Chapter 4 - THE WOMAN WHO RAISED MY DAUGHTERS
Mrs. Donnelly had worked for my family for sixteen years.
She had dressed Isabelle for our wedding.
She had held Olivia the first night we brought her home.
She had sat beside Sophie during fevers.
She had rocked Nora when Isabelle was too exhausted to stand.
For fourteen months, she had been the woman I trusted most with my children.
Now she stood above me with a gun.
I didn't shoot.
I couldn't.
“Put it down,” I said.
She laughed softly.
“You still think this is about you.”
“Put the gun down.”
“You were always so certain.”
“Donnelly.”
Her smile disappeared.
“You should have listened to Isabelle.”
My blood ran cold.
“You knew?”
“I knew everything.”
Marco raised his gun.
She immediately pointed hers at the girls.
“Drop it.”
Marco froze.
“Marco,” I said.
He lowered his weapon.
Donnelly walked downstairs.
“Fourteen months,” she said. “Fourteen months you blamed yourself.”
She looked at the girls.
“They never stopped talking because of trauma.”
I stared at her.
“They stopped because they were threatened.”
Grace stepped forward.
“By you?”
Donnelly looked at her.
“You.”
Grace's face went pale.
“You've been waiting for this.”
Donnelly smiled.
“You should have left when Isabelle asked you to.”
I turned toward Grace.
“What is she talking about?”
Grace didn't answer.
Donnelly did.
“Grace Bennett isn't a housekeeper.”
I looked at Grace.
She lowered her eyes.
“Then who are you?”
She whispered:
“My real name is Grace Moretti.”
Marco's face changed.
“Moretti?”
I knew the name.
Everyone in our world did.
The Morettis had been rivals for generations.
But Grace was looking at me with tears in her eyes.
“I'm Isabelle's half-sister.”
The room went silent.
Donnelly lowered her gun slightly.
“Isabelle discovered our father's second family years ago.”
I stared at Grace.
“You knew her.”
“She found me first.”
“When?”
“Three years before she died.”
“Why didn't she tell me?”
“Because she didn't know who you could trust.”
Donnelly laughed.
“You still don't.”
I looked at her.
“What did you do?”
She shook her head.
“I didn't kill Isabelle.”
“Who did?”
She pointed toward the library.
“The man who signed the order.”
I followed her finger.
A photograph lay on the floor.
It showed Isabelle standing beside a man.
My attorney.
Victor Hale.
I stared.
Impossible.
Victor had handled my business for twelve years.
My contracts.
My estates.
My trusts.
My children's legal documents.
Everything.
Donnelly said quietly:
“Victor knew Nora wasn't your daughter.”
My jaw tightened.
“What does Nora's blood have to do with Isabelle's murder?”
Donnelly looked at me.
“Everything.”
She lowered the gun.
Then she smiled.
“You want the truth?”
“Yes.”
“Ask your wife.”
“What?”
“She left you another message.”
She reached into her coat.
Before she could pull anything out, Grace lunged.
The gun fired.
The bullet struck the ceiling.
Marco tackled Donnelly.
I grabbed Grace.
The girls screamed.
Donnelly fought like someone half her age.
Then she stopped.
Not because we had overpowered her.
Because she heard something.
A car engine.
She smiled.
“They're here.”
I ran to the window.
Three black SUVs rolled through the gates.
My security system suddenly came alive.
Every monitor flashed red.
Then my phone rang.
Unknown number.
I answered.
A man's voice spoke.
“You have ten minutes.”
“Who is this?”
“Someone who knows where Isabelle is buried.”
My blood stopped.
“She was buried fourteen months ago.”
“No, Dominic.”
A pause.
“That's where you buried the body they gave you.”
I couldn't breathe.
The man continued.
“Your wife was never in that coffin.”
The call ended.
Behind me, Grace whispered:
“Dominic.”
I turned.
She was holding something she had pulled from Donnelly's coat.
A photograph.
Isabelle.
Alive.
Taken six months after her supposed death.
May you like
And standing beside her was a man I had trusted with my life.
Victor Hale.
