Chapter 9 - THE WOMAN BEHIND THE WINDOWThe photograph arrived on my phone thirty seconds later.
I stared at it.
Isabelle sat in a wooden chair beside a narrow window.
Her hair was shorter.
Her face was thinner.
A faint scar marked the skin near her collarbone.
But it was her.
My wife.
Her left hand rested on a newspaper dated that morning.
Her right hand held a folded piece of paper.
Four words were written across it.
DON'T TRUST THE POLICE.
I showed Monroe.
Her expression tightened.
“Someone wants you to doubt us.”
“Maybe I should.”
She didn't argue.
Instead, she enlarged the photograph.
“Look at the window.”
I leaned closer.
Beyond Isabelle's shoulder, a narrow strip of countryside was visible.
Trees.
A white fence.
A stone building.
Grace pointed.
“Is that a church?”
Monroe nodded.
“Looks like it.”
I studied the background.
A bell tower rose above the trees.
Its roof was dark green.
Something about it seemed familiar.
Then I remembered the address Eleanor had given me.
Saint Agnes.
The abandoned rehabilitation hospital in Pennsylvania.
I took out the handwritten note.
Monroe looked at it.
“You think she's there?”
“Maybe.”
She examined the photograph.
“There's no guarantee this was taken today. The newspaper could have been brought to her.”
I stared at Isabelle's face.
Her eyes were focused on the camera.
Not frightened.
Not pleading.
Determined.
She wanted me to understand something.
Then I noticed her right hand.
Two fingers pressed against the folded paper.
Her index finger pointed downward.
The gesture was familiar.
Isabelle used it when reading stories to the girls.
When she wanted them to notice something on a page, she tapped twice.
I enlarged the image.
Beneath the paper was a small wooden table.
A scratch ran across its surface.
Three parallel lines.
Then a curved mark.
I stared.
A butterfly.
Someone had carved a butterfly into the table.
“Grace.”
She leaned closer.
“What?”
“Look at this.”
Her eyes widened.
“The same symbol.”
I remembered the three pendants.
Each butterfly had a slightly different wing pattern.
Olivia's had three lines on the left wing.
Sophie's had two.
Nora's had one.
The butterfly carved into the table had three.
Olivia.
The oldest.
The first piece of evidence.
I looked at Monroe.
“Whoever took this photograph knows about the pendants.”
She nodded.
“Which means the children are targets.”
I called Hannah.
“Listen carefully. Do not open the package. Move the girls to Samuel's house. Tell nobody outside that room where you're going.”
“Dominic, Olivia wants to talk to you.”
My chest tightened.
“Put her on.”
A small voice came through the phone.
“Daddy?”
“Hi, baby.”
“Are you coming back?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“Soon.”
She was quiet.
Then she whispered, “Did you find Mommy?”
I looked at the photograph.
My throat burned.
“I'm looking for her.”
Olivia took a shaky breath.
“I remember something.”
“What?”
“Mommy gave Uncle Vinny a letter.”
I went still.
“When?”
“The morning she went away.”
“What kind of letter?”
“A yellow one.”
I remembered Isabelle's stationery.
Cream-colored paper with a small sunflower embossed in the corner.
To a child, it might look yellow.
“What did Uncle Vinny do?”
“He got angry.”
“What did he say?”
Olivia hesitated.
Then whispered, “He said she was going to ruin everything.”
I closed my eyes.
“And Mommy?”
“She said Daddy deserved the truth.”
My chest tightened.
Olivia continued.
“Then he took her phone.”
I felt cold.
“Did you see where he put it?”
“In his pocket.”
“Okay, baby.”
“Daddy?”
“Yeah?”
“Don't get mad.”
I nearly broke.
“I won't.”
She whispered, “Mommy said being brave doesn't mean hurting people.”
I couldn't speak.
Then Olivia said, “She said being brave means bringing everybody home.”
I pressed the phone against my forehead.
“I'll remember that.”
After the call, Monroe studied me.
“You need to let us help.”
I looked at her.
“My wife recorded evidence against my brother and Anthony. Your department had it buried for fourteen months.”
“My department isn't one person.”
“Neither is my family.”
She accepted that.
Then she said, “We can bring in federal investigators.”
I shook my head.
“Not until we know who leaked information.”
Monroe leaned back.
“Then we need to control what information gets out.”
I looked at the photograph again.
“Saint Agnes.”
She nodded.
“I'll send a team.”
“No.”
“Dominic—”
“If Anthony has Isabelle, a police convoy arriving at the front gate could get her killed.”
“Going alone could get both of you killed.”
Grace spoke.
“Then don't do either.”
We turned toward her.
She pointed at the photograph.
“The person who sent this knows the pendants. They know where the girls are. They know Dominic is investigating.”
She looked at Eleanor.
“Could Isabelle have sent it herself?”
Eleanor hesitated.
“If she had access to a camera and someone willing to deliver it.”
Grace nodded.
“Then maybe the warning is real.”
Monroe looked at the message.
DON'T TRUST THE POLICE.
I stared at it.
Then I noticed something I had missed.
The letter D was slightly crooked.
Isabelle always wrote capital D that way.
The message was hers.
But that didn't tell me whether she had written it freely.
I turned the photograph over.
Nothing.
Then Grace pointed toward the newspaper.
“Look at the headline.”
I enlarged the image.
The visible headline concerned a local school district.
Beneath it was a smaller story.
FORMER SAINT AGNES PROPERTY SOLD TO PRIVATE INVESTORS.
I looked at Monroe.
“Find out who bought it.”
She used her phone.
Several minutes passed.
Then she looked up.
“It's held through multiple corporations.”
“Final owner?”
She hesitated.
“Bellucci Medical Holdings.”
I stared.
“Anthony.”
“Not exactly.”
She turned the screen toward me.
The ownership records showed Anthony had transferred the property six weeks earlier.
“To whom?” Grace asked.
Monroe read the name.
“Isabelle Romano.”
The room went silent.
My wife owned the building where she might be imprisoned.
I stared at the record.
“How?”
Monroe scrolled.
“The transfer was signed electronically.”
“When?”
“Six weeks ago.”
“Witness?”
She looked up.
“Vincent Romano.”
My brother had transferred a property to my supposedly dead wife.
Six weeks ago.
He knew she was alive.
He had always known.
My phone rang.
Vincent.
I answered.
Neither of us spoke at first.
Then he said, “I assume you've seen the photograph.”
I looked at Monroe.
She began recording.
“Where is she?”
Vincent sighed.
“You need to stop asking the wrong questions.”
“Where's my wife?”
“Anthony has been keeping her alive because she knows where the original ledger is.”
My heart pounded.
“And you?”
“I've been trying to get her out.”
I almost laughed.
“You arranged her kidnapping.”
Silence.
Then Vincent said, “You think Anthony gave me a choice?”
“You had twenty-one years to make a different one.”
He inhaled sharply.
“So you saw the video.”
“Yes.”
A long pause.
Then my brother whispered, “Dominic, our father wasn't the man you thought he was.”
I gripped the phone.
“Don't.”
“You need to hear me.”
“You opened the garage.”
His breathing changed.
Then he said, “I did.”
Grace covered her mouth.
Vincent continued.
“I was seventeen. Anthony told me Dad was going to kill me.”
I stared at the wall.
“Why?”
“Because I discovered what they were doing with the shipping company.”
I looked at Monroe.
She was listening carefully.
“What were they doing?”
Vincent whispered, “Moving people.”
I froze.
“What?”
“Not freight, Dominic.”
His voice broke.
“People.”
For a moment, I couldn't understand.
Then I did.
The shipping containers.
The old docks.
The false manifests.
My father had controlled them.
Anthony had controlled the paperwork.
Vincent had discovered something far worse than stolen money.
“Who?” I asked.
“Anthony. Dad. Other men.”
I felt sick.
“Are you telling me our father was involved?”
“Yes.”
I closed my eyes.
Vincent continued.
“Anthony told me Dad planned to blame everything on me. He said if I opened the garage, men would come and arrest him.”
I stared at the floor.
“But they killed him.”
“Yes.”
“And you helped cover it up.”
“I was terrified.”
“For twenty-one years?”
He didn't answer.
I looked at Isabelle's photograph.
“Where is she?”
Vincent whispered, “Saint Agnes.”
I felt my pulse accelerate.
“Is she alive?”
“Yes.”
“Can she leave?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because Anthony's holding something over her.”
“What?”
Vincent hesitated.
Then he said, “Your daughters.”
My blood chilled.
“He told Isabelle that if she escaped, he'd kill the girls.”
I closed my eyes.
Fourteen months.
Fourteen months of silence.
Fourteen months of my wife trapped somewhere, believing every attempt to escape could destroy our children.
Vincent continued.
“Anthony doesn't know you've found the first pendant.”
I stared.
“How do you know?”
“Because if he did, Grace Bennett would already be dead.”
Grace went pale.
I tightened my grip on the phone.
“Don't threaten her.”
“I'm warning you.”
“Then help me.”
A long silence.
Finally, Vincent said, “There's a service tunnel beneath Saint Agnes. It connects to an old maintenance building.”
I looked at Monroe.
She was already writing.
“Where?”
“North side. Beyond the stone chapel.”
I repeated it.
Vincent continued.
“But Dominic…”
“What?”
“If you go there, you'll find something worse than you expect.”
I stared at the photograph.
“What could possibly be worse?”
My brother began crying.
May you like
“Isabelle isn't the only person Anthony has been keeping there.”
The line went dead.
Related Stories
