Chapter 3 - THE INSCRIPTION
The dining room felt like it had been plunged into ice.
Tom stared at the silver watch resting in his palm. His brother, Leo, had worn it every day since their father passed away. When Leo died in the scaffolding collapse three years ago, Tom had begged the police to find it. They told him it was gone.
“Tom, I bought that at an estate sale,” Celeste stammered, pulling her shawl tighter around her shoulders. “It’s a coincidence.”
“It says L.J.M.,” Tom said, his voice dangerously low. “Leo James Miller. With the date of our parents' anniversary. It’s not a coincidence.”
Nico Caruso, who had been halfway to the door, stopped. He turned back, his dark eyes narrowing at the watch, then at Celeste.
“Leo Miller?” Nico asked, stepping closer. “The foreman who died at the Southside development?”
Tom looked up, surprised. “You knew my brother?”
“I funded that development,” Nico said flatly. “Celeste’s husband, Richard, was the lead contractor. I was told the scaffolding collapse was a tragic accident due to bad weather.”
“It was!” Celeste shrieked, backing away toward the kitchen doors. “Richard was cleared of all negligence.”
I looked at Celeste’s panicked eyes. I remembered the way she had insisted I serve tonight. She hadn’t just wanted a good server; she wanted me specifically. She had kept me late. She had taken my phone. She was trying to keep me away from Tom.
“You didn’t steal my phone just to keep me here,” I realized aloud, the pieces clicking together in my mind. “You knew Tom was at the courthouse. You knew he’d come looking for me if I didn’t show up. You were trying to drive him away completely.”
“Why would she care about me?” Tom asked, his grip tightening on the watch.
“Because of the engraving inside,” Nico said suddenly.
We all looked at him.
“Richard came to me the day after the accident,” Nico explained, his voice cold. “He said Leo had found something irregular in the supply logs and was keeping evidence in the back of his pocket watch. Richard swore the watch was destroyed in the collapse.”
Tom’s hands shook as he fumbled with the latch on the back of the timepiece. It was stiff with age and dirt. Finally, it popped open with a quiet click.
Inside the casing, folded into a tiny, tight square, was a piece of yellowed paper.
Tom unfolded it carefully. It wasn’t a supply log.
It was a faded photograph of a baby girl, wrapped in a hospital blanket. And written across the bottom, in Leo’s handwriting, was a single address.
I leaned over Tom’s shoulder to look at the picture. My breath caught in my throat.
May you like
The baby was wrapped in a very specific, hand-stitched quilt. It was pale pink with little yellow daisies.
“That’s my mother’s quilt,” I whispered.
