Chapter 2 - THE NAME THEY BURIED
Roman noticed Vincent Caruso leaving before anyone else did.
The older man had been smiling through dinner, congratulating guests and speaking warmly about the upcoming wedding.
Now he was moving toward the private hallway with his phone pressed to his ear.
Roman nodded once to his head of security.
“Marco. Keep him here.”
Then he turned back to Norah.
“Tell me everything you remember.”
Norah sat beside Teresa in the drawing room. Roman had cleared the ballroom, sent the guests home, and ordered the household staff to treat the incident as confidential.
Vanessa had been told to remain upstairs.
She had objected loudly.
Roman hadn't cared.
Norah held a cup of tea between trembling hands.
“The family called themselves the Millers. I was hired to look after their little girl because her mother was supposedly sick.”
“What did the mother look like?” Teresa asked.
“I never saw her. They said she was hospitalized.”
“And the father?”
“A man named Daniel Miller. But he wasn't her father.”
Roman leaned forward.
“How do you know?”
“Because Lily was terrified of him.”
Norah remembered the child's quiet questions.
Why couldn't she go outside?
Why did Daniel lock her bedroom?
Why wasn't she allowed to tell people her real birthday?
“One night,” Norah continued, “she told me her real mother had a beautiful garden and always smelled like lavender.”
Teresa closed her eyes.
Sofia's nursery had overlooked the estate's lavender garden.
Norah looked at Roman.
“Lily also remembered a little brother.”
Roman's jaw tightened.
“I was eight when Sofia disappeared.”
Teresa gripped Norah's hand.
“My daughter was taken from our summer house twenty-three years ago. We were told she died in a fire. Ten years later, police found new evidence suggesting the death had been staged.”
“But you never found her,” Norah said.
“No.”
Roman's voice was rough.
“We searched everywhere.”
Norah shook her head.
“Then somebody made certain you searched the wrong places.”
A knock sounded.
Marco entered carrying a black leather wallet.
“Mr. Caruso tried to leave through the service entrance.”
Roman stood.
“Where is he?”
“Your office. But we found something in his wallet.”
Marco placed a faded photograph on the table.
It showed a six-year-old girl sitting beside a Christmas tree.
Her dark curls were unmistakable.
So were her gray eyes.
Across the bottom, written in blue ink, were four words.
Lily Miller. December 2013.
Norah stared at the photograph.
“That was taken three days before the fire.”
Roman turned it over.
On the back was a handwritten message.
Second attempt failed. The caretaker survived.
May you like
Below it was a signature.
Vincent Caruso.
