Chapter 4 - THE POCKET MY FATHER SEWED
“The pocket her father sewed shut?”
I looked at the paramedic.
“My father died eight years ago.”
He nodded sympathetically.
“Your mother said you'd understand.”
But I didn't.
Not yet.
Matteo placed a hand lightly against my back.
“Let's get Eleanor somewhere safe first.”
We entered the house after the officers cleared the rooms and confirmed we could go inside.
The hallway smelled of old wood and furniture polish.
A grandfather clock stood beside the staircase.
Its hands had stopped at eleven twenty.
Matteo glanced at it.
“My mother used to wind that every morning.”
His voice was barely audible.
Then we reached the study.
My mother sat in a large leather chair with a blanket around her shoulders.
Her silver hair was disheveled.
One side of her face was bruised.
But she was alive.
“Mom!”
I dropped to my knees beside her.
She reached for me.
“Oh, Annie.”
I held her carefully.
She smelled like the lavender soap she always used.
For several seconds, neither of us could speak.
Then I pulled back.
“Are you hurt?”
She touched my cheek.
“I'm all right, sweetheart.”
“Don't tell me you're all right when you're sitting in a stranger's house with a bruise on your face.”
A small smile crossed her lips.
“You sound like me.”
I started crying harder.
She wrapped her arms around me.
And for one precious moment, I was twelve years old again, convinced my mother could make anything better.
Then Matteo entered.
Eleanor looked up.
Her expression changed.
“Matteo?”
He stopped.
“Mrs. Collins.”
Her eyes filled.
“You look so much like your mother.”
Something softened in his face.
“You remember her?”
“Of course.”
She held out her hand.
He approached and knelt beside her chair.
“You helped me when I was nineteen,” he said. “And I never properly thanked you.”
Eleanor shook her head.
“I wasn't trying to be brave.”
Her voice trembled.
“I just knew somebody was using a frightened boy to do something wrong.”
Matteo swallowed.
“You were right.”
She looked toward the torn black coat resting inside a clear evidence covering.
Then her face tightened.
“Did they find it?”
Matteo nodded.
“The lining was opened.”
Eleanor closed her eyes.
“Victor thought I'd hidden everything there.”
“Had you?” he asked.
“No.”
She looked at me.
“That's what I needed you to understand.”
I sat beside her.
“Mom, what did Dad sew?”
She reached toward my hand.
“Do you remember your father's navy winter coat?”
I nodded.
The old heavy coat had hung in our hallway every winter.
After Dad died, Mom refused to give it away.
“He sewed a pocket inside the lining,” she said.
I frowned.
“Why?”
“Because I asked him to.”
She looked down.
“Nineteen years ago, I came home from this house with something I wasn't supposed to have.”
Matteo moved closer.
“What?”
“Copies of bank records. A list of homeowners. And a handwritten account of the transactions Carlo and Victor were trying to hide.”
My heart pounded.
“You kept it all these years?”
She nodded.
“Your father stitched the papers inside his coat.”
I stared at her.
Dad had been a quiet man.
He repaired broken chairs.
Changed the oil in our car.
And cried when I graduated from high school.
I'd never imagined him helping conceal evidence connected to a murder.
“Why didn't you go to the police?”
Mom looked at me.
“I tried to explain what I'd discovered before Carlo died. But afterward, Victor told me that if I involved his name, you'd be the one who suffered.”
Her voice broke.
“You were fifteen.”
I felt sick.
She continued.
“Your father believed we should tell someone. We argued about it more than once.”
I looked at her.
“He wanted you to come forward?”
“Yes.”
“And you refused?”
She nodded.
“I was frightened.”
For the first time, I saw something I'd never allowed myself to imagine.
My mother had made mistakes.
Terrible, complicated mistakes.
Not because she didn't know right from wrong.
Because she'd been afraid of losing me.
Matteo remained quiet.
Then he asked, “Mrs. Collins, did you see who killed my father?”
She looked toward the study door.
“I saw Victor holding a gun afterward.”
Matteo went still.
“Afterward?”
“I heard the shot. When I turned, Carlo was on the floor.”
She closed her eyes.
“I thought Victor had done it.”
“Did you see him fire?”
“No.”
The honesty in that single word changed everything.
Matteo nodded slowly.
“Thank you for telling me exactly what you remember.”
Eleanor looked at him.
“Your father had frightened me that night.”
His expression tightened.
“He threatened you?”
“He wanted the records back. He said I'd destroyed his family by questioning the transactions.”
She took a shaky breath.
“But before everything happened, he also said there were things he wanted to put right.”
Matteo looked confused.
“What things?”
“He'd discovered Victor was taking far more than they'd agreed to. Homes. Savings. Money that belonged to people who had trusted them.”
She looked at the floor.
“I don't know whether Carlo truly intended to make things right. I only know what he said.”
Matteo sat back.
I watched him struggle with the man his father had been.
Then Mom squeezed my hand.
“Annie, where is your father's coat?”
I blinked.
“At my apartment.”
“Are you sure?”
I nodded.
“After your surgery, I took some of Dad's things home while you had the bedroom repaired.”
She closed her eyes in relief.
“Good.”
But then I remembered something.
Nathan had insisted on organizing our closets last weekend.
He'd said I kept too many sentimental things.
He'd asked why I was holding on to my father's old clothes.
I'd told him the coat was important to Mom.
He'd smiled.
And said he understood.
Now I wasn't sure he'd meant it.
“Mom,” I whispered, “Nathan has been through that closet.”
Her eyes widened.
“Did he take the coat?”
“I don't know.”
Matteo stood.
“Anna, we'll arrange for the police to help secure those records.”
I nodded.
Then Mom caught his sleeve.
“Matteo, there's something else.”
He turned.
She looked toward the broken butterfly brooch in my hand.
“Nathan wasn't the only Whitmore I knew nineteen years ago.”
Matteo frowned.
“Victor?”
“No.”
Her voice trembled.
“His son.”
I stared at her.
“Nathan?”
She nodded.
“He was twenty years old. He came into that study while his father and Carlo were arguing.”
Matteo's expression changed.
“What did he do?”
Eleanor began crying.
“He helped me get out of the house.”
For several seconds, nobody spoke.
Then she looked at me.
“Annie, that boy protected me when nobody else would.”
May you like
She swallowed.
“And I've spent nineteen years wondering what Victor did to him afterward.”
