Chapter 4 - A DEAD MAN'S INSTRUCTIONS
My father had been dead for eleven years.
Salvatore Romano had spent most of his life controlling every room he entered.
Even after his funeral, people spoke his name carefully.
But dead men did not give instructions.
I stared at Anthony.
“Try again.”
“I’m telling you the truth.”
“Our father has been dead since Olivia was a baby.”
“He left instructions before he died.”
“For what?”
Anthony looked at Carlo.
“Tell him.”
Carlo’s expression hardened.
“I didn’t know Salvatore was involved.”
Anthony laughed without humor.
“Everybody knew pieces.”
“That doesn’t answer me,” I said.
Anthony reached slowly into his jacket.
Marco immediately stepped forward.
Anthony stopped.
“It’s paper.”
I nodded.
He removed a folded document.
I recognized my father’s handwriting.
My stomach tightened.
Anthony placed it on the desk.
The page was dated twelve years earlier.
Six months before Salvatore died.
It contained names.
Companies.
Account numbers.
At the bottom was a sentence.
Protect the Romano family from internal exposure at all costs.
I read it twice.
“What does this have to do with Isabelle?”
“She found one of the accounts.”
“What account?”
“A charity holding company.”
“Which one?”
“The Isabelle Romano Children’s Foundation.”
I stared at him.
The charity was named after my wife.
We had created it after our first daughter was born.
It provided educational grants and emergency housing assistance.
Isabelle had personally supervised its programs.
Anthony continued.
“Dad had used foundations for years to move money between legitimate businesses.”
“Without telling me?”
“You were the public face.”
“And you?”
“I handled what you didn’t want to know.”
“That ended when Dad died.”
Anthony gave me a tired look.
“No.”
One word.
Enough to explain twelve years of lies.
I looked at my mother.
“You knew?”
She looked ashamed.
“I knew your father had created structures.”
“Did you know he kept using my foundation?”
“No.”
I turned back to Anthony.
“Who continued it?”
He hesitated.
“Cecilia found the files after we married.”
“And?”
“She realized she could use them.”
“For what?”
“Money.”
“How much?”
“Millions.”
My anger changed shape.
This was no longer only about Isabelle.
Someone had used my wife’s name to steal from families we claimed to help.
Anthony lowered his voice.
“Isabelle noticed inconsistencies.”
“So Cecilia confronted her.”
“Yes.”
“You followed Isabelle because of Dad’s instructions?”
“I followed her because Cecilia told me Isabelle planned to expose everything.”
“You chose Cecilia over Isabelle?”
“I was trying to stop a scandal.”
I stared at him.
“You followed my wife while she was taking my daughters to school.”
Anthony looked at Olivia.
Regret crossed his face.
“Yes.”
“What happened during those missing thirty-seven seconds?”
“I never saw it.”
“You were standing there.”
“I was across the lot.”
“What happened?”
“Isabelle walked away from Cecilia.”
He swallowed.
“Then someone else approached her.”
“Who?”
“I couldn’t see.”
“You expect me to believe that?”
“I saw only the back of the person.”
“Man or woman?”
“Man.”
“Height?”
“About six feet.”
“Build?”
“Medium.”
“Clothes?”
“Charcoal coat.”
“That describes half of Manhattan in winter.”
“I know.”
Anthony reached into his pocket again.
This time he removed a photograph.
It showed a man entering the preschool parking lot.
Only the side of his face was visible.
I recognized him.
Victor Hale.
My family attorney.
The man who had handled Isabelle’s estate.
The man who had sat beside me at her funeral.
The man who had explained, patiently and compassionately, that the authorities had found no evidence suggesting Isabelle’s death involved anyone in our family.
My stomach turned.
“Where did you get this?”
“Cecilia.”
“When?”
“Last month.”
“Why would she give it to you?”
“She didn’t.”
Anthony looked toward the door.
“I found it hidden in her desk.”
Grace finally spoke.
“What is Victor Hale doing in your family photograph from Christmas?”
Everyone looked toward her.
“What?”
“The picture in the library.”
She looked at me.
“There was someone reflected beside Cecilia.”
I remembered.
I had noticed only Cecilia.
We returned to the library.
Grace walked directly to the photograph.
She pointed.
Another reflection.
Faint.
Almost invisible.
Victor.
Standing behind Cecilia.
I looked at Anthony.
“Why was Victor here that night?”
“He handled Dad’s trust.”
“No.”
My mother stepped forward.
“Victor stopped handling your father’s trust years ago.”
Anthony stared at her.
“What?”
“He told you he stopped.”
Elena looked at me.
“But Salvatore never removed him.”
I felt an old memory surface.
My father.
Victor.
Closed office doors.
Arguments that stopped when I entered.
I had assumed they were business disagreements.
Maybe they had been something else.
Grace looked at the brass key my mother still held.
“Victor had a box at First Manhattan Trust.”
We all turned toward her.
“How do you know that?”
She froze.
For the first time since I met her, Grace Bennett looked frightened for herself.
“Because I used to work there.”
I stared at her.
“You told my staff you were a housekeeper from Connecticut.”
“I was.”
“But?”
“Before that, I worked in private banking.”
“When?”
“Eight years ago.”
My suspicion sharpened.
“Why didn’t you put that on your application?”
She met my eyes.
“Because if I had, I knew you would never hire me.”
“Why did you want me to hire you?”
Grace looked at the girls.
May you like
Then she said something that changed my understanding of her completely.
“Because Isabelle asked me to come here.”
