Chapter 1 - THE FOURTH FACE IN THE PHOTOGRAPH“For the kids.”
I remembered laughing when Isabelle said those words.
We had been married for eleven months. She had already decided where our children would read, where their Christmas stockings would hang, and which bedroom would become a nursery.
I had spent my entire life planning for enemies.
My wife had spent hers planning for happiness.
Now, fourteen months after her murder, our three daughters stood inside the library she had loved, staring at a photograph that had hung above the fireplace for years.
Olivia pointed at it.
“The picture,” Sophie whispered again.
Her voice was barely audible.
I wanted to drop to my knees and beg her to say something else.
Anything.
But Grace Bennett raised one hand.
“Give her time.”
Nobody had spoken to me that way inside my own home in twenty years.
I obeyed.
The photograph showed Isabelle standing beside me at our annual Christmas party. My brother, Vincent, stood on my left. My longtime attorney and closest adviser, Anthony Bellucci, stood beside Isabelle.
Four people.
Four champagne glasses.
Four smiles.
I looked at my daughters.
“What about the picture?”
Olivia climbed onto the leather sofa and pointed toward Anthony.
Then she shook her head.
Sophie touched Vincent’s face.
Nora immediately started crying.
Not loudly.
Just a frightened little sound, almost like a wounded animal.
Grace gathered her into her arms.
“It’s okay, sweetheart.”
Nora buried her face against Grace’s neck.
Olivia pointed again.
This time, her finger landed directly on Vincent.
My younger brother.
The man who had stood beside me at Isabelle’s funeral.
The man who had carried Nora out of the cemetery when she refused to leave her mother's grave.
The man who had promised to help me find her killer.
I felt the room tilt.
“Vincent?”
Sophie nodded.
Then she whispered four words that made my blood turn cold.
“Uncle Vinny was there.”
I stared at her.
“At the preschool?”
She nodded again.
I remembered that Wednesday morning.
Isabelle had kissed me goodbye at seven fifteen. She was wearing a cream sweater, dark jeans, and the gold necklace I had bought her for our tenth anniversary.
She had planned to drop the girls off at preschool before meeting her mother for breakfast.
At nine forty-two, somebody shot her in the parking lot.
The police had identified two masked men using stolen plates.
One had died in a warehouse fire three weeks later.
The other had supposedly fled the country.
Vincent had personally overseen our search.
He had brought me names.
Photographs.
Addresses.
He had stood beside me when I identified Isabelle’s body.
And now my daughter was pointing at his face.
“Sweetheart,” I said carefully, “did you see Uncle Vincent that morning?”
Olivia nodded.
“Where?”
She glanced at Grace.
Grace sat beside her.
“You can tell Daddy whatever you remember. You don't have to tell everything today.”
Olivia swallowed.
Then, for the first time in fourteen months, my oldest daughter spoke directly to me.
“He told Mommy to get in the black car.”
I felt something inside my chest break.
“What black car?”
“The one with the broken light.”
I remembered the police report.
A black Cadillac had been seen leaving the area.
Its right taillight was damaged.
Vincent had told me it belonged to the killers.
I had believed him.
“He was driving?” I asked.
Olivia shook her head.
“He was standing outside.”
“Did he hurt Mommy?”
She looked down.
Her little fingers twisted together.
Then she said, “Mommy told us to run.”
I took one step toward her.
She recoiled.
I stopped immediately.
Grace looked at me.
“Mr. Romano.”
I knew what she meant.
Don't turn this into an interrogation.
Don't make your children relive the worst morning of their lives because you need answers.
I sat down on the floor.
For the first time in my life, I did not care what I looked like.
“I'm sorry,” I whispered.
Olivia studied me.
Then she climbed down from the sofa and approached.
I opened my arms.
She hesitated.
That hesitation was worse than the accusation against my brother.
Then she stepped forward.
I held her gently.
Her body was so small.
How had I forgotten?
How had I spent fourteen months treating my daughters like a problem that needed solving instead of three grieving children who needed their father?
“I’m sorry,” I repeated.
Olivia pressed her forehead against my chest.
“Daddy?”
My eyes burned.
“Yeah, baby?”
“Don't tell Uncle Vinny.”
I looked at Grace.
Her expression had changed.
She was frightened now.
Not for herself.
For the girls.
“Why?” I asked.
Olivia whispered, “He said you would die too.”
I closed my eyes.
A thousand memories rearranged themselves.
Vincent insisting the girls should stay away from the investigation.
Vincent recommending that I increase security around the house.
Vincent suggesting I replace the original preschool staff.
Vincent telling me the girls probably hadn't seen anything useful.
He had always seemed protective.
Now I wondered what protection actually meant.
My phone vibrated.
I ignored it.
It vibrated again.
I took it out.
Vincent.
A message appeared.
Heard you're home early. Everything okay?
I looked toward the doorway.
Only six people knew I had returned.
Grace.
Mrs. Donnelly.
My driver.
Two guards.
And the man who had opened the front gate.
Somebody had already informed Vincent.
I typed a response.
Everything's fine. Long morning. Staying home with the girls.
His answer arrived almost immediately.
Good. I'll stop by tonight. We need to talk.
I stared at the screen.
Then another message appeared.
Tell the girls Uncle Vinny loves them.
I turned the phone facedown.
Grace noticed.
“What is it?”
“Nothing.”
She gave me a look that told me she did not believe a word.
I stood.
“Girls, why don't you go upstairs with Grace?”
Olivia tightened her grip on my sleeve.
“No.”
The word came out sharp.
Clear.
Terrified.
I crouched again.
“I'm not leaving.”
She shook her head.
“No upstairs.”
Grace looked toward the ceiling.
“Olivia, is there something upstairs that scares you?”
My daughter nodded.
“Where?”
She pointed toward the east wing.
The private family rooms.
The hallway containing my bedroom.
The nursery.
And Isabelle’s dressing room.
A room I had kept locked since the funeral.
“What is it?” I asked.
Olivia stared at me for several seconds.
Then she whispered, “Mommy's room.”
I felt my pulse change.
“Why?”
Sophie stepped forward.
“Because Uncle Vinny goes inside.”
I stood so quickly that Grace flinched.
“That's impossible.”
I had the only key.
I had locked the door myself.
No one was allowed inside.
Not even the cleaning staff.
Grace spoke quietly.
“Mr. Romano, I need to tell you something.”
I turned toward her.
“Two weeks ago, I found someone coming out of the east hallway after midnight.”
“Who?”
She hesitated.
“Your brother.”
The room went silent.
“He told me he was checking the security system,” she continued. “I thought it was strange, but I didn't know whether I had the authority to question him.”
“Did you tell anyone?”
“Mrs. Donnelly.”
“And?”
“She said Mr. Vincent had access to every room in the house.”
I stared toward the doorway.
Mrs. Donnelly had worked for my family for seventeen years.
She had supervised every housekeeper.
Every nanny.
Every private tutor.
She had arranged Isabelle's funeral flowers.
I trusted her.
Or I had.
I looked at Grace.
“Stay with the girls.”
“Where are you going?”
“To find out what my brother has been doing.”
Olivia grabbed my hand.
“Daddy.”
I stopped.
Her face was pale.
“He knows.”
“Knows what?”
She looked toward the hallway.
Then she whispered something that changed the direction of my entire life.
“He knows Mommy left us a secret.”
I crouched.
“What secret?”
Olivia touched the necklace around her neck.
A small silver butterfly.
Isabelle had given one to each daughter.
They had worn them every day since the funeral.
“Mommy said only Daddy could open it.”
I looked at the pendant.
My daughter turned it over.
There was a tiny indentation beneath one wing.
A keyhole.
And suddenly I remembered something Isabelle had said three days before she died.
Dominic, if anything ever happens to me, promise you'll look after the butterflies.
I had thought she meant our daughters.
Now I wasn't sure.
Olivia slipped the necklace over her head and placed it in my palm.
“Uncle Vinny wants this.”
The library door opened.
Mrs. Donnelly stood in the entrance.
Her normally composed face was white.
“Mr. Romano,” she said, “your brother is downstairs.”
I looked at my watch.
Vincent had said he would come tonight.
It was barely four thirty.
Mrs. Donnelly swallowed.
“He says he needs to see the girls.”
Behind me, Nora began screaming.
May you like
And from the hallway came my brother's familiar voice.
“Dominic? Where are my favorite nieces?”
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