Chapter 11 - THE HOUSEKEEPER THEY NEEDED GONE
Naomi had been marked for death three weeks before I learned the truth.
Arthur discovered she was recording Camille.
He told Patrick.
Patrick told Camille to fire her.
Camille refused.
That surprised me.
“She refused?”
Arthur nodded during the recorded interview.
“She said Naomi knew too much. Firing her would look suspicious.”
So they planned an accident.
Naomi’s brakes.
A parking garage.
A fall down the service stairs.
Something ordinary.
Something no one would connect to children or trusts.
I found Naomi in the kitchen of Isabella’s parents’ house.
She was making grilled cheese for Rosie.
“You knew.”
She did not look up.
“Yes.”
My anger rose.
“At least three weeks?”
“Yes.”
“And you stayed?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Jack had started wetting the bed.”
I stopped.
“Rosie stopped drawing people with faces.”
My chest tightened.
“And Camille was escalating.”
Naomi turned off the stove.
“If I left, who was there?”
Me.
That should have been the answer.
Except I was never there.
Naomi looked at me.
“You were home physically maybe three nights a week.”
That hurt because it was generous.
“Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”
“I tried.”
“What?”
“Twice.”
I stared.
She reminded me.
Three weeks earlier:
“Mr. Moretti, Jack has been quiet lately.”
I answered:
“He’s always quiet.”
Another time:
“Rosie seems afraid of the library.”
I said:
“Then keep her out of it.”
I had heard information.
Not the warning.
Naomi did not need to accuse me.
Memory did it better.
“I failed them.”
“Yes.”
The word hurt.
She continued.
“But failure is not permanent unless you defend it.”
I looked at her.
“You speak like Isabella.”
“She said something similar.”
Of course.
Then Naomi’s expression softened.
“You’re changing.”
“I don’t know if that matters.”
“It matters to them.”
Jack appeared in the doorway.
“Dad?”
I turned.
“What?”
He held a school paper.
Family tree assignment.
He had drawn Isabella.
Rosie.
Me.
Himself.
Then Naomi.
I stared.
“Who’s this?”
“You know.”
He looked embarrassed.
“Miss Naomi.”
“Why?”
“Because she stayed.”
The words cut deeper than any insult.
I crouched.
“You can put anyone you consider family.”
He nodded.
Then whispered:
“Can Mom still be family if she’s dead?”
“Yes.”
“Can Miss Naomi be family without replacing Mom?”
Naomi turned away, eyes wet.
“Yes.”
Jack smiled.
Simple.
Children understand complexity better than adults sometimes.
Then my phone rang.
Mara.
Patrick had offered a plea.
I expected criminal details.
Instead, she said:
“He wants immunity for Camille.”
“Why?”
“He says she can prove who really ordered Isabella’s car to be followed.”
I frowned.
“We know Patrick did.”
“No.”
Mara paused.
“Patrick says he was taking orders too.”
“From who?”
Silence.
Then:
“Your father.”
May you like
My dead father’s name entered the story again.
And this time, Patrick had documents.
