Chapter 8 - The First Woman Who Disappeared
Natalie Price was twenty-nine when she vanished.
She lived in Evanston.
She worked as an occupational therapist.
She loved rescue dogs, volunteered at a children's hospital, and had a younger brother who still posted photographs of her on social media every year.
Rachel told us these things slowly.
As though each detail made the guilt harder to carry.
According to Rachel, Natalie had dated Ryan before he met me.
At least, that was what she had been told.
Ryan introduced himself as a real estate consultant.
He was charming.
Patient.
Attentive.
Within six months, he was talking about marriage.
Then Natalie's behavior supposedly changed.
She became forgetful.
Anxious.
Unpredictable.
Her friends noticed she stopped answering messages.
Her family said Ryan always had explanations.
And a physician associated with Harborline began visiting her home.
"Dr. Keller?" I asked.
Rachel nodded.
I felt cold.
"What happened to Natalie?"
Rachel stared at her hands.
"She disappeared."
"Ryan said she left?"
"Yes."
"Did anyone believe him?"
"Her brother didn't."
Elena leaned forward.
"What's his name?"
"Daniel Price."
"Is he still in Illinois?"
"Last I heard."
My father looked at Elena.
"Find him."
She nodded.
Rachel continued.
"I didn't know the full story. I was processing invoices. Then one day, I saw a billing code for a private residential facility."
"What facility?" Elena asked.
Rachel shook her head.
"The name was hidden under a company number."
"Did you keep the invoice?"
"I kept everything I could."
She opened her purse again.
This time she removed a flash drive.
My father reached for it.
Elena intercepted his hand.
"Uncle Vincent, we'll make a documented copy and have the original handled properly."
Dad gave her a frustrated look.
She returned it without blinking.
I almost smiled.
Only Elena could correct Vincent Moretti without flinching.
Rachel handed the drive to her.
"There's more," she said.
I braced myself.
"Ryan wasn't the first man they used."
"What do you mean?"
"Before Natalie, there were others. Different names. Different cities. Same pattern."
Elena's expression darkened.
"Financially vulnerable women?"
Rachel shook her head.
"Women with assets. Or access to assets. Family trusts, inheritances, business interests."
I looked at Dad.
"This wasn't just about me."
"No," he said quietly.
Rachel continued.
"But your case was different."
"How?"
"The other women were chosen for money. You were chosen because of your mother."
The room went silent.
Rachel looked directly at my father.
"I heard Greco say that Sofia Moretti had taken something from him."
My father didn't move.
"He said he'd spent years trying to find it."
"What was it?" I whispered.
Rachel shook her head.
"I don't know."
Elena typed something.
"Did Greco ever describe it?"
"He called it the ledger."
My father stood.
His chair scraped against the floor.
I looked up.
"Dad?"
He stared at Rachel.
"The Red Ledger?"
She nodded.
"That's what he called it."
For a moment, my father seemed to forget we were in a hospital.
His eyes went somewhere distant.
Somewhere terrible.
Then he sat down again.
"Emily," he said, "your mother didn't simply gather evidence against Greco."
I waited.
"She discovered that he had been moving money through shell companies and medical businesses to finance crimes far beyond Chicago."
"What crimes?"
"Fraud. Extortion. Corruption. Forced labor. People disappearing after they became liabilities."
My stomach turned.
"And she kept records?"
"Yes."
"Then where are they?"
Dad shook his head.
"That's the question Greco has been asking for more than a decade."
I looked down at my belly.
Ryan had married me to find something my mother had hidden.
But why hadn't he found it already?
He had access to our home.
Our accounts.
Our belongings.
He'd searched through almost everything I owned.
Then I remembered the night he became furious about a small wooden jewelry box.
It had belonged to Mom.
I'd kept it in a closet since childhood.
Ryan asked whether he could have it restored.
I refused.
He insisted.
I refused again.
That night, he grabbed my wrist for the first time.
I told myself he'd lost his temper.
That it wouldn't happen again.
It did.
Again and again.
And always, eventually, he returned to questions about my mother's belongings.
"Dad, I think Ryan was looking for something."
My father nodded.
"Yes."
"No. I mean something specific."
"What?"
"Mom's jewelry box."
His eyes narrowed.
"Where is it?"
"At the apartment."
Elena looked up.
"Can you describe it?"
"Small. Dark wood. Brass corners. There's a rose carved into the lid."
My father made a sound I had never heard from him before.
Not anger.
Not grief.
Recognition.
"What?" I asked.
He took a slow breath.
"Your mother had that box custom-made."
"So?"
"She told me it was just a keepsake."
He looked toward the window.
"But the man who made it specialized in concealed compartments."
For a moment, hope rushed through me.
Maybe the evidence was still there.
Maybe my mother had left a way to stop all of this.
Then Elena's phone rang.
She glanced at the screen.
"Daniel Price."
My heart hammered.
"Already?"
"I had my investigator contact him."
She answered.
"Mr. Price, this is Elena Moretti."
She listened.
"Yes. I'm with Emily."
Another pause.
Then her expression changed.
"What do you mean, you found her?"
My father leaned forward.
Elena turned on the speaker.
A man's voice filled the room.
Thin.
Exhausted.
Shaking.
"Three weeks ago, I got a letter from my sister."
I held my breath.
"Where is she?" Elena asked.
The man began crying.
"That's the problem."
His voice cracked.
"The letter was mailed from a psychiatric facility in Wisconsin that claims she died four years ago."
He struggled to continue.
"But the letter was written this month."
Then he said something that made my blood turn cold.
"She wrote one sentence over and over."
I gripped the blanket.
"What sentence?"
May you like
Daniel took a broken breath.
"Tell Emily Moretti she's next."
