Chapter 1 - THE REPORT THAT SHOULD NOT HAVE EXISTED
For several seconds, I said nothing.
Claire remained kneeling beside the scattered papers, one hand frozen above the document with my father’s name across the top.
I rolled closer.
“Give it to me.”
She did.
The paper was old.
Not yellowed enough to be original, but clearly copied from something older.
At the top:
MORETTI, DOMINIC A.
VEHICLE INCIDENT REVIEW.
Date:
January 14.
Twenty-two years earlier.
The day my father died.
I kept reading.
Initial determination:
LOSS OF CONTROL DUE TO WEATHER CONDITIONS.
That was the story I knew.
Black ice.
Highway.
Guardrail.
Then underneath, someone had typed:
SECONDARY MECHANICAL REVIEW INDICATES PRE-IMPACT FAILURE IN STEERING ASSEMBLY CONSISTENT WITH DELIBERATE TAMPERING.
My hands went cold.
Claire whispered:
“That sounds like someone messed with the car.”
“I can read.”
She looked at me.
Not offended.
Concerned.
That irritated me more.
I read the next section.
Original report suppressed pending instruction from:
SLOAN, M.
Margaret.
My estate manager.
The woman who had worked for my father before she ever worked for me.
The woman who hired Claire.
I looked toward the door.
“Where did these folders come from?”
Claire stood.
“Margaret told me to bring them from the east archive room.”
“Did she say why?”
“She said you wanted the winter insurance records.”
I hadn’t.
My stomach tightened.
Someone had put this document in my office on purpose.
Either Margaret wanted me to find it—
or someone wanted me to believe she did.
I pressed the intercom.
“Margaret.”
No response.
Again.
Nothing.
Claire shifted Owen higher against her shoulder.
“He left his toy downstairs.”
I looked at her.
“What?”
“Owen. His rabbit.”
Not relevant.
Then I saw her expression.
She wasn’t talking about the toy.
She was telling me she needed to get her son away from the room.
Good instinct.
“Take him to the kitchen.”
“I’m not leaving you alone.”
I stared.
“You work for me.”
“Then fire me tomorrow.”
Nobody spoke to me like that.
Not twice.
Yet that morning, after she had spent an entire night cooling my fever while my private nurse was delayed by snow, I did not have the energy to threaten her.
I called security.
Tomas Bellini entered.
Forty-four.
Former Chicago detective.
Head of my security for six years.
He read the page.
His face changed.
“Where did you get this?”
“Archive.”
“Who had access?”
“Margaret.”
“Anyone else?”
“Find out.”
Claire said quietly:
“And check whether it’s real before deciding what it means.”
Tomas looked at her.
Then at me.
I hated that she was right.
Again.
Within an hour, the archive room was sealed.
The filing cabinet containing the folder had no sign of forced entry.
Access log showed three people in the room during the last month:
Margaret Sloan.
Tomas Bellini.
Me.
Except I had not entered.
The log said I had.
Two nights earlier.
At 2:13 a.m.
I was upstairs with a 103-degree fever.
Claire had been sitting outside my bedroom because she refused to leave until the doctor came.
So someone had used my access credential.
Tomas looked at me.
“That changes things.”
“Yes.”
Then Claire asked:
“Do you have cameras?”
Tomas frowned.
“Of course.”
“Then why are we talking about access logs?”
I almost smiled.
Ten days in the house and she was already making my security chief look inefficient.
Tomas pulled footage.
2:11 a.m.
East hallway.
A person entered wearing black.
Cap low.
Face mostly hidden.
My keycard opened the archive.
Height:
Maybe five-eleven.
Not Margaret.
Not me.
The figure emerged seven minutes later carrying one folder.
At 2:22, the camera image froze.
Static.
Then returned.
Whoever did this knew the mansion systems.
Tomas muttered:
“Inside knowledge.”
Claire leaned closer to the screen.
“Go back.”
He did.
“What?”
“The hand.”
The figure reached for the door.
On the wrist:
A silver watch with a distinctive broken black band.
I knew it.
My cousin Luca wore that watch for years.
Luca Moretti.
My father’s nephew.
My chief operating officer.
The man who managed three of the companies I was too tired to manage personally.
I stared at the screen.
No.
Then Tomas enlarged.
Not enough for certainty.
But enough for suspicion.
My phone rang.
Luca.
Perfect timing.
I answered.
“Adrian.”
His voice sounded casual.
“How are you feeling?”
“Better.”
“Margaret said you were sick.”
Interesting.
Margaret had not answered me.
“Where are you?”
“Downtown.”
“Come to the house.”
Pause.
“Now?”
“Yes.”
Another pause.
Then:
“I’m actually on my way to Milwaukee.”
“Turn around.”
He laughed.
“Is something wrong?”
I looked at the crash report.
“You tell me.”
Silence.
Then the call ended.
He had hung up.
Tomas immediately tried to track his company phone.
Off.
Claire said:
“That seems bad.”
I looked at her.
“Thank you, detective.”
She shrugged.
“I clean houses. People usually start acting weird right before they tell you not to look in a drawer.”
I almost laughed.
Then Tomas’s phone buzzed.
He read.
His face hardened.
“What?”
“Margaret’s car was found.”
“Where?”
“Near Lake Michigan.”
“Margaret?”
He looked at me.
“Missing.”
The room went cold.
Then Claire’s phone rang.
Unknown number.
She answered.
No voice.
Only breathing.
Then a man whispered:
“Tell Adrian to stop reading old papers.”
Claire went pale.
I reached for the phone.
The line disconnected.
Then a text appeared.
A photograph.
Claire entering my house with Owen three days earlier.
Taken from across the street.
Below it:
THE HOUSEKEEPER HAS A CHILD.
I looked at Claire.
For the first time since she had arrived, all the color left her face.
And I understood something immediately.
Whoever had buried the truth about my father’s crash twenty-two years ago had just made a mistake.
They had threatened the one person in my house who had never been part of the Moretti family.
May you like
Which meant Claire was not only a witness anymore.
She was leverage.
Related Stories
