Chapter 2 - THE HOUSEKEEPER’s KEYS
The conservatory fell entirely silent.
Isabella’s trembling finger remained pointed directly at Patricia’s chest. The older woman’s chest heaved with shallow, panicked breaths, her eyes silently pleading with her son.
Vincent didn't yell. He didn't raise his hands.
He simply stepped between his mother’s wheelchair and the head housekeeper. The temperature in the room seemed to drop ten degrees.
“Patricia,” Vincent said, his voice terrifyingly calm. “Why is my mother pointing at you?”
Patricia took a step backward, her perfectly pressed uniform suddenly looking too tight around her neck. “Mr. DeLuca, I have no idea. The woman hasn't been in her right mind for years. She’s confused. This agency girl is clearly upsetting her.”
I stepped closer to Isabella, placing my hand gently on her shoulder.
“She isn't confused,” I said, looking right at Vincent. “Her signs are perfectly clear. She knows exactly what she’s saying.”
Vincent didn't take his eyes off Patricia. “Where is the key to the greenhouse, Patricia?”
“I… it’s on the master ring, sir. In the kitchen.”
Isabella violently shook her head. She gripped my wrist again, her fingers digging into my skin. She tapped her chest, then pointed to her own pocket, and finally pointed at Patricia again.
“She says it’s in Patricia’s pocket,” I translated, my heart hammering against my ribs.
Patricia’s face drained of all color. “That is a lie! I would never—”
Vincent closed the distance between them in a single stride. He didn't touch her, but his sheer physical presence made Patricia shrink against the floral wallpaper.
“Empty your pockets,” he whispered.
“Sir, please, you have to believe me, I’ve served this family for fifteen years—”
“Empty them.”
Patricia’s hands shook violently as she reached into the deep pockets of her black apron. She pulled out a folded linen napkin, a silver pen, and finally, a heavy brass key.
It was etched with a small rose emblem. The greenhouse key.
Vincent stared at it. The muscle in his jaw twitched. “You told me my daughter was upstairs with her nanny. You gave this key to the man in the gray coat.”
“They made me!” Patricia sobbed, finally breaking. She dropped to her knees on the marble floor. “They said if I didn't unlock the side gate and give him the greenhouse key, they would take my grandson! They showed me pictures of his school, Mr. DeLuca! I had no choice!”
“Who is they?” Vincent demanded, his voice finally cracking like thunder.
“He didn't give a name! He just wore that terrible gray wool coat. He said he was going to take Sofia somewhere you would never find her.”
Vincent snatched the brass key from her trembling hands. He didn't spare her another glance. He turned and sprinted toward the French doors leading to the garden.
I looked down at Isabella. She was signing furiously, her eyes wide with terror.
Don't let him go alone. The coat. The pockets.
“Mr. DeLuca, wait!” I yelled, running after him.
We burst through the doors into the humid summer air, sprinting across the manicured lawn. The massive glass greenhouse loomed at the edge of the property, surrounded by towering, thorny rosebushes.
Vincent jammed the brass key into the lock and threw the heavy glass door open.
“Sofia!” he roared, his voice echoing off the glass panels and damp stone floors.
Nothing. The greenhouse was empty.
Rows of exotic orchids and ferns sat in perfect silence. There was no sign of a struggle. No little girl in a pink dress.
Vincent collapsed against a potting table, running his hands over his face, a sound of pure agony escaping his chest. The most powerful man in Chicago was suddenly just a terrified, broken father.
But as I stepped further into the humid room, my foot brushed against something soft hidden beneath a massive fern.
I knelt down and pulled it out.
It was a heavy, charcoal-gray wool coat.
“Mr. DeLuca,” I whispered.
He turned, his eyes locking onto the garment. All the blood rushed from his face. He walked over slowly, as if the coat were a live explosive.
“It’s my father’s,” Vincent said, his voice barely a rasp. “He died ten years ago. I buried him in this coat.”
My skin crawled. I remembered Isabella’s frantic signing. The pockets.
I carefully reached into the right pocket of the heavy wool. My fingers brushed against cold metal. I pulled it out.
It was a heavy silver pocket watch, tarnished with age.
But it wasn't ticking.
The glass face was smashed. And tucked behind the shattered glass was a small, tightly folded piece of paper.
Vincent took the watch from my hand. He unfolded the paper.
It was a child’s drawing. Crayon on construction paper. It showed a little girl in a pink dress holding hands with a tall man.
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But they weren't in a garden.
They were standing in front of a dark, wrought-iron gate, and above the gate, drawn in messy red letters, were the words: ST. JUDE'S ORPHANAGE.
