Chapter 3 - THE SECRET IN THE BLUE ROCKING CHAIR
I stared at the gold watch in my palm.
The metal felt unnaturally heavy, as if carrying the weight of a ghost.
Thomas Moretti’s death had been heavily covered in the Chicago papers. A fiery crash on an icy bridge. A closed-casket funeral.
Luca had never spoken of him since.
“Isabelle,” I kept my voice steady, though my pulse raced. “Why were you in Vanessa’s purse?”
The little girl looked down, embarrassed.
“I wasn’t trying to be bad. I dropped my favorite pencil under the hall table. When I reached for it, Vanessa’s bag tipped over. Her things spilled out.”
She pointed a small finger at the watch.
“That fell out. I picked it up to put it back, but I saw the name. I know Daddy’s brother was named Thomas. I saw it on the big stone at the cemetery when we visit Mommy.”
She looked up at me, her blue eyes filled with confusion.
“Why would Vanessa have a dead man’s watch, Miss Charlotte?”
I closed my fingers around the cold gold.
“I don’t know, sweetheart. But we need to keep this safe.”
Before I could say anything else, the bedroom door opened.
Luca walked in.
He looked exhausted. The fierce, untouchable mob boss from downstairs had vanished, replaced by a father who looked like he hadn't slept in a week.
He saw me quickly slide my hand into my apron pocket.
His eyes narrowed slightly, but he didn’t push it.
He walked straight to Isabelle and sat on the edge of her bed.
“Are you okay, baby?”
She nodded slowly. “Where is Vanessa?”
“She’s gone.”
Isabelle’s eyes widened. “Is she coming back?”
“No.” Luca’s voice was firm, absolute. “She is never stepping foot in this house again. Your room is yours. Your mother’s things stay exactly where they are.”
Isabelle threw her arms around his neck, burying her face in his shoulder.
“Thank you, Daddy.”
Luca held her tight, his hand stroking her hair.
Over her shoulder, his dark eyes met mine.
“Charlotte.”
“Yes, Mr. Moretti?”
“Thank you for speaking up downstairs. You protected my daughter when I couldn't see what was happening.”
I swallowed hard. “It was the right thing to do, sir.”
“Tomorrow, your salary is doubled. And I’ll take care of your father’s medical bills. Let Mrs. Carter know the details in the morning.”
Tears instantly blurred my vision.
The mortgage. The medication. The crushing weight I’d carried for months—gone in a single sentence.
“Mr. Moretti, I... I don't know what to say. Thank you.”
He gave a sharp, definitive nod. “You earned it. Goodnight, Charlotte.”
I hesitated, the heavy gold watch burning a hole in my apron pocket.
I should tell him.
I should hand it over right now.
But what if Vanessa had stolen it from his private safe? What if he thought I had taken it?
“Answer One, Open Two.”
I needed to be sure before I handed him a ghost from his past.
“Goodnight, sir.”
I left the room, closing the door softly behind me.
I hurried down the back stairs to the servants' quarters.
My small room was tucked away near the laundry.
I sat on my narrow bed and pulled the watch out again.
The broken chain dangled in the dim light.
I pressed the small latch. The cover popped open.
To my beloved brother, Thomas. 1998.
But as I looked closer, I noticed something I had missed upstairs.
Behind the engraved casing, the thin metal plate was loose.
I used my fingernail to pry it open.
A tiny, folded piece of paper was tucked behind the clock face.
My hands shook as I unfolded it.
It was a receipt.
Not five years old.
Not from a jewelry store.
It was a pharmacy receipt. Dated exactly three weeks ago.
The name on the prescription: Thomas Moretti.
The medication: Immunosuppressants. Post-transplant.
I stopped breathing.
Thomas Moretti wasn't dead.
He was alive, he was sick, and Vanessa was buying his medication.
Before I could process what this meant, a sharp knock hit my door.
I shoved the paper and the watch under my mattress just as the door swung open.
It was Mrs. Carter.
Her face was pale.
“Charlotte,” she whispered, looking over her shoulder down the dark hallway.
“What is it?” I asked, standing up quickly.
“There’s a woman at the back kitchen door. She’s demanding to see Isabelle.”
I frowned. “At this hour? Who is it?”
May you like
Mrs. Carter gripped the doorframe.
“She says her name is Aunt Helen.”
