Chapter 8 - THE CONFESSION BEHIND THE ALTAR
I returned to St. Anthony's Church for the first time since Daniel's funeral.
The stained-glass windows looked exactly the same.
The wooden pews.
The white marble altar.
The little candle stand where I'd once prayed for a healthy baby.
Everything was familiar.
Except me.
I wasn't the woman who'd walked down the aisle in an ivory dress.
I was a widow.
A mother.
And someone who had just discovered her husband's death was connected to a conspiracy far larger than our little family.
Detective Bennett accompanied me.
Peter waited outside with Sam and Rose.
He'd offered to come inside.
I told him I needed a moment.
He respected that.
The priest, Father Michael, led us toward a small room behind the chapel.
Inside stood a filing cabinet.
A narrow desk.
And a faded wedding photograph.
Daniel and me.
Smiling.
I began crying.
Father Michael touched my shoulder.
“Daniel was a good man.”
I nodded.
“I know.”
He opened a locked cabinet using the church's records.
Inside was a sealed storage box registered under Daniel's name.
The investigator documented everything before opening it.
The box contained folders.
Financial records.
Copies of altered birth certificates.
And a small audio recorder.
My heart pounded.
The recording was examined before we listened.
Then a man's voice filled the room.
Silvio Castiglione.
“Samuel should've stayed quiet.”
Another man answered.
Vincent.
“He knows about the trust.”
Silvio sighed.
“Then make sure he disappears.”
My hands began shaking.
Vincent asked, “What about the wife?”
Silvio answered coldly.
“She goes with him.”
I covered my mouth.
The recording continued.
Vincent mentioned Daniel Ellis.
“The paramedic found the records.”
Silvio's voice hardened.
“Then handle him too.”
My knees nearly buckled.
Daniel.
My husband.
His name.
The order.
Everything I'd feared was real.
Detective Bennett stopped the recording.
I sat on the floor and cried.
For eighteen months, I'd carried grief like a stone.
Now I had something else.
The truth.
But then the investigator found another file.
It contained photographs taken inside the Castiglione estate.
Sam.
Rose.
Peter.
Silvio.
And a little girl.
About seven years old.
Dark curls.
Bright green eyes.
I stared at her.
“Who's that?”
Detective Bennett examined the photograph.
Then looked toward Peter, who had entered after being notified that the room was secure.
His face went completely white.
“That's impossible.”
I swallowed.
“Who is she?”
Peter stared at the photograph.
Then whispered:
“My daughter.”
May you like
I stopped breathing.
Because Peter Castiglione had just discovered that the little girl he'd been told died ten years earlier might also have been taken from him.
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