport. Once Luca signs the pre-nup, the accounts transfer to Zurich, and we leave him with a corpse.”
Luca stared at the paper as if the ink were burning through his fingers.
Then, slowly, he looked up at me, his jaw locked so hard a muscle twitched in his cheek.
“Whose corpse, Claire?” he whispered.
Before I could answer, a sharp, frantic knocking rattled the locked door.
“Luca?” Vanessa’s voice called from the hallway, dripping with forced sweetness. “Open the door, darling! Everyone is looking for you downstairs—the caterer needs to know about the champagne!”
May you like
Luca didn’t look at the door. He kept his eyes locked on mine.
“Answer me,” he murmured, his voice shaking with a fury I had never imagined. “Whose corpse?”
