Chapter 1 - The Photograph in the Hem
“Keep her away from the cameras.”
Isabella Romano said it while adjusting her diamond bracelet.
I looked across the hallway. Thirteen-year-old Mia Bellucci stood beside the staircase in a pale pink dress, her fingers worrying the uneven hem. She had spent an hour getting ready. Her father had promised her a family portrait. And now his fiancée wanted her hidden.
“Mr. Bellucci asked for Mia to be in the photograph,” I said.
“Plans change.” Isabella's eyes drifted toward the pale scars along Mia's cheek. “I will not have tonight turned into a tragedy.”
My name is Grace Miller. I was thirty-three and the personal cook at Antonio Bellucci's Long Island estate. Eight months in his employ had taught me when to keep quiet. But I knew how long Mia had waited to wear that dress. She had chosen pink because her mother loved pink roses.
“Grace,” Isabella snapped. “Take her upstairs.”
Mia pretended not to hear. I crossed the hall and offered my hand.
“Ready to see your dad?”
“Do you think he'll like my dress?” she asked.
“He'll love it.”
She leaned close. “I put something inside. A surprise for him.”
Isabella appeared behind us. “Mia, sweetheart, why don't you rest upstairs?”
“But the pictures?”
“We're keeping them simple.”
“Without me?”
Isabella hesitated. Mia's chin trembled.
“Is it because of my face?”
“No,” I said, before Isabella could invent a polite lie. “You're his daughter. You're his family.”
I led her into the ballroom. Antonio stood by the fireplace talking with his older brother, Carlo. The moment he saw Mia, the guarded look vanished from his face.
“There she is.” He came toward us and kissed her forehead above the scars. “You look beautiful.”
“Really?”
“Your mother would have loved that color.”
Mia blinked back tears. Antonio took her hand and called for the photographer. Isabella tried to interrupt, but he shook his head.
“The family picture comes first.”
The camera flashed once. Mia tugged his sleeve.
“Dad, I have something for you.”
She pulled at a loose stitch in the hem. A smoke-stained photograph slipped free in a plastic sleeve. Antonio took it and froze.
“Where did you find that?”
“In Mom's sewing box.”
He turned the picture over. Blue ink covered the back. Isabella stepped closer.
“It's just an old photograph,” she said.
Antonio looked at her. “How do you know?”
I glimpsed the front. A woman stood near the Bellucci summer house three days before the fire. A black car waited behind her. The woman was Isabella, although she claimed she had met Antonio only the following year.
“You told me you'd never been there,” Antonio said.
“I hadn't.”
He held up the evidence. “Then explain this.”
Mia squeezed my hand. Antonio knelt beside her.
“Did you find anything else?”
She produced a small brass key from a hidden pocket. Isabella's face drained of color.
“Mom wrote a number on the envelope,” Mia whispered. “The number of the room where she said I should hide if the fire ever happened again.”
Antonio stared at the key. I saw him recognize something he had spent three years trying to forget.
“What's the number?” he asked.
May you like
Mia's voice shook. “Seventeen.”
Carlo, who had approached silently, dropped his champagne glass.
