Chapter 2 - THE LETTER MY SISTER LEFT BEHIND
Five years ago, I watched a coffin disappear beneath the earth.
Now a twenty-four-year-old teacher was telling me my sister predicted the fire that supposedly killed her.
I wanted to demand answers.
I wanted to drag Vincent Marlow from the bar and make him explain why he'd brought Emma into my life.
But Emma was watching me carefully.
Not frightened.
Concerned.
For the first time in years, I forced myself to be patient.
May I read it?
She nodded.
I unfolded Lily's letter.
The paper had softened with age.
Her familiar handwriting leaned slightly to the right.
Dear Dom,
If you're reading this, something has gone terribly wrong.
Please don't blame yourself.
I know you will.
You always do.
My throat tightened.
Lily had known me better than anyone.
The letter continued.
There are people using the Saint Agnes Children's Fund to hide money that doesn't belong to them.
I discovered it while helping families with school expenses.
Some children were denied assistance even though the foundation recorded payments in their names.
I stared at the words.
Saint Agnes.
The charity my organization had supported for nearly fifteen years.
The charity my father helped establish.
The charity Vincent Marlow currently supervised.
I looked toward the bar.
Vincent was gone.
So were Paul and Sal.
I stood.
Emma caught my attention.
What happened?
They left.
Her expression changed.
You think they knew about the letter?
I looked down.
I think they wanted to know whether you still had it.
I contacted my security chief, Gabriel Torres, and instructed him to preserve the restaurant's camera footage and notify the authorities about possible threats connected to the old fire investigation.
Then I returned to the letter.
Lily had written three more paragraphs.
The first named several families whose payments had disappeared.
The second mentioned a locked records room beneath an old parish building.
The third was almost impossible to read.
Dominic, there's something about Dad's death that you never knew.
I went still.
Our father had died seven years earlier.
A stroke.
That was the official explanation.
He had been a hard man.
Cruel when he drank.
Unforgiving when he was sober.
I hadn't mourned him the way I mourned Lily.
But I never imagined his death was connected to her investigation.
Emma watched me.
Are you okay?
I shook my head.
Not really.
She nodded.
You don't have to pretend with me.
That simple kindness hurt more than I expected.
I turned the page.
At the bottom, Lily had written a name.
Not Vincent.
Not Paul.
Not Sal.
A name I hadn't heard in almost twenty years.
Dr. Samuel Whitmore.
The physician who treated my father before he died.
May you like
Then came the final sentence.
Dom, if anyone tells you that I died in the fire, ask why Dr. Whitmore signed my death certificate before the building burned.
