Chapter 4 - THE SIX NAMES IN MY MOTHER'S NOTEBOOK

Six dead patients.

One doctor.

And a family whose money could make investigations disappear.

I stared at the phone.

"Matteo, are you saying your uncle murdered them?"

"I'm saying the pattern deserves an independent investigation."

That answer surprised me.

I expected rage.

Threats.

Orders.

Instead, Matteo sounded careful.

Almost frightened of reaching the wrong conclusion.

"Where are you?" I asked.

"At my attorney's office."

"Why?"

"Because my uncle has access to things I no longer trust."

I swallowed.

"What things?"

"Company records. Security staff. Medical providers."

I looked toward Jenna's kitchen.

Everything suddenly seemed dangerous.

Even the silence.

Matteo continued.

"Professor Bellini is arranging to provide the notebook to investigators."

I closed my eyes.

"Good."

"Tessa, I also want to apologize."

I frowned.

"For what?"

"For how I spoke to you at the restaurant."

My throat tightened.

He continued.

"I insulted you because I believed nobody at that table would challenge me."

I remained silent.

"It was cruel."

"Yes."

"I was wrong."

I looked down at my taped shoe.

The same ridiculous shoe that had started everything.

"An apology doesn't erase it."

"I know."

For a moment, neither spoke.

Then I said:

"But it's a start."

The next day, I received a secure copy of my mother's notebook.

The pages were filled with Italian, English, and Sicilian dialect.

At first, they looked like ordinary linguistic notes.

Regional pronunciation.

Grammatical structures.

Expressions from Palermo and Trapani.

Then I noticed something unusual.

Certain phrases were repeated.

A sentence about olive trees.

Another about winter rain.

A third about missing keys.

Each appeared beside a date.

And each date matched one of the suspicious deaths.

My stomach tightened.

Mom hadn't simply copied conversations.

She'd encoded them.

I spent three hours studying the pattern.

Then I realized the repeated phrases corresponded to specific pages in an old Sicilian poetry collection.

A book I'd inherited from her.

A book sitting inside the last unopened box from my apartment.

I called Jenna.

"Can you bring me the blue cardboard box?"

She frowned.

"The one labeled Florence?"

"Yes."

When she returned, I opened it with shaking hands.

Inside were photographs.

Old university papers.

And the poetry collection.

I turned to the first marked page.

A line was underlined.

Then another.

Then another.

I translated them.

The first sentence read:

The doctor changes the records after the patient sleeps.

My heart stopped.

I kept going.

The second sentence named a bank account.

The third referenced medical invoices.

Then I reached the final page.

A handwritten note appeared in my mother's familiar script.

The heir must never learn what happened in the chapel.

I stared.

The heir.

Matteo.

A chill moved through me.

I photographed the page and sent it to his attorney.

Ten minutes later, Matteo called.

His voice was barely audible.

"Tessa, where did your mother get that phrase?"

I swallowed.

"Which phrase?"

"The chapel."

I looked down.

"Why?"

Matteo was silent for several seconds.

Then whispered:

"Because my younger sister disappeared from our family's chapel eleven years ago."

My heart began pounding.

"Your sister?"

"Her name was Lucia."

"What happened to her?"

He took a shaky breath.

"Everyone said she ran away."

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Then his voice broke.

"But my mother died believing Lucia never left the property."