Chapter 4 - THE CHILD'S DRAWING FROM THE PAST
The tinkling melody from the brass pocket watch filled the silent dining room.
It was a haunting, familiar tune. I felt tears prick the corners of my eyes as the memory of my adoptive mother’s voice washed over me.
Matteo stepped quickly toward his son. He knelt down, his large frame blocking Bianca from the boy.
“Leo, buddy,” Matteo said gently, keeping his voice steady so as not to frighten him. “Where did you find that?”
Leo blinked, holding out the watch. “In Bianca’s big closet. She said it was a game. She said I had to find the shiny clock with the music.”
Matteo gently took the watch from his son’s hands. He closed the lid, cutting off the lullaby. The silence that followed was suffocating.
Bianca crossed her arms, her silk gown rustling. “Don’t look at me like that, Matteo. That watch proves everything I’ve been trying to tell you.”
“It proves you’ve been using my son to rifle through stolen property,” Matteo growled, standing up.
“It proves your mother didn’t just run away because she was stressed!” Bianca snapped. “She ran away because she was terrified. And do you know who she was terrified of? The woman who raised your precious new sister!”
I froze. “What are you talking about?”
Bianca laughed, a bitter, ugly sound. “Oh, look at her. Playing the innocent victim. Ask Mrs. Whitmore, Emily. Ask her who your adoptive mother really was.”
I turned to the elderly woman. Mrs. Whitmore looked exhausted, her frail hands trembling as she held onto the mahogany chair.
“Mrs. Whitmore?” I whispered. “My mother… she was a nurse. She worked at St. Jude’s clinic her whole life.”
Mrs. Whitmore closed her eyes. A single tear escaped, rolling down her wrinkled cheek.
“She was a nurse later, Emily,” Mrs. Whitmore said softly. “But twenty-eight years ago… she was the head housekeeper in this very mansion. She worked for Matteo’s father.”
The room seemed to spin.
The woman who raised me in a cramped, two-bedroom apartment in South Boston… had worked here? In this sprawling estate?
“She wasn’t just a housekeeper,” Bianca interrupted, her voice dripping with poison. “She was your father’s mistress, Matteo.”
Matteo flinched as if he’d been struck. “Shut your mouth, Bianca.”
“It’s the truth!” Bianca yelled. “Why do you think your mother fled in the middle of the night? Because she found out her husband was sleeping with the help! And when your mother died in that car crash, the mistress stole the baby to hide the evidence!”
“That’s a lie!” I shouted. I didn’t care that I was wearing a maid’s uniform. I didn’t care about the twenty-two wealthy guests staring at me. “My mother was a good woman! She loved me!”
“She was a kidnapper!” Bianca fired back.
“No!” Mrs. Whitmore’s voice cracked like a whip, surprisingly strong for a woman of her age.
Everyone turned back to the elderly woman.
Mrs. Whitmore stood tall, her shoulders squared. “Your adoptive mother did not steal you, Emily. Margaret handed you to her. Willingly.”
Bianca scoffed. “Why would she give her baby to her husband’s mistress?”
“Because she wasn’t his mistress,” Mrs. Whitmore said fiercely. “She was Margaret’s best friend. And she was the only person in this house Margaret could trust to protect the baby from the real monster.”
Mrs. Whitmore reached into her cloth bag once more.
She pulled out a small, wooden picture frame. The glass was cracked.
“I didn't bring this to hurt you, Matteo,” she said gently. “I brought it because it is the only way you will understand the truth.”
Matteo stepped forward and took the frame.
I looked over his shoulder. Inside the frame was a child’s drawing. Crayon on faded construction paper. It depicted a large house with a bright blue door, surrounded by tall pine trees.
My breath caught.
“I drew that,” I whispered.
Matteo looked at me. “You drew this?”
I nodded, my mind racing back to when I was five years old. “Yes. My mom kept it on the fridge for years. But… it went missing after she died.”
“It didn't go missing,” Bianca sneered. “I took it from your apartment when I took the key.”
Matteo ignored his fiancée entirely. He was staring at the drawing, his thumb tracing the bright blue door.
“I know this house,” Matteo said quietly. “This is the summer cabin in Vermont. The one my father abandoned when I was a child.”
He looked up at Mrs. Whitmore. “Why did Emily draw a picture of our family cabin?”
Mrs. Whitmore’s eyes filled with fresh tears.
“Because, Matteo,” she whispered. “That’s where your mother was hiding the night she died. And she wasn't hiding from your father.”
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She pointed a shaking finger at Bianca.
“She was hiding from Bianca’s father.”
