Chapter 5 - THE TRUTH IN THE METAL CLASP
I stared at the red ink until the letters began to blur.
Check the brakes.
Beth had died in a car accident.
The police report said it was black ice. A tragic loss of control on a winding Chicago road in the dead of winter.
My heart pounded violently against my bruised ribs.
I turned around.
Nico was standing in the doorway of the utility room.
He saw the paper trembling in my hand.
“Hannah?”
I couldn’t speak. I just held the receipt out to him.
Nico walked over, taking the small slip of paper.
He read the printed name. Marcus Vance.
Then he flipped it over and read the handwritten words.
I watched the color drain from his face.
For two years, Nico DeSantis had blamed the weather. He had blamed the sharp curve on Route 41.
He had even blamed himself for not driving her that night.
Now, holding a wrinkled receipt hidden inside a wooden rosary, a darker truth was opening up in front of him.
“Beth didn’t write this,” Nico said, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper.
“She didn’t?” I asked.
“No. Her handwriting was small. Cursive.” He traced the blocky, aggressive red letters. “This was written in a hurry. By a man.”
“Marcus?”
“Or a mechanic.”
Nico crushed the receipt in his fist.
He looked at the rosary still dangling from my fingers.
“Let me see the beads.”
I handed them to him.
Nico ran his thumbs over the smooth olive wood. He reached the small silver crucifix at the bottom.
He pulled slightly on the metal loop connecting the cross to the chain.
It didn’t budge.
He pressed the center of the crucifix.
With a tiny click, the back of the small silver cross slid open.
It was a locket. A hidden compartment.
Inside, tucked tightly into the tiny metal space, was a rolled-up piece of translucent tracing paper.
Nico used the tip of his pen to carefully extract it.
He unrolled it on the washing machine lid.
It wasn’t a letter.
It was a set of numbers.
412 - 08 - 99.
I looked at it, confused. “A phone number?”
“No,” Nico said, his eyes darkening. “The hotel room number tonight. Room 412.”
I froze. “Marcus’s room.”
“And the date Beth died,” Nico continued, pointing to the next numbers. “August 1999.”
Wait.
“Mr. DeSantis,” I said softly. “Beth died two years ago. In 2024.”
Nico stared at the paper.
He looked up at me, realization hitting him like a physical blow.
“This isn’t about the car crash.”
“Then what is it about?”
Nico pulled out his phone. He dialed a number from memory.
“Carlo,” Nico said when the line connected. “I need you at the house. Now.”
He hung up and looked at me.
“August 1999,” Nico said slowly, “was the month Brielle’s first husband drowned.”
A cold sweat broke out on my neck.
“I thought it was a boating accident,” I whispered.
“So did everyone else.” Nico grabbed his coat. “Stay here with June and Ruby. Do not open the doors for anyone.”
“Where are you going?”
“To find out what Marcus really does for a living.”
Nico left through the garage.
I stood in the utility room, holding the empty wooden rosary.
If Brielle had killed her first husband, and Marcus knew about it, then Marcus wasn’t just a birth father looking for a payout.
He was an accomplice.
And Beth had figured it out.
That was why she was tracking him. That was why she had the dry-cleaning receipt.
I walked slowly back to the kitchen, locking the deadbolt behind me.
Mrs. Turner was making hot chocolate.
“Is he gone?” she asked nervously.
“Yes. He went to find answers.”
I took two mugs of hot chocolate on a tray and walked toward the guest wing.
When I reached the hallway, I stopped.
The front door, which Nico had firmly shut after kicking Brielle out, was sitting wide open.
Cold wind blew through the foyer, scattering leaves across the marble floor.
I set the tray down on the console table.
“Mrs. Turner!” I called out.
No answer.
I ran to the guest room door.
I turned the handle. It was locked.
I knocked. “June? It’s Hannah. Open the door.”
Nothing.
Panic gripped my chest.
I backed up and kicked the heavy oak door near the handle. It didn’t give.
I ran outside through the open front doors.
The driveway was empty. Nico’s SUV was gone. Brielle’s Mercedes was gone.
But parked at the very edge of the property, hidden half behind the large stone pillars of the gate, was a dark sedan.
I sprinted down the driveway, ignoring the sharp pain radiating up my injured arm.
As I got closer, I saw the trunk was open.
Someone was standing behind the car, throwing bags inside.
It was June.
“June!” I yelled, running toward her.
She jumped, dropping a canvas tote bag.
“Hannah, stop!” she cried, tears streaming down her face.
“What are you doing? Where is Ruby?”
June sobbed, burying her face in her hands.
“She made me,” June wept. “She said if I didn’t bring Ruby out, she would tell Nico the truth about the money.”
I grabbed June’s shoulders. “Who? Brielle?”
“No,” June choked out.
A shadow moved from the passenger side of the sedan.
A tall figure stepped into the moonlight.
He was wearing a tan trench coat.
Marcus smiled, holding a sleeping Ruby in his arms.
May you like
“Hello again, Hannah,” he said. “You should have stayed in the kitchen.”
TITLE: The Price Of A Sleeping Child
