Chapter 5 - THE RACE TO THE LOCKERS
“Stop him!” Luca roared.
Daniel, Luca’s head of security, immediately took off after the Bellini bodyguard, his hand reaching inside his suit jacket.
Luca grabbed my arm. “Claire, show me where it is. Now.”
We ran.
I didn't care about the twenty-eight guests we left in the dining room. I didn't care about decorum.
I ran down the grand marble hallway, my sensible black work shoes slipping on the polished floor. Sophie ran right beside me, holding the skirt of her blue satin prom dress so she wouldn't trip.
My heart was hammering in my throat.
For eight years, I had thought that corduroy jacket was just a painful memory. A piece of fabric holding the scent of sawdust and Old Spice.
I had no idea it was a tomb for the truth.
We burst through the swinging doors into the staff kitchen.
The cooks looked up in shock as we sprinted past the stainless steel counters.
“Down here!” I yelled, pushing open the heavy wooden door that led to the basement staff quarters.
We could hear the sound of a scuffle echoing up the concrete stairwell.
Luca took the stairs two at a time. I followed, gripping the railing.
When we reached the bottom, my stomach dropped.
The narrow hallway lined with gray metal lockers was a disaster.
Daniel had tackled the Bellini bodyguard to the ground. The two massive men were wrestling on the concrete floor, knocking over a laundry cart.
But we were too late.
The door to my locker—number 42—was hanging wide open.
The cheap metal lock had been smashed with a fire extinguisher.
And lying on the floor, torn completely in half, was Mark’s brown corduroy jacket.
I fell to my knees.
“No,” I sobbed, grabbing the torn fabric.
The inner lining had been ripped open. Yellow threads dangled from the seam I had watched my husband stitch eight years ago.
The hidden pocket was empty.
Vanessa’s bodyguard had gotten to it before Daniel tackled him. He had pulled the papers out.
Luca crouched beside me. He looked at the torn jacket, his face hardening into a mask of pure fury.
He stood up and walked over to the two men fighting on the floor.
Daniel had just managed to pin the bodyguard’s arms behind his back.
Luca knelt down. He grabbed the Bellini guard by the collar of his shirt and hauled him upward.
“Where are the papers?” Luca demanded, his voice echoing in the concrete hallway.
The guard spat blood onto the floor and smirked.
“Gone,” the man sneered. “I tossed them down the laundry chute before your guy grabbed me. They’re sitting in the incinerator room right now. Good luck piecing that back together.”
My heart shattered.
The evidence. The proof that my husband wasn't a thief. The proof that he died trying to save lives.
It was gone. Burned in the basement of the mansion I had cleaned for eleven years.
I buried my face in the torn corduroy jacket and cried.
I felt a small hand on my shoulder.
“Mom?”
I looked up through my tears.
Sophie was standing beside me.
She wasn't looking at the torn locker. She wasn't looking at the fighting men.
She was looking at me with a strange, quiet expression.
She reached her hand down the front of her blue satin dress.
And pulled out a thick, folded stack of yellow papers.
“Are these the papers Dad hid?” Sophie asked softly.
Luca froze.
The bodyguard stopped struggling.
I stared at the yellow pages in my daughter’s hand.
“Sophie,” I breathed. “How did you get those?”
“When Miss Bellini made me put on the apron earlier,” Sophie explained, her voice trembling but brave. “The strings were too long. I needed a safety pin to hold them up so I wouldn't trip.”
She looked at the torn jacket on the floor.
“I knew you kept a sewing kit in your locker. So I came down here before dinner.”
She unfolded the thick yellow pages. They were covered in official state seals and architectural stamps.
“When I moved Dad’s jacket to get the kit,” Sophie whispered, “the seam you showed me had unraveled a little bit. I saw the yellow paper sticking out.”
She looked at Luca.
“I remembered how much Dad wanted to protect these. So I pulled them out and hid them inside my dress. Before the dinner even started.”
Luca slowly stood up.
He looked at my seventeen-year-old daughter. At the homemade prom dress she was wearing. And the white apron still draped over a nearby chair.
He reached out and gently took the yellow papers from her trembling hands.
He opened the first page.
His eyes scanned the ink.
May you like
A slow, terrifying smile spread across his face.
“Daniel,” Luca said, his voice ringing with absolute triumph. “Lock this piece of trash in the wine cellar. And call the District Attorney.”
