Chapter 6 - THE GHOST IN THE ROOM
The gunfire abruptly stopped, the echoes swallowed by the roaring river outside.
The boathouse was suffocatingly tense, smelling of gunpowder and old cedar.
Luca stood perfectly still near the trapdoor, his gun trained on the wooden crates where Silas was hiding.
I was kneeling on the wet floorboards, my silver gun aimed directly at Vanessa’s chest.
Vanessa’s hand trembled slightly as she pressed the barrel of her weapon against Molly’s temple.
“Mommy!” Molly cried, struggling against the plastic zip-ties biting into her small wrists.
“Don’t move, baby,” I choked out, forcing my voice to stay level. “Look at me, Molly. Just look at me.”
Vanessa let out a jagged, hysterical laugh.
Her expensive gown was ruined, stained with river mud and sweat.
Her eyes were fixed on the silver crucifix resting against my collarbone.
“Where did you get that?” Vanessa hissed, her composure unraveling. “I watched him burn. I watched the ambulance go up in flames.”
“You didn’t watch closely enough,” I said, my voice eerily calm. “David pulled Mr. Caruso out before the gas tank blew. He hid him. And then he came back for me.”
Vanessa’s jaw tightened.
“He was a fool,” she spat. “He should have taken the money I offered him at the hospital and walked away. But no. He had to be a hero. He had to try and warn Luca.”
“Drop the gun, Vanessa,” Luca commanded, stepping slowly to the side to get a better angle. “It’s over. You don’t have an empire anymore. You don’t have a future. Let my mother and the girl go.”
“I have nothing to lose!” Vanessa screamed, pulling Molly roughly against her leg. “Silas! Shoot him!”
From behind the crates, Silas popped up.
But before he could aim, a deafening roar shattered the tension.
Eleanor Caruso, the frail, seventy-six-year-old widow tied to the wooden chair, had managed to kick a heavy iron boat anchor resting on the floor directly into Silas’s knee.
Silas shrieked in agony, dropping his weapon and collapsing to the floor.
Luca didn’t hesitate. He lunged forward, kicking Silas’s gun across the room, and pressed his boot down hard on the hitman’s throat.
Vanessa screamed, pointing her gun wildly between me and Luca.
“Stay back!” she shrieked.
“Vanessa, look at me,” I said quietly, stepping forward.
I didn’t raise my gun. I let it hang by my side.
“You think you won six years ago,” I told her, my voice echoing over the rushing water beneath us. “You thought you erased my husband. But David beat you. He hid the truth in a pawn shop. He hid this rosary in his coat. He knew if he died, I would eventually find it.”
“He was nothing!” Vanessa spat, tears of sheer panic ruining her makeup. “He was a poor, pathetic ambulance driver!”
“He was a good man,” I fired back, taking another slow step toward her. “Something you know absolutely nothing about. He died trying to save a man he didn’t even know. And you? You’re going to die in this rotting shack, holding a gun to a nine-year-old girl, because you were too weak to build your own empire.”
Vanessa’s hand shook violently.
She looked at Luca, who had his gun aimed squarely at the center of her forehead.
She looked at Silas, gasping for air under Luca’s boot.
And then she looked at me.
She slowly lowered the gun from Molly’s head.
I let out a breath I felt like I had been holding for six years.
But as Vanessa dropped the weapon, she smiled—a cruel, twisting smirk that chilled my blood.
“You’re right, Rachel,” Vanessa said softly. “Your husband hid the truth well. But did he hide everything?”
I stopped in my tracks. “What are you talking about?”
Vanessa kicked the dropped gun away and held up her empty hands.
“Did you ever ask yourself why David didn’t just go to the police that night? Why he didn't run away with you immediately? He hid the watch. He hid the rosary. Why didn't he go to the authorities?”
“Because he knew you owned the police,” I said firmly.
Vanessa threw her head back and laughed.
“No, sweetheart. We didn’t own the police back then. The Carusos did.”
Luca frowned. “Shut up, Vanessa.”
“Ask her!” Vanessa yelled, pointing a manicured finger at Eleanor, who was suddenly trembling violently in her chair. “Ask the grieving widow why your husband couldn’t go to the cops! Ask her what David saw when he pulled Antonio Caruso out of that burning ambulance!”
I turned to look at Eleanor.
The old woman had turned the color of ash. She wouldn't meet my eyes.
“Eleanor?” I asked, my voice wavering.
Vanessa stepped forward, her voice dripping with venom.
“Silas didn’t shoot Antonio Caruso, Rachel. My brother intercepted the ambulance to finish the job, yes. But Antonio was already dying when David picked him up in the alley.”
My mind spun.
I looked at Luca. He looked just as confused.
“Who shot him?” Luca demanded.
Vanessa smiled triumphantly.
“Reach into Eleanor’s coat pocket, Rachel. The one she’s wearing right now. Pull out what’s inside.”
I slowly walked over to the tied-up elderly woman.
Eleanor squeezed her eyes shut, tears leaking down her wrinkled face.
“Don’t, Rachel,” Eleanor whispered, her voice breaking. “Please. Leave it in the past.”
But my hand was already plunging into the deep pocket of Eleanor’s wool coat.
My fingers brushed against something hard and metallic.
I pulled it out.
It was a small, pearl-handled Derringer pistol. A woman’s gun.
And wrapped around the barrel was a small, bloody piece of fabric—a torn piece of an EMT’s uniform.
David’s uniform.
“Vanessa didn't order the hit on Antonio, Luca,” Silas wheezed from the floor, laughing through the blood in his mouth. “Your own mother shot him.”
The gun in my hand suddenly felt a thousand pounds heavier.
May you like
I looked down at the woman I had cared for, the woman who had protected my daughter, the woman who had taken me in.
“Eleanor,” I whispered, my world completely shattering for the second time in one night. “What did you do?”
