Chapter 2 - The Name My Husband Left Behind
The last note of Elena's voice message faded, but the silence it left behind was louder than anything I'd heard in the Moretti mansion. My daughter kicked beneath my palm. Vincent stood beside the open suitcase, holding the phone as if it might shatter. Vanessa stared at me with a fear I couldn't understand.
"What did she mean about my baby?" I asked.
Vincent didn't pretend to know. "We will find out. But first, you're going to the hospital."
I wanted to argue. I wanted to demand every answer at once. Another tightening pain stole the words from my mouth. He called for the waiting paramedics, and for the first time that day I allowed someone else to decide what happened next.
At Lakeview, a physician monitored my daughter and explained that the pain could be related to exertion, but they needed to observe me for signs of early labor. The baby's heartbeat was reassuring. Mine was racing. Vincent stayed outside the examination room, where I could see his dark silhouette through the frosted glass.
A nurse handed me my purse. In its side pocket was Daniel's old wallet. I'd brought it to work that morning without remembering why. I opened the cracked leather and found the photograph of the little girl with the rabbit. On the back, in Daniel's handwriting, were three words: Grace. June. Orchard.
June was not my baby's due date. Orchard meant nothing to me. But Grace was suddenly everywhere.
When Vincent came in, I showed him the photograph. He looked at the little girl's face for a long time, then sat down carefully, as if his knees had forgotten how to hold him.
"I don't want you to feel you owe me anything," he said. "Whatever Daniel knew, he was your husband. His memory belongs to you."
I thought of Daniel making pancakes on Sundays and singing terribly to the radio. I thought of the nights he'd woken frightened and told me it was only a dream. "I want to know who killed him," I said.
Vincent nodded. "So do I. And I want the people who did this held accountable."
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He showed me a message that had just arrived on Elena's phone: DO NOT TRUST THE PERSON WHO SENDS YOU TO ORCHARD HOUSE.
I looked at the back of the photograph again. Someone had turned my husband's last gift into a warning. And we had no idea which warning came first.
