Chapter 7 - THE DOCTOR WHO SIGNED THE DEATH CERTIFICATEBy sunrise, the mansion was a blackened skeleton.
News helicopters circled above the property.
Reporters gathered outside the gates.
Police vehicles blocked the entrance.
The first headlines were already appearing.
FIRE AT ROMANO ESTATE.
SUSPECTED ARSON TARGETS ORGANIZED CRIME FIGURE.
THREE CHILDREN REPORTED MISSING.
I stared at the last headline on my phone.
Missing.
My daughters were sitting fifteen feet away, eating pancakes in a private guesthouse that belonged to Samuel Reed's cousin.
Grace had found flour in the kitchen.
Hannah had located eggs.
Somehow, despite everything, the children had insisted on breakfast.
And Grace had made it.
Olivia was helping Nora cut strawberries.
Sophie was humming softly.
I stood outside, watching through the window.
I had spent fourteen months believing I needed to restore the world they had lost.
Now I understood that I needed to build them a different one.
A world where they didn't have to fear every person who walked through a doorway.
My phone vibrated.
Anthony.
I ignored it.
Then Vincent.
I ignored that too.
A third call arrived.
Unknown number.
I answered.
“Dominic Romano?”
A woman's voice.
“Yes.”
“My name is Detective Rachel Monroe.”
I went still.
“What do you want?”
“I'm investigating the fire at your residence.”
“Then investigate.”
“We need to speak with you.”
“About?”
“Your daughters.”
I looked through the window.
“They're safe.”
A pause.
“Can you confirm their location?”
“No.”
“Mr. Romano—”
“Someone tried to murder them last night.”
“We're aware of the circumstances.”
“Then find the men responsible.”
She paused again.
“Your brother claims you threatened him yesterday.”
I closed my eyes.
There it was.
The beginning of Vincent's story.
“What else did he claim?”
“That you accused him of involvement in your wife's murder.”
I said nothing.
Monroe continued.
“He also claims your housekeeper has been manipulating your children.”
I looked at Grace.
She was laughing at something Nora had done.
“Detective, do you have children?”
“Yes.”
“Then you'll understand why I'm not telling you where mine are until I know who's trustworthy.”
She didn't answer immediately.
Then she said, “I understand your concern. But avoiding contact with investigators may complicate matters.”
“Then find a way to speak with me that doesn't put my daughters at risk.”
I ended the call.
Samuel stepped outside.
“Everything okay?”
“No.”
He handed me a paper cup of coffee.
“Didn't think so.”
I looked at him.
“Can you stay with the girls?”
“For a few hours.”
“I need to find Eleanor Price.”
Samuel studied me.
“Dominic, if what you suspect is true—”
“I know.”
“Then you're about to discover a lot of people lied to you.”
I looked through the window.
“I've already discovered that.”
Grace came outside.
“Where are you going?”
“Westchester.”
She looked at Samuel.
Then me.
“I'm coming.”
“No.”
She folded her arms.
“That's not a request.”
I stared.
“You need to stay with the girls.”
“Hannah is here. Samuel is here. And I know more about my sister's disappearance than you do.”
I opened my mouth.
She continued.
“You also have a habit of walking into danger without telling anyone where you're going.”
Samuel coughed into his coffee.
I looked at him.
He raised both hands.
“She's not wrong.”
Twenty minutes later, Grace and I were driving north.
I had borrowed Samuel's ordinary sedan.
No armored doors.
No tinted windows.
No security convoy.
For the first time in years, I looked like a man going to work.
Grace sat beside me, studying the photograph.
“Hannah said the woman in the white coat might have been working with Vincent.”
I nodded.
“Eleanor Price.”
“You think she's the one Sophie saw?”
“Maybe.”
Grace turned the picture over.
“There's something written here.”
I glanced over.
“What?”
She pointed toward the bottom corner.
A faint sequence of numbers.
I pulled into a parking lot.
She held the photograph beneath the sunlight.
“Eight digits.”
I examined them.
A phone number?
A code?
Then I noticed the first two characters.
EP.
Eleanor Price.
I wrote the remaining numbers down.
Grace looked at me.
“What does it mean?”
“I don't know.”
We continued driving.
The townhouse stood on a quiet street lined with old maple trees.
Its windows were covered.
Mail overflowed from the front box.
A real estate sign stood crooked in the yard.
I parked two houses away.
Grace looked toward the entrance.
“Looks abandoned.”
“Maybe.”
We approached.
The front door was locked.
I rang the bell.
Nothing.
Then I heard movement inside.
A floorboard creaked.
Grace noticed too.
I rang again.
“Dr. Price?”
Silence.
Then a woman's voice.
“Go away.”
I leaned toward the door.
“My name is Dominic Romano.”
A sharp intake of breath.
“Please leave.”
“I need to ask you about my wife.”
A pause.
Then the voice said, “Your wife is dead.”
“Are you sure?”
The silence lasted nearly thirty seconds.
Then a lock clicked.
The door opened three inches.
A woman looked out.
Older than I remembered.
Blonde hair streaked with gray.
Deep shadows beneath her eyes.
Eleanor Price.
She stared at me.
Then at Grace.
“Who is she?”
“A friend.”
Price's expression changed.
“Does Vincent know you're here?”
“No.”
She opened the door.
“Get inside.”
The townhouse smelled of stale coffee and disinfectant.
Medical books were stacked against the walls.
A suitcase stood beside the stairs.
Price locked the door behind us.
Then checked the window.
“You shouldn't have come.”
I placed the death certificate on the table.
“You signed this.”
She stared at it.
“Yes.”
“Was the woman on that hospital bed my wife?”
Her face crumpled.
I knew the answer before she spoke.
“Dr. Price.”
She covered her mouth.
I stepped closer.
“Tell me.”
Tears filled her eyes.
“No.”
My heart stopped.
“No, it wasn't Isabelle?”
She shook her head.
“No.”
Grace grabbed the back of a chair.
I felt my knees weaken.
For a moment, I couldn't speak.
Then I whispered, “Where is she?”
Price began crying.
“I don't know.”
I stared.
“You don't know?”
“I haven't known for months.”
I gripped the edge of the table.
“Start talking.”
Price sank into a chair.
“The woman in the hospital was named Elena Vargas.”
I stared at her.
“Who?”
“A patient transferred from another facility. She had suffered injuries in a car accident.”
“She was dead?”
Price shook her head.
“She died shortly before you arrived.”
The room seemed to spin.
“You put my wife's ring on another woman?”
Price looked down.
“Vincent did.”
I felt something inside me turn to ice.
“Why did you help him?”
She began shaking.
“He had my son.”
Grace stepped forward.
“What?”
“My son was seventeen. He owed money to people he shouldn't have known. Vincent said he could make the debt disappear.”
She wiped her face.
“Then he showed me photographs of my son leaving school. He said accidents happened.”
I stared at her.
“So you signed a false death certificate.”
“Yes.”
“And Isabelle?”
Price closed her eyes.
“She was alive when they brought her in.”
My throat tightened.
“Was she conscious?”
“Barely.”
“Had she been shot?”
“Yes. One bullet had entered her shoulder. Another had grazed her ribs.”
I stared.
“Those injuries weren't fatal?”
“No.”
I pressed both hands against the table.
“Then why was she declared dead?”
“Because Vincent ordered it.”
Silence.
I could hear my own breathing.
Grace stood perfectly still.
I looked at Price.
“Where did they take her?”
She shook her head.
“I don't know.”
I stepped toward her.
“Think.”
“I swear.”
“What happened after the hospital?”
“Two men transported her.”
“Where?”
“They told me a private rehabilitation facility.”
“Name?”
May you like
Price hesitated.
Then whispered, “St. Catherine's.”
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