Chapter 5 - The Locked Room
The silence in the foyer was so heavy it felt like the walls were closing in.
I stopped breathing.
Luca Moretti didn't flinch. He didn't yell. He stood perfectly rigid, his dark eyes locked on the head housekeeper.
"Get out," Luca said. His voice was barely a whisper, yet it cut through the room like a razor.
Mrs. Gable lifted her chin, trying to hold onto her dignity, but her hands were shaking. "You can't hide it forever. The police didn't look close enough, but Vanessa knows. She knows what happened to Elena."
"I said, get out."
Luca stepped forward. The sheer, terrifying presence of the man made Mrs. Gable stumble backward up the first step.
She turned and practically ran toward the servant’s staircase.
When the door clicked shut, the silence returned.
Frank Moretti let out a long, shuddering breath. He looked at his son. "Luca..."
"Don't," Luca said sharply, holding up a hand.
I stood near the coat closet, completely frozen.
I had been working at the Moretti estate for fourteen months. I knew the rules. You never, ever mentioned Luca's first wife, Elena.
She had died when Clara was just three years old. The official story was a tragic car accident on a slick, rainy highway.
But there was one room in the east wing that was always locked. I had never been allowed to clean it. No one was.
Clara tugged gently on her father’s sleeve.
"Daddy?" she whispered.
Luca looked down. Instantly, the terrifying mafia boss vanished, replaced by a father desperately trying to protect his little girl.
He crouched down, placing his hands on her shoulders. "Yes, baby?"
"What did Mrs. Gable mean?" Clara asked, her large brown eyes wide with confusion. "What happened to Mommy?"
Luca swallowed hard. "Nothing, sweetheart. Mrs. Gable is just an angry, mean woman who got caught telling lies."
Clara looked at him for a long moment.
She was only eleven, but she had her father’s sharp, observant eyes.
"I remember the rain," Clara said softly.
Luca froze. "What?"
"The night Mommy went away," Clara whispered. "I remember the rain on the window. And I remember the shouting."
Frank stepped forward, his face pale. "Clara, honey, you were only three. You were asleep."
"No," Clara said. She shook her head stubbornly. "I wasn't."
She turned and looked directly at me.
"Miss Hannah? Can you come with me?"
I glanced at Luca, unsure of what to do. Luca slowly stood up, nodding once.
I followed Clara up the grand staircase, leaving the two men in the foyer. We walked down the long, carpeted hallway toward Clara’s bedroom.
But she didn't stop at her door.
She kept walking until we reached the end of the hall in the east wing.
The locked room.
Clara stopped in front of the heavy mahogany door.
She reached her small hand into the collar of her pale-yellow dress. From a thin silver chain around her neck, she pulled out a tiny, antique brass key.
My heart hammered against my ribs. "Clara... where did you get that?"
"Grandpa gave it to me," she said quietly. "A long time ago. He told me never to show Daddy."
She slid the key into the lock. It clicked.
The door swung open.
I braced myself, expecting a shrine to a dead woman.
But it wasn't a bedroom.
It was a painting studio.
Canvases were stacked against the walls. Dried, cracked tubes of oil paint covered a large wooden desk. A white sheet draped over an easel in the center of the room.
The room smelled of old turpentine and dust.
"Mommy was an artist," Clara said, walking into the dark room and turning on a small desk lamp.
"I know," I said softly, following her inside.
Clara walked over to a small wooden chest in the corner. She opened it and pulled out a large, wrinkled piece of sketch paper.
It wasn't a beautiful oil painting.
It was a child’s drawing in heavy, dark crayons.
"I drew this," Clara said, holding it out to me. "The day after Mommy died. My therapist told me to draw what I remembered."
I took the paper.
My hands trembled as I looked at it.
It was chaotic, the way a three-year-old draws. Black scribbles for rain. A blue square for a car.
But there were three stick figures standing outside the car in the rain.
One had long brown hair. That was Elena.
One had short black hair. That was Luca.
And the third figure...
The third figure had bright, vibrant red hair.
"Clara," I whispered, my blood running cold. "Who is the person with red hair?"
Clara looked up at me.
"That's Aunt Vanessa," Clara said simply.
I stared at the drawing. Vanessa Bellini had famously dyed her hair blonde for the last five years. But fourteen months ago, when I first started working here, I had seen an old magazine clipping in her purse. She used to be a redhead.
"Vanessa was there?" I asked, my voice shaking. "The night of the accident?"
Before Clara could answer, a heavy footstep sounded in the doorway.
I spun around.
Luca was standing there.
He wasn't looking at me. He was staring at the crayon drawing in my hands.
His face was a mask of pure, unadulterated horror.
"Where did you get that?" Luca demanded, his voice thick with emotion.
"She drew it, Mr. Moretti," I said, stepping between him and Clara instinctively. "After the accident."
Luca walked slowly into the room. He took the paper from my hands.
He stared at the red-haired figure.
"She told the police she arrived after the crash," Luca whispered, speaking more to himself than to us. "Vanessa testified that she was driving behind us. That she saw the car go off the road."
Frank appeared in the doorway behind his son.
"Luca," Frank said heavily. "What is it?"
Luca slowly raised his head.
"Vanessa didn't arrive after the crash, Papa," Luca said, his eyes burning with a terrifying realization. "She was in the car with Elena."
Frank gasped.
Then, Clara reached into her pocket again.
"Aunt Vanessa dropped this when she was yelling at me yesterday," Clara said quietly.
She held out her small hand.
Resting on her palm was a broken, silver rosary.
Luca stared at it. He stopped breathing.
"That's Elena's," Luca whispered. "She was holding it when she died. The police said it was lost in the wreckage."
My chest tightened. Vanessa had taken the rosary from a dying woman's hands.
Suddenly, the heavy silence of the house was shattered by a loud, aggressive pounding on the front door downstairs.
"Luca!" a deep, authoritative voice shouted from the foyer. "Open this door! We have a warrant!"
Luca spun around, his hand instinctively dropping to the holstered weapon at his waist.
Frank rushed to the window and looked down at the driveway.
"Luca," Frank said, his voice trembling with panic. "It's the police. And they have Child Protective Services with them."
Clara grabbed my hand, terrified.
May you like
Luca looked back at the drawing, at the rosary, and then down at the driveway.
"Vanessa," Luca snarled. "She called them."
