Chapter 8 - THE SECRET INSIDE THE THREE BUTTERFLIESWe lost the black SUV outside White Plains.
Not because I was a better driver.
Not because the men following us made a mistake.
We lost them because Detective Rachel Monroe pulled three unmarked police vehicles across the intersection directly behind us.
The SUV attempted to turn.
Two patrol cars blocked it.
I watched through the rearview mirror as officers surrounded the vehicle.
Grace stared at me.
“Did you call her?”
“No.”
Eleanor looked terrified.
“Then how did she find us?”
My phone rang.
Unknown number.
I answered.
“Mr. Romano?”
Detective Monroe.
I slowed.
“You have an unusual way of requesting an interview.”
“You were being followed by two suspects connected to the fire at your residence.”
“How did you know?”
“We've been watching Carlo Vescari since last night.”
I said nothing.
She continued.
“He was identified on security footage near your property before the explosion.”
“Then arrest him.”
“We're working on it.”
“You just stopped his car.”
“I know.”
I pulled into an empty parking lot.
“Detective, what do you want?”
“To speak with you before more people get hurt.”
I looked at Eleanor.
She was gripping the medical box.
“Can you guarantee my daughters' safety?”
“No one can guarantee that,” Monroe said. “But I can arrange protective custody through investigators who aren't connected to your brother.”
I watched traffic pass.
“You know about Vincent?”
A pause.
“We know enough to have questions.”
I looked at Grace.
She nodded once.
I gave Monroe the address of a public building several miles away.
“Come alone.”
She exhaled.
“Mr. Romano—”
“Come alone, or don't come.”
I ended the call.
Forty minutes later, Monroe arrived at a small municipal parking garage.
She stepped out of an ordinary sedan.
No uniform.
No visible backup.
Dark hair pulled into a ponytail.
A navy jacket.
A tired expression.
She looked like a woman who had spent too many years listening to dangerous people explain why they were innocent.
“Mr. Romano.”
“Detective.”
Her eyes moved toward Grace and Eleanor.
“Dr. Price?”
Eleanor looked startled.
“You know me?”
Monroe nodded.
“I've been trying to find you for six months.”
Eleanor nearly dropped the box.
“Why?”
“Because your name appears on a death certificate that doesn't match the medical evidence.”
I went still.
“What medical evidence?”
Monroe looked at me.
“An anonymous source contacted the county medical examiner's office six months ago. The source alleged that the woman buried as Isabelle Romano was someone else.”
I stared.
“You knew?”
“We had an allegation. Not proof.”
“And nobody told me?”
“Your attorney received notification that the death certificate was under review.”
Anthony.
Of course.
I almost laughed.
Monroe continued.
“Within forty-eight hours, the source disappeared.”
My stomach tightened.
“Who was it?”
She hesitated.
“A medical records administrator named Rebecca Shaw.”
Eleanor covered her mouth.
“Oh, no.”
“You know her?”
“She helped me retrieve the original records.”
Monroe looked at her.
“Then we need to talk.”
I stepped between them.
“First, you need to understand something.”
Monroe raised an eyebrow.
“My daughters witnessed their mother's abduction. Someone tried to kill them last night. I have evidence that their uncle and my attorney were involved.”
“I know.”
I stared.
“How?”
She pulled out her phone.
Displayed a photograph.
A black Cadillac.
Damaged taillight.
Parking permit.
The same vehicle from Isabelle's photograph.
“We recovered this image from traffic cameras fourteen months ago,” Monroe said.
“Then why wasn't it in the investigation?”
“It was.”
I frowned.
“The official report said the plates belonged to a stolen vehicle.”
“They did.”
“Then?”
Monroe looked at me.
“The original detective requested footage from the parking garage associated with the permit. The request was withdrawn.”
“By whom?”
“His supervisor.”
I felt cold.
“Name?”
“Captain Harold Briggs.”
I recognized him.
Briggs had attended Isabelle's funeral.
He had shaken my hand.
Promised justice.
Vincent had introduced us.
Monroe continued.
“Briggs retired three months after your wife's death.”
“Where is he?”
“We're looking.”
I stared at her.
“How long have you been investigating?”
“Six months.”
“Why?”
Her expression changed.
“Because my former partner was Rebecca Shaw's husband.”
I said nothing.
“She disappeared after contacting him. He started asking questions. Then he was killed in a hit-and-run.”
Grace inhaled.
Monroe looked directly at me.
“I don't believe in coincidences that convenient.”
For the first time, I believed her.
Not completely.
But enough.
We moved to a private office Monroe had arranged.
Eleanor gave her the medical documents.
I showed her the photograph.
Grace explained Hannah's disappearance.
Monroe listened without interrupting.
Then I placed Olivia's butterfly pendant on the desk.
“Isabelle hid evidence in three necklaces.”
Monroe examined it.
“Have you opened them?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“I haven't found the key.”
Grace leaned closer.
“What about the numbers on the photograph?”
I took them out.
Eight digits.
Beginning with EP.
Eleanor studied them.
Then gasped.
“What?”
She touched the paper.
“Those aren't numbers.”
I frowned.
“Then what are they?”
“It's a medical device serial number.”
I stared.
“A what?”
“A miniature data-storage device used in a clinical research project. The manufacturer engraved eight-character identifiers on them.”
Monroe leaned forward.
“Why would Isabelle have one?”
Eleanor shook her head.
“I don't know.”
Grace looked at the butterfly.
“Could it fit inside?”
The pendant was barely larger than a quarter.
Eleanor nodded slowly.
“The device was tiny.”
I remembered Isabelle sitting at the dining table, carefully choosing jewelry for the girls.
Three silver butterflies.
Three identical chains.
I had thought they were sentimental gifts.
Now they might be the reason our daughters had survived.
Monroe called a forensic technician.
An hour later, a woman named Dr. Lena Ortiz arrived with magnifying equipment and delicate instruments.
She examined the butterfly.
“Interesting.”
“What?” I asked.
“This isn't a conventional lock.”
She turned the pendant over.
“It's a release mechanism.”
“Can you open it?”
“Yes, but I don't want to damage anything.”
She worked for several minutes.
A tiny click sounded.
The butterfly separated into two pieces.
Inside sat a black object no larger than a grain of rice.
My heart pounded.
Ortiz lifted it carefully.
“MicroSD storage.”
Grace grabbed my hand.
I barely noticed.
The technician placed it into a reader.
A computer screen lit up.
One encrypted folder appeared.
SUNSHINE_01.
Monroe looked at me.
“Password?”
I shook my head.
Then Grace whispered, “The song.”
I turned.
“What?”
“You Are My Sunshine.”
She looked at the screen.
“Isabelle used it with the girls. Maybe the password is connected.”
I typed the song title.
Incorrect.
I tried the first line.
Incorrect.
Then I remembered something.
Isabelle had always changed the last line when she sang to Nora.
Instead of the original words, she would whisper:
I'll love you beyond every gray sky.
I typed it.
The folder opened.
Three files appeared.
A spreadsheet.
A video.
And an audio recording.
Monroe looked at me.
“Which one first?”
I clicked the video.
Isabelle appeared on the screen.
Alive.
Sitting in the library.
Wearing the cream sweater from the morning she disappeared.
My knees weakened.
Grace pulled out a chair.
I sat.
My wife's face filled the screen.
She looked frightened.
But determined.
“Dominic,” she began.
My heart broke at the sound of her voice.
“If you're watching this, something has happened to me.”
I covered my mouth.
She continued.
“I need you to listen carefully.”
Her eyes filled with tears.
“Vincent has been stealing from the foundation. Anthony helped him. But that's not the worst thing I found.”
She looked away.
Then back at the camera.
“Your father wasn't killed in a robbery.”
I stopped breathing.
“Dominic, Salvatore discovered that Anthony was stealing from the family. He planned to remove him.”
My hands began shaking.
“Anthony convinced Vincent that your father intended to leave everything to you.”
I stared at the screen.
Isabelle swallowed.
“Vincent was seventeen. Anthony used him.”
She lowered her voice.
“But Vincent wasn't innocent.”
I leaned forward.
“He opened the garage door that night.”
My entire body went cold.
The robbery.
My father had been attacked in his own garage.
The alarm had been disabled.
The door had been left unlocked.
Vincent had always claimed he was asleep.
Isabelle began crying.
“Your brother helped Anthony arrange it.”
I couldn't move.
She continued.
“I found the original payment records. Anthony kept them because he wanted leverage over Vincent.”
She looked directly into the camera.
“Dominic, please don't become the man they expect you to become.”
I closed my eyes.
“Please protect our daughters. Find the truth. Let the police handle the evidence.”
Her voice broke.
“I love you.”
I pressed my hand against the screen.
Then she whispered something that nearly destroyed me.
“And if I'm gone, promise me you'll learn how to live without blood on your hands.”
The video ended.
Nobody spoke.
I stared at the black screen.
Twenty-one years.
My father.
My wife.
My daughters.
Everything connected.
Monroe finally spoke.
“We need the other two pendants.”
I looked up.
“Why?”
She pointed at the folder name.
“SUNSHINE_01.”
Grace finished the thought.
“There are two more.”
My phone vibrated.
Hannah.
I answered.
“Grace?”
Her voice was trembling.
“Dominic, something happened.”
I stood.
“What?”
“The girls are safe, but someone left a package outside the guesthouse.”
My blood chilled.
“What package?”
“A small wooden box.”
“Don't touch it.”
“We haven't.”
“What does it say?”
Hannah swallowed.
“It's addressed to Olivia.”
I gripped the phone.
“Anything else?”
“Yes.”
Her voice broke.
“There's a photograph taped to the top.”
“Of what?”
A pause.
Then Hannah whispered, “Isabelle.”
I couldn't breathe.
“Alive?”
“Yes.”
I closed my eyes.
“Where?”
“I don't know.”
“Describe it.”
“She's sitting beside a window.”
May you like
Hannah began crying.
“And she's holding today's newspaper.”
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