Chapter 13 - My Mother's Last Warning
The hospital released me two days later with strict instructions.
Rest.
Regular monitoring.
Follow-up appointments.
Immediate medical attention if I experienced pain, bleeding, contractions, or reduced fetal movement.
The obstetrician explained that my injuries and recent stress required careful observation.
She spoke to me directly.
Not to Dad.
Not to Elena.
Not to any of the men waiting outside.
Me.
I found that more comforting than she probably realized.
When she asked where I planned to recover, I told her I would stay at my father's home.
She nodded.
"Do you feel safe there?"
I thought about Ryan.
Linda.
Dr. Keller.
Greco.
Then I thought about the way my father had sat beside me every night, refusing to leave until I fell asleep.
"Yes," I said.
And I meant it.
Dad's house stood on several acres outside Chicago.
It was the home where I'd grown up.
A large stone building surrounded by old trees and a garden my mother had designed herself.
The driveway curved past a fountain that hadn't worked properly since I was a child.
When the car pulled through the gates, I began crying.
I hadn't realized how badly I'd missed the place.
The front doors opened before we reached the steps.
Marco stood waiting.
Beside him was Rosa, our longtime housekeeper.
She saw me.
Her hand flew to her mouth.
"Oh, sweetheart."
I stepped out carefully.
She wrapped her arms around me.
Rosa had helped raise me after Mom died.
She'd taught me how to make pasta from scratch.
She'd scolded Dad when he forgot to eat.
She'd been the first person to tell me that love should never make a woman feel small.
Now she held me like I was a frightened child.
"I should've called you," I whispered.
She pulled back.
"You don't owe me an apology."
Tears filled her eyes.
"You just come home."
My old bedroom had been prepared.
Fresh sheets.
Soft pillows.
A vase of flowers.
And on the dresser sat the small stuffed rabbit I'd slept with until I was ten.
I laughed through my tears.
"Dad kept that?"
Rosa smiled.
"Your father keeps everything."
That night, after dinner, I asked him about Mom's journals.
He led me into his study.
It was almost exactly as I remembered.
Dark wooden shelves.
A large desk.
A leather chair.
Photographs of our family.
One showed Mom standing in the garden with me on her hip.
I couldn't have been older than two.
She was laughing.
Dad stood beside her, looking at us as though we were the only people in the world.
For a moment, I wondered whether all three of us had ever truly been safe.
Dad opened a locked cabinet.
Inside were several boxes.
He brought one to the desk.
"These are hers."
I sat down.
My hands trembled as I opened it.
There were letters.
Recipe cards.
Birthday photographs.
Pressed flowers.
And seven small notebooks.
Each had a different colored cover.
I recognized them immediately.
"These."
Dad sat beside me.
We opened the first notebook.
Mom's handwriting filled the pages.
Emily lost her first tooth today.
Vincent burned the pancakes again.
The roses bloomed early this year.
I smiled.
Then cried.
Then smiled again.
For nearly an hour, we read memories.
Some were funny.
Some were ordinary.
Some felt so painfully familiar that I had to stop.
Then I reached the final notebook.
A blue one.
The cover was worn.
Inside, the entries became shorter.
Mom wrote about being tired.
About work.
About worrying too much.
Then, several weeks before her death, her handwriting changed.
The letters were hurried.
The sentences brief.
I turned a page.
Emily asked me whether bad people can become good.
I told her they can choose to do better, but only if they stop pretending they never hurt anyone.
I glanced at Dad.
He looked away.
I continued.
Sometimes I wonder what kind of world my daughter will inherit.
I hope it's kinder than the one we built.
My throat tightened.
Then I reached an entry dated three days before Mom died.
It contained only four words.
Roses remember the truth.
I frowned.
"Dad?"
He looked up.
"What?"
I showed him.
"Does that mean anything?"
He studied the page.
"No."
I thought about Natalie's warning.
Look where she kept the things she loved most.
I looked around the study.
My mother's photographs.
Her journals.
The flowers.
The garden.
Then I remembered something she'd told me when I was eight.
We were planting rosebushes behind the house.
I'd asked why she preferred roses to other flowers.
She smiled and said:
"Because they remind me that beautiful things need protecting, and the thorns remind people not to take them for granted."
I stood.
Dad immediately reached toward me.
"Emily, careful."
"I'm fine."
I walked to the window.
Beyond the glass, moonlight fell across the garden.
Seven rosebushes stood along the stone path.
Most had grown larger since I was a child.
But one was different.
A white rosebush near the far wall.
It had been Mom's favorite.
She planted it herself.
And every year, Rosa tended it more carefully than the others.
I turned.
"Dad, did Mom ever bury anything in the garden?"
He frowned.
"Not that I know of."
"Did she change anything before she died?"
He thought.
Then shook his head.
But Rosa, who had entered carrying tea, suddenly stopped.
Her face changed.
"What is it?" I asked.
She stared at the journal.
"The white roses."
My heart jumped.
"What about them?"
Rosa set down the tray.
"Your mother made me promise never to move them."
Dad looked at her.
"Why?"
Rosa swallowed.
"She said if anyone ever tried to remove that bush, I was to call her first."
"But she died."
Rosa nodded.
"Afterward, I kept the promise anyway."
I looked toward the window.
"What did she say exactly?"
Rosa's eyes filled.
"She told me those roses were for Emily."
The room went silent.
Then Rosa continued.
"She said someday, when Emily had a child of her own, I was supposed to tell her something."
My breath caught.
"What?"
Rosa looked directly at me.
"Your mother said, 'When she becomes a mother, tell her the roses have roots deeper than anyone knows.'"
Dad stared toward the garden.
I felt my pulse quicken.
The white rosebush.
The journals.
Mom's warning.
Maybe we'd finally found what Greco had spent twelve years searching for.
But then Marco appeared in the doorway.
His expression was grim.
"Vincent."
Dad turned.
"What?"
"There's a problem."
Marco looked at me.
Then at the window.
"Somebody got onto the property last night."
Dad stood.
"How?"
"We're reviewing the security system."
"What did they do?"
Marco hesitated.
Then said:
"They went straight to Sofia's rose garden."
I felt cold.
"Did they take anything?"
Marco shook his head.
"Not yet."
"Why not?"
He looked at Dad.
"Because someone interrupted them."
"Who?"
Marco's expression darkened.
"Rosa."
I turned toward her.
She stood beside the tea tray, looking suddenly exhausted.
Dad stared.
"Rosa, what happened?"
She lowered her eyes.
And whispered:
"I didn't tell you because I was afraid."
My heart hammered.
"Afraid of what?"
Rosa looked at me.
"Emily, the man in the garden knew your mother's name."
May you like
She took a shaky breath.
"And he told me he'd come back for the baby."
