Chapter 4 - THE GIRL IN THE PHOTOGRAPH
I poured a bowl of vanilla ice cream for Mason, my hands trembling as I set the spoon beside it.
"Do you have sprinkles?" Mason asked, his small voice echoing in the massive, stainless-steel kitchen.
"Let me check," I said, offering him a warm smile I didn't entirely feel.
I found a jar of rainbow sprinkles in the pantry. As I brought them back to the island where Mason sat swinging his legs, the heavy kitchen door swung open.
Angelo walked in.
He didn't look like a man whose engagement had just violently imploded. He looked focused. Calm. But it was the kind of calm that precedes a hurricane.
He walked straight to the counter and set the faded photograph down.
I didn't mean to look. It wasn't my place. But as I shook the sprinkles over Mason's ice cream, my eyes drifted to the glossy paper.
It was a picture of a teenage girl.
She was smiling, standing in front of a modest brick house. But the girl wasn't Natalie. And she wasn't Erin.
She looked familiar, though. Her eyes, the curve of her jaw.
Angelo poured himself a glass of water, leaning against the marble counter.
"Do you know who that is, Lila?" he asked quietly.
I hesitated. "No, Mr. Vitale."
"Neither did I," he said. "Until tonight."
Mason swallowed a spoonful of ice cream and pointed his small, sticky finger at the photograph.
"That's Aunt Sarah," Mason said matter-of-factly.
Angelo froze. He looked at the eight-year-old boy.
"Who did you say?" Angelo asked softly.
"Aunt Sarah," Mason repeated, kicking his legs against the stool. "Mom keeps that picture in her wallet. She says Aunt Sarah went to heaven a long time ago."
Angelo looked at me, then back at the photo.
"Mason," Angelo said, crouching down so he was at eye level with the boy. "Do you know how your Aunt Sarah died?"
Mason shook his head. "Mom gets sad when I ask."
The kitchen door pushed open again. This time, it was Erin.
She looked exhausted. The black dress she wore suddenly seemed too large for her, as if the events of the last hour had physically shrunk her.
"Mason," she said gently. "Finish up. We have to go."
"Erin," Angelo stood up. "He called her Aunt Sarah. That means she's your sister."
Erin closed her eyes and nodded slowly.
"Yes."
"The girl in the photo," Angelo pressed, tapping the picture. "The one Rocco said Natalie was blackmailing him over. Why?"
Erin walked over to her son and rested a hand on his back.
"Because ten years ago, my sister Sarah was killed in a hit-and-run," Erin said quietly.
The kitchen went dead silent.
"The police never found the driver," Erin continued, her voice hollow. "But a week after she died, Rocco came to my door. He was a mess. Crying, shaking. He handed me an envelope of cash and begged for my forgiveness."
"Rocco was driving?" I whispered, covering my mouth.
Erin shook her head.
"No. Rocco wasn't driving." She looked directly at Angelo. "Natalie was."
Angelo's grip on the edge of the counter tightened until his knuckles cracked.
"Natalie was driving Rocco's car," Erin explained. "Rocco was in the passenger seat. He tried to grab the wheel, but it was too late. Natalie refused to stop. She told Rocco that if he went to the police, she would say he was driving. And because of his... past... she knew the police would believe her."
Angelo let out a long, ragged breath.
"And my father found out," Angelo realized.
"Your father confronted them," Erin said. "He told Rocco to take the watch, sell it, and take me away to start a new life. He was going to turn Natalie in himself."
"But he died of a heart attack that same night," Angelo murmured, the pieces finally clicking together.
"Yes."
Angelo rubbed his temples. "And Natalie found out about Mason. She knew that if Rocco ever acknowledged his son, you would become part of this family. And if you became part of this family, you might figure out the truth."
"She's been holding it over his head for eight years," Erin said, tears finally spilling over her lashes. "She told Rocco that if he ever claimed Mason, she would go to the police and swear Rocco killed my sister."
Mason looked up, a sprinkle stuck to his cheek. "Are you crying, Mom?"
Erin quickly wiped her face. "No, baby. I'm okay."
Angelo looked at the boy. The eight-year-old child who had been treated like a dirty secret his entire life.
"Nobody is leaving tonight," Angelo said with absolute finality. "Lila, prepare the east guest room for Erin and Mason."
I nodded. "Right away, sir."
Angelo turned back to Erin. "Natalie thought she could bury this. She thought she could control my brother and erase your son. She was wrong."
Angelo turned toward the door.
"Where are you going?" Erin asked.
"To finish the conversation with my former fiancée."
But as Angelo pulled the heavy kitchen door open, Rocco stumbled inside.
His suit jacket was gone. His tie was loose. His hands were covered in grease and dirt.
"Rocco?" Angelo demanded. "Where is she?"
Rocco looked up, his eyes wild and terrified.
"She's gone," Rocco gasped. "She took my car. But Angelo..."
Rocco held out his trembling hands. Clutched in his dirty fingers was a small, brightly colored child's drawing.
"I found this in her purse before she drove off," Rocco choked out.
Angelo took the drawing. I leaned in to see it.
It was a child's crayon drawing of a house. Two stick figures stood outside.
But it was the words written at the top that made my blood run cold.
To my favorite aunt, Natalie. Love, Mason.
I looked at Mason, who was happily eating his ice cream.
Then I looked at Erin.
She was completely pale.
May you like
"Answer One, Open Two," I thought, shivering.
"Erin," Angelo said, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "Why is your son calling the woman who killed your sister his favorite aunt?"
