Chapter 13 - MY FATHER DID NOT DIE NATURALLY
Victor was taken into custody before sunrise.
Marco surrendered.
Cecilia did too.
Anthony said almost nothing on the drive home.
But Victor’s final statement followed us.
Salvatore Romano.
My father.
For eleven years, we had believed his death followed complications from a stroke.
Now I questioned everything.
Carlo pulled old medical records.
My mother contacted the private physician who had treated my father.
He had retired to Florida.
At first, he refused to speak.
Then I told him Victor had been detained.
His silence changed.
“Mr. Romano.”
“Yes?”
“There were inconsistencies.”
“What kind?”
“Your father’s laboratory results did not match his symptoms.”
“Did you report that?”
“I tried.”
“To whom?”
“Victor Hale.”
Of course.
“He said another specialist had reviewed them.”
“Did you believe him?”
“At the time.”
“And now?”
The doctor sighed.
“No.”
We requested archived hospital records.
Several files were missing.
But one nurse’s handwritten note remained.
PATIENT REPEATEDLY REQUESTING DOMINIC.
VISITOR V.H. INSISTS PATIENT CONFUSED.
My father had asked for me.
Victor had kept me out.
I remembered those final days.
Victor telling me Dad needed rest.
Victor saying doctors wanted limited visitors.
Victor standing between me and the room.
My anger became almost impossible to contain.
Grace found me alone in the library that afternoon.
“You’re doing what Isabelle predicted.”
I looked at her.
“What?”
“Blaming yourself.”
“I should have known.”
“How?”
“He was my father and I didn’t know what he did to David.”
“That isn’t the same.”
“It is exactly the same.”
I looked away.
She sat across from me.
“People like Victor survive because everyone thinks they should have noticed sooner.”
“He builds ten plausible explanations around every lie.”
“You miss one.”
“Then another.”
“Eventually the lie becomes history.”
Her words helped.
A little.
Then Olivia entered.
She was carrying another drawing.
A house.
Five people.
Me.
Isabelle.
The girls.
Grace was standing outside the house.
I smiled.
“Who’s that?”
“Grace.”
“She lives here now?”
Olivia shrugged.
“If she wants.”
Grace laughed.
It was the first warm sound in the library in fourteen months.
Then Olivia’s expression became serious.
“Daddy.”
“Yes?”
“Mommy had another phone.”
Grace and I looked at each other.
“What?”
“A little one.”
“Where?”
Olivia pointed toward the garden.
“The angel.”
Isabelle had commissioned a small stone angel after Sophie recovered from pneumonia at two years old.
It stood beside the rose garden.
We went outside.
At the base of the statue, behind a loose stone, we found a sealed waterproof pouch.
Inside was an old phone.
No service.
No battery.
Carlo connected it to an external power source.
It started.
There were twelve audio recordings.
The final one was dated the night before Isabelle died.
Her voice filled the room.
“Dominic, if you ever hear this, I’m sorry.”
“I tried to solve this quietly.”
“I thought if I brought you facts instead of suspicions, you would stay safe.”
“I understand now that silence is what made Victor powerful.”
My eyes burned.
“I found evidence involving your father.”
“Salvatore discovered Victor’s theft years ago.”
“He confronted him.”
“Victor threatened to expose information that would destroy several family businesses.”
“Salvatore chose to keep the matter private.”
“That decision gave Victor leverage.”
A pause.
Then Isabelle continued.
“But Salvatore later changed his mind.”
“He prepared a full confession.”
“He planned to give everything to Dominic.”
“The confession disappeared after his stroke.”
I looked at my mother.
She covered her mouth.
“The copy may still exist.”
“Edward Romano knew where it was.”
There it was again.
Edward.
The vanished uncle.
“He is alive.”
Isabelle’s voice became quieter.
“I spoke to him.”
Everyone froze.
“He is living under another name.”
“He agreed to return if I could prove Victor was still stealing.”
“Tomorrow, after I drop the girls at school, I’m supposed to meet Edward.”
The recording ended.
That meant Edward had been near Garden City the morning Isabelle died.
Carlo searched.
Passenger records.
Traffic cameras.
Financial activity.
It took two hours.
Then he found a hotel booking from fourteen months earlier.
Name: Eric Rowan.
Initials E.R.
Photo identification matched an older version of my uncle.
He had checked into a Garden City hotel the night before Isabelle died.
Checked out the morning after.
Then disappeared again.
But one thing stood out.
Someone else had entered his room.
Hotel footage showed a woman.
Cream coat.
Dark hair.
Cecilia.
Anthony stared at the image.
“She met Edward.”
Grace nodded.
“Before Isabelle died.”
I looked toward the hallway where my daughters were laughing.
Cecilia had told us Victor was responsible.
Maybe that was true.
Maybe not all of it.
May you like
Because Cecilia had known Edward was alive before anyone else.
And she had never mentioned him.
