Chapter 11 - THE THREE TICKETS TO FREEDOM
Matteo walked back into the living room, brushing the cool night air from his dark suit. He stopped when he saw me staring at the tiny brass key in my palm.
“Emily?” he asked, stepping closer. “What is that?”
I held out my hand, showing him the key and the tiny slip of paper.
“It was hidden inside my locket,” I said, my voice barely a whisper. “Beneath a false bottom. Box 402.”
Matteo took the small piece of paper, studying the elegant handwriting. “That’s my mother’s handwriting. Again.”
“But what is it for?” I asked. “Mrs. Whitmore gave us the wooden box. What else could there be?”
Matteo looked at the key, then up at me. His eyes were wide with a sudden realization.
“It’s a safety deposit box,” Matteo said. “At the First Fidelity Bank downtown. It’s the bank my family has used for a century.”
I stared at him. “You think my mother had a secret safety deposit box?”
“If she was planning to run away with Thomas, she would have needed money,” Matteo reasoned, his voice picking up speed. “She couldn't use her regular accounts; my father would have tracked her instantly. She must have opened a secret box under a different name.”
“But she gave the locket to my adoptive mother the night she died,” I said.
“Exactly,” Matteo nodded. “She gave it to her best friend to ensure you would have it. To ensure that, one day, you would find what she left behind.”
It was too late to go to the bank tonight, but neither of us could sleep. We sat by the fire for hours, talking about everything. Matteo told me stories about his childhood, about the mother he loved and the father he feared. I told him about growing up in South Boston, about Mary’s kindness, and about the struggles of living paycheck to paycheck.
We bonded. We became brother and sister not just in blood, but in spirit.
By the time the sun began to peek through the large windows, casting a pale morning light across the mansion, we were ready.
Matteo carried a still-sleeping Leo up to his bedroom, tucking him in safely under the watchful eye of the head nanny.
Then, we drove to First Fidelity Bank.
The bank manager, a nervous, balding man, practically bowed when Matteo DeLuca walked through the doors. But when Matteo asked for access to Box 402, the manager frowned.
“Box 402?” the manager checked his computer. “Sir, that box was rented twenty-eight years ago under the name Margaret Miller.”
Miller. Thomas’s last name.
“I am her son, and this is her daughter,” Matteo said firmly, gesturing to me. “And we have the key.”
The manager didn't argue with a DeLuca. He led us down into the heavily guarded vault, directing us to a small, rectangular metal door on the wall.
My hand trembled as I inserted the tiny brass key into the lock.
It turned smoothly.
Matteo pulled the metal box from the wall and carried it to a private viewing room. He set it on the table and stepped back, giving me the space to open it.
I lifted the lid.
Inside the box were neat stacks of cash. Thousands of dollars in old, uncirculated bills. It was the escape money she had saved to start a new life.
But sitting on top of the money was a small, velvet pouch.
I reached in and pulled it out. The pouch was surprisingly heavy. I loosened the drawstrings and tipped the contents onto the table.
Two identical, solid gold bracelets tumbled out, catching the harsh fluorescent light of the bank room.
They were beautiful, simple, and elegant.
And engraved on the inside of the first bracelet was my name: Emily.
I picked up the second bracelet. Engraved on the inside was: Matteo.
I let out a shaky breath, tears instantly welling in my eyes.
“She had them made for us,” I whispered, holding out Matteo’s bracelet.
Matteo took it, his large thumb tracing his engraved name. He swallowed hard, clearly fighting back his own emotions.
But as I looked back into the metal box, I realized there was one more thing beneath the stacks of cash.
It was a small, white envelope.
I reached in and pulled it out. Inside were three vintage, unpunched train tickets.
Dated twenty-eight years ago. Destination: Oregon.
Three tickets.
“One for her, one for Thomas,” Matteo said quietly, looking over my shoulder. “But who was the third ticket for?”
May you like
I looked closer at the envelope. Written on the front, in my mother’s handwriting, was a final instruction.
“For Evelyn. Thank you for everything.”
