Chapter 2 - THE LOCKED GATES
“Close the gates.”
Gabriel’s voice didn’t echo. It didn’t need to.
Before the guests could even process the command, three men in dark suits stepped out of the shadows of the dining room.
One locked the double mahogany doors leading to the foyer.
Another pulled the heavy velvet curtains shut.
The third stood directly behind Celeste.
The string quartet in the next room had stopped playing abruptly, leaving a suffocating silence in the grand space.
Twenty-six elite Bostonians sat frozen, their wine glasses suspended in mid-air, their expensive jewelry suddenly feeling very heavy.
I kept my hand firmly on Sofia’s small shoulder. She was shaking.
“Gabriel,” Celeste said, her voice cracking. “You’re scaring our guests.”
He didn’t look at her. His eyes were locked on his nine-year-old daughter.
“Sweetheart,” Gabriel repeated, dropping to one knee so he was at eye level with Sofia. “I need you to tell me everything you remember about that night.”
Sofia looked up at me.
Her dark eyes were wide, filled with a terror that no child should ever know. I squeezed her shoulder gently, a silent promise that I wasn't going anywhere.
“I woke up,” Sofia whispered, her voice carrying through the dead silent room. “I was thirsty. I went to the hallway to get my water cup.”
Gabriel nodded slowly. “And then?”
“I heard Mommy crying.”
A collective gasp rippled through the dining table. Gabriel’s jaw tightened, a muscle ticking beneath his ear.
“Where was she?” he asked.
“On the back stairs.” Sofia’s voice hitched. “The ones you told me never to play on because they were too steep.”
“She’s lying!” Celeste snapped, taking a sudden step forward.
The guard behind her placed a heavy hand on her shoulder, forcing her back down.
“I wasn’t here!” Celeste cried, looking frantically around the table for allies. “Gabriel, I was in New York! You know I was. I have the hotel receipts!”
“I didn’t say you pushed her,” Sofia said softly.
The entire room seemed to stop breathing.
Celeste froze.
“I said I saw you coming down the stairs before they found her,” Sofia continued, her small hands gripping my apron again. “You were looking for something.”
Gabriel stood up. The air around him seemed to drop ten degrees.
“What was she looking for, Sofia?”
“I don’t know.” The little girl looked down at her shoes. “But she couldn’t find it. She was crying too. She said, ‘Where is it, where is it?’”
I felt a sudden chill.
If Celeste hadn’t pushed Elena, why was she there? And why lie about being in New York?
Gabriel turned to Celeste.
The look on his face was terrifying—not because it was angry, but because it was completely devoid of emotion.
“Celeste.”
“Gabriel, please. The child is confused. She was traumatized—”
“Why were you in my house the night my wife died?”
“I wasn’t!”
Gabriel motioned to the guard. “Take her phone. Search her purse.”
“You can’t do this!” Celeste shrieked as the guard easily slipped the beaded clutch from her hands. “We are getting married in six weeks!”
“We aren’t getting married at all,” Gabriel said flatly.
He turned back to me.
“Rachel, take Sofia to the library. Lock the door. Do not open it for anyone except me.”
“Yes, sir.”
I took Sofia’s hand. We walked toward the heavy oak doors of the library just off the dining room.
As we moved, my mind raced. Celeste was looking for something.
But what?
We reached the library. I pushed the heavy doors open, ushered Sofia inside, and locked the deadbolt with a solid click.
The room was dark, lit only by the streetlamps outside shining through the rain-streaked windows. I turned on a small brass reading lamp, casting a warm glow over the leather sofas.
“You did a very brave thing, Sofia,” I said quietly, sitting beside her.
She looked up at me, her eyes brimming with tears.
“Are you going to get fired, Rachel?”
“I don’t think so, sweetie. Not tonight.”
She reached into the pocket of her silk pajama bottoms.
“Celeste couldn’t find it,” Sofia whispered.
My heart slammed against my ribs.
“Couldn’t find what, Sofia?”
“What she was looking for on the stairs.”
She pulled her hand out of her pocket and opened her small, trembling fingers.
Resting in her palm was a broken piece of silver.
It was a heavy, ornate clasp. The kind that belonged to a very expensive, very old necklace.
But it wasn’t just a clasp. There were deep, jagged scratches on the metal, as if it had been torn forcefully from someone’s neck.
And trapped in the twisted silver hinges was a single, long strand of dark blonde hair.
Celeste was a natural brunette.
Elena Romano had been blonde.
“I found it on the bottom step,” Sofia whispered. “Before Daddy came home.”
I stared at the broken clasp, a sickening realization washing over me.
Celeste didn’t just happen to be there.
There had been a struggle.
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Suddenly, the brass handle of the library door rattled violently.
Someone was trying to get in.
