Chapter 3 - THE CRACKED POCKET WATCH
I stared at the bloody watch in Dominic’s hand.
“You killed your father’s cardiologist?”
Dominic didn’t look at me. He looked at the cracked glass.
“I thought I did.”
Anthony stood up.
“Dad, what are you talking about? You always told me Dr. Kane died in an accidental electrical fire.”
“There are no accidents in our family, Anthony,” Dominic said harshly. “Your grandfather was a monster. But Dr. Kane wasn’t just his doctor. He was his fixer. Kane used his medical license to dispose of people. He altered autopsy reports. He supplied untraceable paralytics.”
Margaret collapsed into a chair, weeping quietly.
“And Robert found out,” she sobbed.
Dominic nodded.
“Robert was clean. He just wanted to run his respiratory clinic. But Kane started using Robert’s clinic as a front to order lethal medications. Robert caught him.”
Dominic turned the bloody watch over in his hand.
“Robert told me he was going to the police. Two days later, he died in his sleep.”
I looked at the CPAP machine on the bedside table.
“Dr. Kane sabotaged Robert’s machine,” I said.
“Yes.” Dominic’s eyes were cold. “The coroner called it heart failure. But I knew. So the night after Robert’s funeral, I went to the clinic. I confronted Kane. We fought.”
Dominic held up the watch.
“I beat him unconscious. This watch fell off his wrist. Then, I burned the building down with him inside.”
Nobody spoke.
The weight of a twenty-two-year-old murder hung heavy in the bedroom.
“If he survived the fire,” Anthony said slowly, “he’s been waiting two decades for revenge.”
“And he started by replacing your grandmother with an imposter in Florida,” the security chief added.
I looked at the letters inside the broken cedar box.
“What are those?” I asked.
Dominic looked down.
“Letters from my mother. She sent them every month from Florida. For twenty years.”
“Can I see one?”
He handed me the top envelope.
I opened it. The handwriting was shaky but elegant.
It talked about the weather. The garden. Normal things.
But as a nurse, I am trained to look at the details people ignore.
I looked at the postmark on the envelope.
Then I looked at the crease of the paper.
“Dominic,” I said gently. “This letter is dated three weeks ago.”
“I know.”
“But the ink…” I rubbed my thumb over the signature. It didn’t smear. It was deeply embedded in the fibers. “This ink is years old. It’s been photostatically reproduced. Someone took old letters your mother wrote decades ago, copied them, and mailed them in new envelopes.”
Anthony stepped closer.
“To make us think she was still down there.”
“Which means,” I said, “she never went to Florida.”
Margaret let out a sharp cry.
“Then where has she been for twenty years?”
Before anyone could answer, the bedroom door flew open.
One of the perimeter guards stood there, breathing heavily.
“Boss.”
“What is it?” Dominic snapped.
“We just caught someone trying to scale the back wall of the estate.”
Dominic reached for his weapon.
“Bring him in.”
“It’s not a him, sir.”
The guard stepped aside.
Two massive security men dragged a woman into the room.
She was in her late fifties.
Wearing a dark wool coat, soaked from the morning rain.
Her face was bruised.
Margaret gasped.
“Silvia?”
I looked at Margaret. “Who is Silvia?”
May you like
Margaret’s voice shook.
“She was Robert’s wife.”
