Chapter 4 - A Traitor Behind the Door
Adrian put one finger to his lips.
Clara nodded.
Below them, Peter climbed another step.
A second set of footsteps followed.
Adrian glanced toward the attic window.
Too small.
Only one exit.
The stairs.
Peter’s voice floated upward.
“There’s nowhere to go.”
Adrian quietly removed his phone and typed a message to Luca.
INSIDE. TWO OR MORE.
No response.
That worried him.
Luca always responded.
Peter reached the landing.
Clara gripped her father’s letter.
Adrian whispered, “Stay behind me.”
She whispered back, “I hate when you say that.”
“Develop better timing.”
Despite herself, she almost laughed.
Peter pushed the attic door upward.
Adrian caught him by the wrist before he could fully enter and twisted.
Peter shouted.
A second man rushed forward.
Clara slammed the heavy tackle box into the man’s arm.
He stumbled.
Adrian shoved Peter down two steps and kicked the door closed.
“Move!”
They ran.
Not toward the stairs.
Toward the window.
“You said it was too small,” Clara whispered.
“For me.”
He smashed the latch with the tackle box.
“Go.”
She stared.
“Second floor.”
“Porch roof.”
“What about you?”
“I’ll follow.”
“You won’t fit.”
“Clara.”
The attic door shook.
“Go.”
She climbed through.
Slid onto the wet roof.
Adrian turned as the attic door burst open.
Peter entered.
His expression had lost every trace of civility.
“Give me the letter.”
Adrian smiled slightly.
“You look stressed.”
Peter lunged.
Adrian blocked him.
The second man entered.
Adrian fought them in the narrow space, using the beams to keep them from surrounding him.
Outside, Clara reached the edge of the porch roof.
Below was a six-foot drop.
She heard movement behind her.
Then a hand grabbed her ankle.
She screamed.
Peter’s second man had climbed through another attic opening.
Clara kicked free.
Her injured leg buckled.
She slid toward the edge.
A hand caught her wrist.
Adrian.
He had forced his way through the window after all.
“Hold on.”
“I am!”
“Helpful.”
He pulled her back.
A vehicle screeched outside.
Luca’s SUV.
“Jump,” Adrian said.
“What?”
“Porch awning.”
“You first.”
“Clara.”
“I am not jumping while you stand there.”
Another figure appeared at the attic window.
Adrian looked down.
“Together.”
They jumped.
The awning groaned beneath them.
Then collapsed.
They landed hard in a hedge.
Luca ran around the house.
“Get in!”
They scrambled toward the SUV.
Peter emerged onto the porch.
He did not follow.
He simply watched.
Adrian stopped.
Peter held up his phone.
Then smiled.
Adrian understood.
“Drive!”
Luca accelerated.
Ten seconds later, the house exploded into orange light behind them.
Clara turned.
“No!”
Her childhood home burned.
Adrian looked at Peter’s shrinking silhouette in the rear window.
“He didn’t come for the letter.”
Clara stared.
“What?”
“He came to make sure nobody else could search the house.”
She looked down.
The letter was still in her hand.
“He failed.”
Adrian looked at it.
“For now.”
They drove toward a safe property outside the French Quarter.
Luca kept checking the mirrors.
Adrian noticed blood on his sleeve.
“You’re hurt.”
“Glass.”
“Where?”
“Shoulder.”
Clara leaned forward.
“You need Evelyn.”
“I’m fine.”
She stared at him.
Adrian sighed.
“Apparently stubbornness really is contagious.”
At the safe house, Luca secured the perimeter while Clara and Adrian sat in the kitchen beneath a single yellow light.
No expensive office.
No river view.
No staff.
Just an old table and Samuel Vaughn’s letter.
Clara unfolded it again.
“Read it,” Adrian said.
She began.
“My darling Clara. If you are reading this, then I failed to tell you the truth while I was alive.”
Her voice shook.
She continued.
“First, forgive me. I let you believe I was weak because weakness was safer than courage.”
Clara stopped.
Adrian waited.
She swallowed and continued.
“Your mother, Rebecca, did not die from the illness I told you about.”
Clara went still.
Adrian leaned forward.
“What?”
She read again.
“Rebecca died because of what Eleanor Moretti and I discovered.”
Clara dropped the letter.
“No.”
Adrian picked it up carefully.
“Do you want me to continue?”
She nodded.
He read.
“Rebecca worked as a legal assistant for Charles Marchand’s foundation. She discovered that charitable accounts were being used to wash money connected to port contracts and political bribery.”
Clara covered her mouth.
“She brought the documents to me. I took them to Eleanor because Eleanor had discovered similar transfers inside Moretti businesses.”
Adrian’s voice changed as he read his mother’s name.
“The two of them planned to expose everything.”
He paused.
“Rebecca was killed before they could.”
Clara stood abruptly.
“No.”
“Clara—”
“They told me cancer.”
“I know.”
“My father took me to appointments.”
“Maybe he needed you to believe it.”
“He showed me medication.”
“Clara.”
“My mother was sick.”
Adrian lowered the letter.
“Maybe she was.”
Clara shook her head.
“He lied.”
“For a reason.”
“That doesn’t make it hurt less.”
“No.”
She walked to the window.
For years, Clara had remembered her mother through softened images.
Scarves around thinning hair.
Weak smiles.
Hospital rooms Samuel would not let Clara enter.
A funeral with a closed casket.
Suddenly every memory felt unreliable.
“That means he lied for twelve years.”
Adrian stood.
“My family lied to me for seventeen.”
She turned.
“That’s supposed to make me feel better?”
“No.”
“What, then?”
“To tell you I understand.”
She looked at him.
He did.
That was somehow worse.
Clara sat again.
“Finish.”
Adrian read.
“After Rebecca died, Eleanor wanted to take everything to federal investigators. I begged her to wait. I had Clara to protect. Eleanor had Adrian.”
His throat tightened.
“She agreed to make copies.”
“Three days later, Eleanor recorded her message.”
Clara whispered.
“And then she died.”
Adrian nodded.
He continued.
“I realized someone close to the Moretti family knew everything.”
“Matthew,” Clara said.
“Maybe.”
The letter continued.
“I hid the drive. But the drive is not the most important evidence.”
Both looked up.
Adrian read more slowly.
“Rebecca kept the original ledger.”
Clara frowned.
“Ledger?”
“It records every payment, every name, every account.”
“Where?”
Adrian read the next line.
Then stopped.
Clara leaned closer.
“What?”
He turned the page.
Blank.
“No.”
She grabbed it.
The sentence ended:
Rebecca hid the ledger where Clara would someday—
Nothing.
The bottom half had been torn off.
Clara stared.
“That’s why Peter came.”
“He knew the letter existed.”
“But not what it said.”
“Now he knows we have at least part of it.”
Luca entered.
“There’s something else.”
Adrian looked up.
“What?”
“I found a tracker under the SUV.”
“Active?”
“Yes.”
“How long?”
“Could have been there since the office.”
Adrian stood.
“Then leave it.”
Luca understood.
“We switch cars.”
“No. Send the SUV somewhere else.”
“I know a guy.”
“Do it.”
Luca hesitated.
“There’s more.”
Adrian waited.
“When I went outside Clara’s house, somebody hit me from behind.”
Clara looked at his shoulder.
“I thought the blood was from glass.”
“Some of it.”
Adrian’s expression hardened.
“Who?”
“Didn’t see.”
“Then how did you get back?”
“They didn’t stay.”
“Why?”
Luca pulled something from his pocket.
A photograph.
Adrian took it.
The image showed him and Luca at seventeen.
Standing beside Matthew Moretti.
Written on the back:
ASK LUCA WHAT HIS FATHER DID FOR MATTHEW.
Adrian slowly looked up.
Luca’s face was unreadable.
Clara felt the room change.
“What did your father do?”
Luca stared at the floor.
“Luca.”
“My father worked for Matthew.”
“You told me he worked security for Vittorio.”
“He did.”
“Then?”
Luca closed his eyes.
“After your mother died, Matthew paid him.”
“For what?”
“I don’t know.”
Adrian stepped closer.
“You’ve known this for fourteen years?”
“I knew he received money. I didn’t know why.”
“How much?”
“Enough to buy my mother’s house.”
Adrian stared.
Luca’s father had died when they were nineteen.
Adrian remembered the funeral.
Remembered paying for it.
Remembered Luca saying his father left debts.
“You lied.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because I was ashamed.”
“Of money?”
“Of him.”
Silence.
Then Luca said the words that mattered.
“I think my father helped cover up Eleanor’s murder.”
Adrian looked as though he had been struck.
Luca continued.
“And if I’m right, there might be proof.”
“Where?”
“My mother kept his things.”
“Where?”
“Her house.”
Adrian grabbed his jacket.
Clara stood.
“You’re not leaving me here.”
He almost argued.
Then stopped.
Old Adrian would have.
Tonight’s Adrian had learned something.
Keeping Clara uninformed did not keep her safe.
“Fine.”
Luca looked surprised.
Clara did too.
Adrian picked up Samuel’s letter.
“But from now on, nobody goes anywhere alone.”
Luca nodded.
Clara nodded.
A phone vibrated.
Not Adrian’s.
Not Clara’s.
Not Luca’s.
All three looked toward the kitchen counter.
The tackle box.
The sound came from inside it.
Clara slowly opened the lid.
Beneath the photographs, hidden under a false bottom, was an old flip phone.
The screen glowed.
One unread message.
Received seventeen years ago.
Clara opened it.
Three words.
May you like
Rebecca is alive.
And beneath them was a photograph taken only two days ago.
