Chapter 6 - THE TRUTH IN THE FLAMES
Dante moved with terrifying speed. He intercepted the man, grabbing his wrist and twisting it sharply. The flashlight clattered to the floor, rolling away into the shadows. Dante shoved the man hard against the peeling wallpaper, pinning him by the collar.
“Who are you?” Dante demanded, his voice a low, vibrating threat.
The man struggled, but Dante’s grip was iron. “I’m a private contractor,” he spat, wincing. “Ms. Hale hired me. She said there were stolen documents here. Said she’d pay me ten grand to burn them before morning.”
“She’s terrified,” I realized, clutching the stack of faded letters to my chest. The envelopes felt heavy, weighted with years of my mother’s grief. “She knew Marge kept them. She knew her whole victim narrative would collapse if anyone saw these.”
Marge was wheezing in her recliner, clutching her chest. “She… she really sent someone to burn my house?”
“No,” Dante said, easing his grip just slightly but keeping the man pinned. “She sent him to burn the letters. But she didn’t care who got hurt in the process.” Dante patted the man down, pulling a sleek black smartphone from his pocket. He held the screen up to the man’s face to unlock it, then scrolled through the messages.
“Well,” Dante said, a grim smile touching his lips. “Look at this. Text messages from Bianca Hale. ‘Go to Marge’s house. Destroy the lockbox on the mantle. Don’t let anyone stop you.’” Dante looked at the man. “You’re going to sit on that sofa and wait for the local police. If you move, I will break your arm.”
The man nodded, thoroughly cowed, and slumped onto the floral couch.
I turned to Mom. She was tracing the handwriting on the top envelope, tears spilling silently down her cheeks. “I wrote this one on her fifth birthday,” she whispered. “I bought her a little yellow dress. I had to return it because I couldn’t afford groceries.”
My heart broke for her. “Mom, we have to use these. We have to show the world tomorrow.”
“It’s not just the letters,” Dante said, his mind already three steps ahead. He pulled out his own phone and dialed his head of security. “Marco? I need you to contact the producers at Good Morning America. Tell them Dante Romano is requesting a live rebuttal segment tomorrow morning. Tell them I have exclusive evidence of fraud regarding Bianca Hale’s book.”
He hung up and looked at me. “We have the motive. We have the proof she lied about her identity. But we still need to prove she didn’t draw those pictures.”
“I can draw live on television,” I said. “I can recreate the portrait.”
“No,” a voice said from the doorway.
We all turned. Julian Price stood there, breathless and shivering in a thin trench coat.
“Julian?” I gasped. “What are you doing here?”
“I followed Dante’s plane,” Julian confessed, running a hand through his messy hair. “I chartered a flight. I couldn’t just sit in New York and watch my life’s work burn because I enabled a liar.” He looked at me, his eyes filled with apology. “Rose, recreating the drawing will take too long on live TV. And Bianca will just claim you learned by copying her.”
“Then what do we do?” I asked.
Julian pulled a thick, leather-bound book from his coat pocket. My breath caught in my throat. It was my sketchbook. The original one.
“She left it in Dante’s penthouse,” Julian said. “I went back after the police left. I told the concierge I left my wallet. I took it.”
I reached out and touched the worn leather cover. I opened it, flipping past the completed portraits to the very back pages. There, hidden beneath a fold, were my practice sketches. Rough lines, erased mistakes, coffee stains, and notes written in my messy handwriting in the margins: ‘Mom’s hands are too stiff here. Try softer shading.’
“You can’t fake the process,” Julian said softly. “This is your soul, Rose.”
“You realize,” Dante said to Julian, “if we show this tomorrow, your publishing house will take a massive hit. The book will be recalled.”
Julian nodded slowly. “I started my company to tell true stories. I won’t survive telling a lie.”
Dante’s phone buzzed again. He answered it, listened for a moment, and his face turned to stone. He hung up.
May you like
“What is it?” I asked.
“That was Marco,” Dante said. “Bianca’s team just escalated. She isn’t just going on TV tomorrow.” He looked at Mom. “She filed a restraining order against you, Elena. She’s claiming you’ve been stalking her. And she expedited the eviction. The sheriffs are arriving at your apartment in Queens at 8:00 AM to throw your belongings on the street.”
