Chapter 2 - THE DRIVER’S NAME
The silence in the dining room was so absolute I could hear the crystal pendants on the chandelier shifting in the air conditioning. Forty guests stared at me. Luca Moretti hadn’t blinked. He was still kneeling beside his mother’s chair, but his eyes were locked on my face. “Hannah,” he said. His voice was dangerously soft. “What name did you hear?” My palms were sweating against the fabric of my uniform. I looked at Vanessa. Her perfect posture had shattered. She was gripping the edge of the mahogany table, her knuckles stark white against the dark wood. “She’s lying,” Vanessa whispered. “Whatever she says, Luca, she’s a disgruntled employee. I fired her tonight.” “You didn't fire her,” Luca said without looking away from me. “Tell me the name, Hannah.” I took a breath. “Arthur.” Someone at the far end of the table gasped. Luca went completely still. Arthur was the family driver. He was the man who had been behind the wheel of the town car the night Catherine died. The police report said black ice caused the crash that killed them both instantly on a desolate stretch of highway outside Chicago. “Arthur has been dead for four years,” Luca said slowly. “I know, sir,” I replied, my voice shaking. “But yesterday afternoon, when Mrs. Moretti was resting, I went to her room to collect the laundry. The door was cracked open. Vanessa was standing by the closet.” Vanessa took a step toward me. “Shut your mouth.” Luca stood up. The movement was so sudden, so sharply controlled, that Vanessa froze. “Let her speak.” “She was holding a small blue blanket,” I continued, forcing myself to look at Luca, not the woman glaring daggers at me. “She was tracing the embroidery with her finger. And I heard her say, ‘You should have driven faster, Arthur. She almost ruined everything.’” The color drained from Luca’s face. He looked at Vanessa. “You said you never met Catherine,” he repeated. “You said you were hired by my corporate office three years ago.” Vanessa’s chest was heaving. “I was! Luca, you know my employment history. This girl is making things up because she wants money. Teresa put her up to it because she hates me!” Teresa’s frail hand squeezed mine. She didn't look frightened anymore. She looked like a mother protecting her child. “She’s not making it up,” Teresa said quietly. “Because I found the blanket this morning, Luca. Before Vanessa realized she’d left it behind.” Vanessa’s eyes darted toward the hallway. “I threw that filthy thing away.” “No,” Teresa said. “You didn't.” The elderly woman reached down beside her wheelchair, her trembling fingers fumbling with the clasp of her small quilted handbag. “Teresa, don't,” Vanessa warned, her voice dropping its sweet facade completely. It sounded harsh, desperate. Teresa pulled out a square of faded blue fabric. The edges were frayed. Luca stared at it. It was the blanket Catherine had made for their son, Leo, when she was on bed rest during her pregnancy. “Read what is sewn beneath Leo’s name, Luca,” his mother whispered, holding it out. Luca took the blanket. His thumb brushed over the familiar blue stitching of his son's name. Then he turned the hem over. There, stitched in small, hurried black thread—not the neat embroidery of a nursery item, but jagged, frantic letters—was a single word. Nessa. “Catherine was terrified,” Teresa wept softly. “She didn't know Vanessa’s full name. She only knew the woman who had been calling the house for months, hanging up when I answered. The woman Arthur brought to the side door when you were working late. Catherine found out. And she stitched it into the one thing she knew you would never throw away.” Luca looked up, his eyes hollow, locking onto Vanessa. “You were Arthur’s sister,” he said, his voice breaking. Vanessa didn’t deny it. She took a step back, bumping into a guest’s chair. “Arthur told me you were paying him extra,” Luca stepped toward her. “He said he needed the money for his sister’s medical bills. But that wasn’t it, was it?” “Luca, please,” Vanessa pleaded, raising her hands. “Was it!” he roared, the sound echoing off the high ceilings. Before Vanessa could answer, a small voice cut through the heavy air of the dining room. “Daddy?” Everyone turned. Standing at the top of the sweeping staircase was five-year-old Leo. He was wearing his dinosaur pajamas, rubbing his eyes, holding a small silver object that glinted in the chandelier light. “Leo, go back to bed,” Vanessa snapped immediately. The little boy flinched, shrinking back against the banister. Luca was across the room in seconds, taking the stairs two at a time. He scooped his son into his arms, burying his face in the boy’s neck for a brief second before pulling back. “It’s okay, buddy,” Luca whispered. “What are you holding?” Leo looked down at his small hand. He opened his fingers. “Nessa told me to put it in the garbage,” the boy whispered. “But it's Mommy’s.” Luca took the silver object. It was a key.
