Chapter 3 - THE LADY IN THE WINDOW
“Mr. Romano, please,” I pleaded, my voice cracking as I stepped in front of Emily, instinctively shielding her. “You have known me for seventeen years. I loved Catherine. I would never—I could never harm her.”
Dominic stood perfectly still, the small amber vial resting in his large palm. His face was a mask of stone. In his world, betrayal was punishable by death, and the evidence was sitting right there in his hand.
Vanessa let out a theatrical gasp, pressing a hand to her chest. “My god. The housekeeper. Dominic, I told you she was obsessed with your family. She probably wanted Catherine out of the way so she could play mother to Emily!”
“That is a lie!” I shouted, the sheer injustice of it tearing through my usual professional restraint. I pointed at the vial in Dominic’s hand. “Mr. Romano, I don’t know where Michael got that, but it wasn’t from my room. I’ve never seen it before in my life.”
Michael wiped his sweating forehead. “I found it tucked behind the baseboard in your bathroom, Grace. Don’t lie.”
The tension in the room was thick enough to choke on. Dominic took a slow step toward me. My heart pounded in my ears. I didn’t fear for my job anymore; I feared for my freedom. In the mafia world, people who killed the boss’s wife didn’t get handed over to the police. They disappeared.
But before Dominic could speak, a small, quiet voice broke the silence.
“That’s not Miss Grace’s bottle.”
Everyone froze. Emily stepped out from behind me, her eyes locked on the amber glass in her father’s hand.
“What did you say, sweetheart?” Dominic asked, his voice softening instantly.
“Mommy took heart drops from an amber bottle,” Emily said, her eleven-year-old voice remarkably steady. “Miss Grace always gave them to her. But Miss Grace’s bottle had a deep scratch across the white label. I remember because I used to trace it with my fingernail when Mommy was resting.”
She pointed a tiny finger at the vial in Dominic’s hand. “That label is perfect. It’s not the one Miss Grace used.”
Answer One. The vial was planted. I let out a breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding.
Open Two. If Michael planted it, where did he get the real poison? And who actually administered it?
Dominic examined the label. It was pristine. He looked back at Michael, and the fury in his eyes was apocalyptic.
“You planted this,” Dominic said, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper.
“No! Dom, I swear—” Michael backed away, hitting the edge of the dining table.
“Wait,” Emily said, her brow furrowing. She reached into the pocket of her dress—the same pocket where she had kept the boarding school card—and pulled out a folded piece of drawing paper. “I didn’t want to say anything because Vanessa said it was just a bad dream. But I drew this the night Mommy went to sleep forever.”
She unfolded the paper and handed it to her father.
I leaned over to look. It was a child’s crayon drawing, but the details were chillingly specific. It showed a woman standing by Catherine’s bedroom window in the dark. The woman was holding a small bottle.
“I saw her when I went to get a glass of water,” Emily whispered.
Vanessa stepped forward, her face flushed with anger. “Dominic, this is absurd! The child is traumatized. You’re going to believe a crayon drawing over your own brother?”
“Let her speak,” Dominic growled, not looking away from the paper. He knelt down to Emily’s level. “Did you see her face, Em? Was it Vanessa?”
Reversal.
I expected Emily to point right at the woman who had tormented her for months. But Emily shook her head.
“No. It wasn’t Vanessa,” Emily said. “This lady had dark hair. And when she reached for the window, the moonlight hit her arm. She had a big butterfly tattoo right here.” Emily pointed to her own inner wrist.
Vanessa doesn’t have a tattoo. Neither do I.
Dominic stood up, his jaw clenched so tight I thought his teeth might shatter. “Grace.”
“Yes, sir?”
“Go to the cloakroom. Bring me Vanessa’s coat.”
Vanessa’s arrogant facade completely collapsed. “My coat? Why? Dominic, you are humiliating me! I demand you stop this right now!”
“Bring it, Grace,” he repeated, ignoring his fiancée.
I hurried out of the dining room, my legs shaking, and crossed the marble foyer to the guest cloakroom. I found Vanessa’s expensive black cashmere coat hanging near the front.
My hands trembled as I patted down the pockets. I didn’t know what Dominic was looking for. But when my hand slipped into the deep interior pocket, my fingers brushed against cold metal.
I pulled it out.
It was a delicate silver rosary.
My breath caught in my throat. I recognized it instantly. It was Catherine’s rosary—the one she had held every single day during her illness. But the silver cross was bent, the clasp was brutally broken, and the beautiful pearl beads were stained with something dark, brown, and crusted.
May you like
Dried blood.
And wrapped tightly around the cross was a small, crumpled piece of paper. A receipt from a private investigator, dated three years ago—two weeks before Catherine died.
