Chapter 4 - The Price of Telling the Truth
The drive took ninety minutes. I remember almost none of it.
I remember the rain crawling down the windshield. I remember Luca speaking to Marco through the car's hands-free system, insisting that local police be contacted immediately. I remember pressing redial until my thumb ached.
And I remember the terrible possibility that my mother would suffer because I'd told a frightened child she deserved to be heard.
When we arrived, two patrol cars stood outside Mom's building.
She was alive.
I nearly collapsed with relief.
Mom sat in her kitchen wrapped in a blanket, sipping tea from a chipped mug. A broken flower vase lay in pieces beside the doorway. A uniformed officer explained that a stranger had entered the unlocked apartment behind a neighbor, claimed to be delivering flowers, and vanished when Mom refused to let him photograph her.
"He pushed past me," Mom said. "I knocked over the vase and shouted. He ran."
I hugged her so tightly she protested that I was crushing her ribs.
Luca remained in the doorway, keeping his distance until Mom looked up.
"You must be Claire's employer."
"Luca Moretti, ma'am. I owe your daughter more than I can explain."
Mom gave him a long, assessing look.
"Then explain enough."
He did. Not the sensitive details of Isabella's private disclosures, but enough to tell her why someone might be trying to frighten us.
Mom listened without interrupting.
"Claire won't be scared into leaving a child alone," she said finally. "I didn't raise her that way."
I held her hand. "I don't want you hurt because of me."
"You don't get to decide what's right by calculating whether cruel people will punish you."
Luca looked at her as though he'd just heard something important.
The police took the photograph and the threatening note. Marco arranged a legitimate security company to secure Mom's building and helped her find temporary accommodation with my aunt. I insisted on calling my aunt myself and explaining the situation. No one would be moved without choosing to go.
By the time we returned to Chicago, the sun had set.
Mrs. Carter met us near the stairs.
"Isabella made something," she whispered.
In the family room, Isabella slept beneath a blanket. Beside her lay a drawing of three figures holding hands: a large man, a smaller woman, and a little girl with a white ribbon.
Each had been given bright, moving hands.
Under the picture she had written: PEOPLE WHO LISTEN.
I stared at the woman in the middle.
"She drew you," Luca said.
"She was drawing comfort."
"She chose you to represent it."
He spoke without flirtation. That made it harder to answer.
Before I could, Marco entered holding a folder.
"We found the petitioner's identity," he said.
Her name was Eleanor Voss, sister to Luca's late wife, Sofia. She had spent six years overseas and had never filed a previous request to see Isabella.
"Why now?" Luca asked.
Marco placed a second document beside the first.
"Because she stands to receive a large trust distribution if she becomes Isabella's guardian."
Luca's eyes narrowed.
"Whose trust?"
Marco hesitated.
"Your daughter's maternal trust. It appears someone amended its administration two months ago."
Luca turned the page.
One signature was Eleanor Voss's.
May you like
The other belonged to the trustee who had approved the change.
Vanessa Bellini.
