Chapter 3 - THE SECOND MAN
Matteo refused to describe him.
Not because he couldn’t remember.
Because he was terrified.
Clara stopped asking.
I wanted the opposite.
Every instinct in me screamed to go upstairs and force the truth out of the memory before it disappeared again.
Instead, Clara looked directly into the hidden camera.
She knew.
That stopped me.
I had never told her where the cameras were.
But she stared exactly at the lens.
Then shook her head once.
A warning.
Do not come in.
I hated being managed inside my own house.
I obeyed.
Twenty minutes later, Clara entered my office.
Dominic had gone to retrieve the old investigation files.
I remained behind my desk.
“You knew about the camera.”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“The smoke detector is too low.”
I looked toward the ceiling.
Damn.
“Why didn’t you say anything?”
“You didn’t ask.”
I almost smiled.
Almost.
Then:
“Why did you stop?”
“Because Matteo was shaking.”
“I need to know what he remembers.”
“He needs to know you care whether remembering destroys him.”
The sentence irritated me because it was accurate.
“I care.”
“You monitor him like a hostage.”
“He is my son.”
“That doesn’t answer me.”
Clara placed both palms on my desk.
“Mr. Rossi, your son survived an explosion that killed his mother and changed his body forever.”
“I know.”
“No.”
Her eyes hardened.
“You know the facts. He lives the facts.”
Silence.
Then she continued.
“He stopped talking because everyone kept asking questions he couldn’t answer without returning to the worst moment of his life.”
I looked away.
“He just started again.”
“Yes.”
“Because of you?”
“No.”
“Then why?”
“Because I didn’t need anything from him.”
That hit harder than I expected.
Everyone around Matteo needed something.
Recovery.
Speech.
Evidence.
Hope.
Even me.
Especially me.
Clara straightened.
“If you turn his first words into an interrogation, he will disappear again.”
“What do you suggest?”
“Let him control the pace.”
“I don’t have time.”
She stared.
“For what?”
I had no answer.
Revenge?
Security?
Fear?
All three.
Then Dominic returned carrying a black archive case.
Inside were photographs from the bombing investigation.
Street images.
Vehicle fragments.
Witness summaries.
Clara moved toward the door.
I stopped her.
“Stay.”
Dominic frowned.
“She’s a caretaker.”
“She’s why Matteo is speaking.”
That ended the argument.
We reviewed everything.
Then Clara found something.
One witness described a tall man near the alley wearing a dark raincoat and carrying a silver medical bag.
Medical.
I looked at her.
“Does that mean anything?”
“Maybe.”
She turned another page.
The witness said the man had a noticeable limp.
Matteo’s orthopedic surgeon after the bombing walked with a limp.
Dr. Elias Mercer.
I immediately dismissed the thought.
“He treated Matteo after.”
Clara said:
“Doctors also exist before patients need them.”
Fair.
Then Dominic froze.
“What?”
He pointed toward a photograph taken thirty minutes before the explosion.
Across the street.
Blurry.
Two men.
One was Dominic.
The other wore a dark coat.
Silver bag.
Limp impossible to see in a still image.
But the face—
I knew it.
Not Mercer.
May you like
Owen Price.
My security chief.
