Chapter 2 - THE PHOTOGRAPH
The housekeeper’s office was cold, smelling of bleach and old paper. I sat on the edge of the vinyl chair, my right arm pinned securely against my ribs. Every inhale was a calculation. Every exhale was a prayer.
I didn't know how long I had been waiting. Twenty minutes? An hour? The estate was silent above me, the heavy oak floors absorbing the sounds of the dinner party I had been abruptly exiled from.
The door handle turned.
It wasn't the housekeeper.
Adrian Moretti stepped into the cramped room. Without the dining room chandeliers washing him in warm light, he looked entirely different. He looked like the man the newspapers speculated about but could never prove anything against. He closed the door behind him. The lock clicked. It was a soft sound, but in that small room, it sounded like a gavel dropping.
“Mr. Moretti,” I started, trying to stand.
“Sit down, Grace.”
His voice wasn’t angry. It was terrifyingly calm. He walked over to the small desk, his dark eyes never leaving my face. He didn't ask how my shoulder felt. He didn't apologize for ruining my shift.
Instead, he reached into his breast pocket and placed a sleek, black envelope on the desk between us.
I recognized it immediately.
My stomach plummeted, hitting the floor. It was the envelope Vanessa had shoved into my apron pocket when I was gasping for air in the upstairs hallway.
“I didn't steal that,” I said quickly, my pulse hammering in my throat. “I swear. She gave it to me. I didn't even want it—”
“I know you didn't steal it,” Adrian interrupted softly. “My security team pulled it from your uniform in the laundry room. They also pulled the hallway footage.”
I stopped talking. My mouth went dry.
“I saw what happened,” Adrian continued, leaning his weight against the desk. “I saw Michael Ferris grab you. I saw him twist your arm until something tore. And I saw my fiancée step out of the guest suite, realize you had seen a man who wasn't supposed to be in my house, and pay you for your silence.”
I looked down at my hands. “I’m sorry. I needed this job. I couldn't risk—”
“Grace. Look at me.”
I forced my eyes up.
“Did you look inside the envelope?” he asked.
“No,” I whispered. “I assumed it was cash.”
“It was cash,” Adrian said. “Ten thousand dollars. But that wasn’t the only thing inside.”
He reached out and tapped the flap of the black envelope. With two fingers, he slid something out and flipped it over on the desk.
It wasn't a check. It wasn't a threat written on heavy cardstock.
It was a photograph.
“My security team assumed this was a sick joke,” Adrian said, his voice dropping an octave, becoming something fractured and dangerous. “They told me it was a picture of my brother, Elias.”
I stared at the image.
“Elias died in a car crash twelve years ago,” Adrian said. The room felt completely devoid of oxygen. “His body was identified. He was buried. So you can imagine my confusion when my team told me the timestamp embedded in this digital print is from three days ago.”
I looked closer at the photograph.
It was taken at a park. The subject was a boy, no older than eleven or twelve. He had dark, messy hair, intense dark eyes, and a slightly crooked jawline. He was looking away from the camera, holding a red rubber ball.
“They think it’s a fake,” Adrian murmured, his eyes searching my face for a reaction. “Or someone wearing a mask. But I know better. That’s not a man who faked his death.”
I shook my head, my mind racing. “No, it’s not.”
Adrian stepped closer, towering over me. “Then who is it, Grace? Because this boy is wearing a silver St. Christopher medal around his neck. The exact medal my brother never took off.”
I looked at the silver chain in the photograph. Then I looked at the boy’s face again. The park bench behind him. The chipped green paint on the swing set in the background.
My breath caught. A real, full breath. Pain flared in my shoulder, but I didn't care.
I knew that chipped green paint.
“Mr. Moretti,” I breathed out, my hands trembling as I pointed at the photograph. “That’s not your brother.”
Adrian’s jaw clenched. “Then who is he?”
“His name is Leo,” I said, looking up into Adrian’s fierce, desperate eyes. “He’s eleven years old. And I know exactly where he is.”
Adrian went entirely still.
“Where?”
“St. Jude’s,” I said. “The orphanage on 4th Street. I volunteer there on Sundays. I tutor him.”
Adrian stared at me, the weight of twelve years of grief suddenly colliding with a single, impossible truth. Elias hadn't survived. But he had left something behind.
Before Adrian could speak, my phone buzzed in my pocket.
I pulled it out with my left hand. It was a text message from an unknown number.
I opened it.
May you like
If you tell him about the boy, the boy dies tonight. Ask Vanessa.
I dropped the phone on the desk.
