Chapter 4 - THE CHILD’S DRAWING FROM THE PAST
I stared at the drawing.
The crayon was fresh. The paper wasn’t yellowed or old.
“Dad,” I whispered, kneeling in front of his wheelchair. “Where did you get this?”
My father’s eyes darted toward the hospital room door, then back to the drawing.
His breathing was heavy, ragged.
He tried to open his mouth. His jaw trembled.
For six months, I had watched him struggle just to swallow water. The doctors told me his vocal cords and facial muscles were permanently damaged.
But right now, he was trying to speak.
“Dad, don’t push yourself—”
“L-Leo,” my father choked out.
The sound was harsh, like gravel grinding together.
I gasped and covered my mouth.
Luca rushed forward, kneeling beside me.
“Thomas,” Luca said, his voice urgent but surprisingly gentle. “My nephew Leo died in a fire. Four years ago. Why do you have a drawing from him?”
My father’s shaking hand reached out.
He didn't point at the drawing.
He pointed at Luca’s pocket.
Luca frowned, then reached into his suit jacket. He pulled out the photograph of his mother and Catherine Bellini that Mr. Greene had given him.
My father tapped a trembling finger on Catherine’s face.
Then, he slowly dragged his finger across his own throat.
A cold sweat broke out on my neck.
“Catherine tried to kill you?” Luca asked.
My father shook his head.
He forced his mouth open again.
“P-Poison.”
I felt like I couldn't breathe.
“Dad, the doctors said you had a stroke.”
“No,” my father whispered, tears pooling in his eyes. He looked at me, a desperate apology in his expression. “V-Vanessa.”
My blood ran cold.
Vanessa.
“Vanessa poisoned you?” I asked, my voice cracking.
My father nodded once.
“Why?” Luca demanded. “What do you know that she wants to keep quiet?”
My father weakly lifted the child's drawing.
He pointed to the little boy in the picture.
“Alive,” my father whispered.
Luca staggered back as if he had been shot.
“Leo is alive?” Luca’s voice broke. “Where is he?”
Before my father could answer, a shadow fell over the doorway.
I turned.
A nurse stood there, holding a small plastic cup of pills and a pitcher of water.
She wore a standard blue uniform, but her face was unfamiliar.
“Visiting hours are over,” the nurse said smoothly. “Mr. Reed needs his medication.”
She walked toward us, her eyes locked onto my father.
My father began to thrash in his wheelchair, letting out a panicked, guttural sound.
“It’s okay, Dad,” I said, trying to hold his hands. “It’s just his medicine.”
But Luca wasn't looking at my father.
He was staring at the nurse’s wrist.
Poking out from under her blue sleeve was a distinct, silver charm bracelet.
The same bracelet I had seen Vanessa’s personal assistant wearing earlier that morning.
“Don't touch him,” Luca said.
The nurse froze.
May you like
She looked at Luca, then at the water pitcher in her hand.
Without a word, she dropped the pitcher, turned on her heel, and bolted down the hallway.
