Chapter 12 - The Woman Who Helped Bury the Wrong Man
Vanessa Hale had been part of my childhood.
Not a large part.
Just enough to leave behind memories that no longer made sense.
I remembered a woman with a soft voice who smelled like lavender.
A woman who always brought coloring books when she visited.
A woman my mother hugged so tightly that I once asked whether they were sisters.
"Closer than that," Mom had answered.
At the time, I thought she meant best friends.
Now I wondered whether she meant something else.
Dad sat beside the window while Detective Ortega explained what investigators had uncovered.
Vanessa had worked with my mother on financial investigations.
After Sofia's death, she'd told Dad she was leaving Chicago.
He believed she moved overseas.
Instead, she remained in the Midwest under different business arrangements.
She became involved with medical service companies connected to Harborline.
Her signature appeared on documents relating to Greco's supposed death.
And now she was connected to a policy on my life.
"Why would she do that?" I whispered.
Dad didn't answer.
I could see the question hurting him.
He had trusted Vanessa.
My mother had trusted her.
And that trust might have been used against our entire family.
Elena leaned forward.
"Detective, do you know whether Vanessa's involvement is voluntary?"
Ortega nodded thoughtfully.
"We're not assuming her role based on a single document. We're investigating what she knew, when she knew it, and whether she participated in any crimes."
"Could she be another victim?" I asked.
"Possibly."
I looked at Dad.
"Then don't decide she's guilty yet."
He met my eyes.
A younger version of my father might have dismissed the suggestion.
Instead, he nodded.
"You're right."
Elena looked at him with surprise.
Dad gave her a tired smile.
"I'm trying."
For a moment, the room felt almost normal.
Then Ortega's phone rang.
He stepped outside.
When he returned, his expression was tense.
"We've located Vanessa."
"Where?" Dad asked.
"At a residence near Oak Park."
"Is she cooperating?"
"She agreed to speak with investigators."
My father stood.
"I want to see her."
Ortega shook his head.
"Not yet."
"Detective—"
"Mr. Moretti, I understand your connection to her. But if she has relevant information, we need to interview her without interference."
Dad stared at him.
Then slowly sat down.
I almost laughed.
Not because anything was funny.
Because watching Vincent Moretti accept instructions from a detective would have seemed impossible a week earlier.
Later that afternoon, I received a call from an unfamiliar number.
The hospital nurse asked whether I wanted to answer.
My first instinct was to refuse.
But something about the area code caught my attention.
Wisconsin.
I looked at Elena.
She nodded toward the detective stationed nearby.
"Put it on speaker."
I answered.
"Hello?"
For several seconds, nobody spoke.
Then a woman whispered:
"Emily?"
My heart jumped.
"Yes?"
"My name is Natalie."
I stopped breathing.
Natalie Price.
The missing woman.
The woman who had supposedly died in a private psychiatric facility.
"Natalie?"
"Please don't hang up."
I looked at Elena.
She was already reaching for her phone to alert Ortega.
"Where are you?"
"I can't tell you."
"Are you safe?"
A pause.
"No."
I felt sick.
Natalie's breathing sounded shallow.
"Emily, I know what Ryan did to you."
My hands began shaking.
"How?"
"Because he did it to me."
I closed my eyes.
"I'm so sorry."
"Don't apologize."
Her voice broke.
"Listen carefully. He will try to make you believe the worst thing in your life was your fault. That's how he keeps you quiet."
Tears burned my eyes.
"He told me I attacked someone."
Natalie went silent.
Then she whispered, "The hotel?"
"Yes."
"February twelfth?"
I stared at the phone.
"How did you know?"
Natalie began crying.
"Because I was there."
The room seemed to tilt.
"You were there?"
"Yes."
"Where?"
"They brought me from Westbridge."
Elena stepped closer.
"Natalie, this is Elena Moretti. We're trying to help. Can you tell us who brought you?"
Natalie hesitated.
"Keller."
I gripped the phone.
"Why?"
"To make you believe you'd hurt someone."
I couldn't speak.
Natalie continued.
"There was a man on the floor. They put blood on your clothes. You were barely conscious."
My eyes filled.
"Did I hurt him?"
"No."
The word struck me so hard that I began sobbing.
"No, Emily. You didn't hurt anyone. They staged it."
For months, I'd lived with the belief that I might have nearly killed an innocent man.
Ryan had used that fear to control everything I did.
And now, in three words, a woman I'd never met had begun returning my life to me.
I covered my face.
Elena took my hand.
Natalie waited.
Then she whispered, "There's something else."
I lowered my hand.
"What?"
"They wanted me to tell you that you had attacked him. I refused."
"What happened?"
"They took me back."
I could hear her struggling to breathe.
"Why are you calling now?"
"Because I found a way to get out."
"Can you tell the police where you are?"
"Not over this phone."
"Natalie, please—"
She interrupted.
"Emily, your mother knew everything."
I froze.
"What?"
"About Greco. About Keller. About the women."
"My mother died twelve years ago."
"I know."
"Then how could she know about Ryan?"
"Not Ryan specifically. The method. The operation. The way they gained control of women and used their assets."
I looked at Dad.
He was listening with a haunted expression.
Natalie's voice became urgent.
"Your mother left instructions."
"What instructions?"
"For someone who might be targeted after her."
My heart hammered.
"Where?"
A loud noise interrupted the call.
Natalie gasped.
"Someone's coming."
"Natalie!"
"Listen to me. The jewelry box is a decoy."
I froze.
"What?"
"They know about it. They've known for years."
"Then where is the evidence?"
Natalie was crying now.
"Your mother didn't hide the ledger where Greco would search."
A door slammed somewhere on her end.
"Natalie!"
She whispered something I barely heard.
"Look where she kept the things she loved most."
Then the call disconnected.
I stared at the silent phone.
My father looked at me.
"What did she mean?"
I didn't answer.
Because something had come back to me.
My mother had a habit.
Every night before bed, she wrote a few lines in a small notebook.
Not business notes.
Not financial records.
Little things.
What we'd eaten for dinner.
What made her laugh.
Something I'd said that day.
She called it her happiness journal.
After she died, Dad put it away with her belongings.
I'd forgotten about it for years.
Now I looked at him.
"Dad, where are Mom's journals?"
He frowned.
"In storage, I think."
"No."
I shook my head.
"Her happiness journals."
His expression changed.
"The little books?"
"Yes."
He thought for a moment.
"At the house."
"Are you sure?"
"I haven't moved them."
I took a shaky breath.
"Then we need to find them."
But before Dad could answer, Elena's phone rang.
She looked at the screen.
Then at me.
"It's the investigator handling Vanessa."
She answered.
Listened.
And slowly stood.
"What happened?" I asked.
Elena didn't speak immediately.
Then she said:
"Vanessa Hale just admitted that Sofia Moretti's death was arranged."
My father stopped breathing.
Elena's voice trembled.
"And she says the person who ordered it wasn't Salvatore Greco."
I stared at her.
"Then who?"
Elena swallowed.
May you like
"She says it was someone Sofia trusted."
And for the first time in twelve years, I saw my father reach for a chair because his legs could no longer hold him.
