Chapter 3 - THE BURIED TRUTH
The silence that followed the child’s words was heavier than the humid air in the library. I watched the blood completely drain from Anthony’s face. He took a step backward, his hands raised defensively.
“She’s lying,” Anthony stammered, his voice cracking. “Dominic, look at her, she’s traumatized. She doesn’t know what she’s saying—”
“Marcus,” Dominic interrupted, his voice dropping to a terrifying, deadly calm. “Take my brother’s phone. Take his keys. If he takes another step toward the staircase, shoot him in the legs.”
Marcus didn’t hesitate. He unholstered his weapon and leveled it at Anthony’s knees. “Hands where I can see them, Mr. Caruso.”
I didn’t wait to watch the mafia family dynamics play out. My patient was the terrified child in front of me. I unbuttoned my cardigan and wrapped it around her shivering shoulders. She felt so fragile, her collarbones sharp against my palms.
“Let’s get you out of here,” I murmured, scooping her into my arms. She weighed almost nothing. She buried her face in my neck, her small hands clutching the silver rosary so tightly her knuckles were white.
I carried her out of the library and down the hall to the nearest guest bedroom, laying her gently on the sprawling mattress. Dominic followed us, his presence filling the doorway like a thundercloud. He couldn’t take his eyes off the little girl.
“Her name is Mia,” Dominic said softly, almost to himself.
I looked up, surprised. “You know her?”
“I know the name,” he replied, stepping into the room. His hands were still trembling, the residual effects of the carbon monoxide mixing with extreme adrenaline. “Elena had a list of baby names. Before she died. Mia was her favorite.”
I began checking Mia’s vitals, using the pediatric cuff from my medical bag. Her heart rate was elevated, and she was dehydrated, but she didn’t show signs of severe CO poisoning. The panic room’s heavy walls must have protected her from the fumes in the main library.
As I gently checked her pockets for any identification or clues, my fingers brushed against a folded piece of paper. I pulled it out carefully. It was a child’s drawing done in crayon.
I unfolded it under the lamplight. It depicted three stick figures holding hands. One was clearly Mia, drawn small in pink. Next to her was a woman with long dark hair, wearing a green dress. And on the other side was a tall man. But it wasn’t Dominic. The man in the drawing had a very distinct, jagged red line drawn across his face—a massive scar.
“Dominic, look at this,” I said, handing him the paper.
He stared at the drawing, his brow furrowing. “I don’t know who this man is.”
I flipped the paper over. My stomach dropped. The drawing hadn’t been made on construction paper. It was drawn on the back of a printed medical document. Specifically, it was page three of Dominic’s hospital discharge instructions from last week.
Answer one: Anthony had known about this child and deliberately trapped her in the wall while the toxic gas filled the room. Open one: who was the scarred man in the drawing? Open two: if the paper was from last week, Mia hadn’t been trapped in the wall for long. She had been living inside the mansion, right under everyone’s noses.
“She’s been here,” I whispered, looking at Dominic. “Watching us.”
Suddenly, Mia shifted on the bed. The oversized cardigan slipped from her lap, and something heavy hit the hardwood floor with a loud metallic clink.
Dominic’s breath hitched. He walked over and slowly picked the object up.
It was a heavy, solid gold pocket watch. The intricate engraving on the casing caught the light. I watched a tear form in the corner of Chicago’s most feared man’s eye.
“Where did you get this?” Dominic asked, his voice breaking. He knelt beside the bed, looking at the little girl with a vulnerability that broke my heart.
Mia peeked over the blanket. “The nice lady gave it to me. She told me to hold onto it when it’s dark.”
“Which lady, Mia?” I asked gently.
May you like
“My mommy,” she whispered.
Dominic closed his eyes, a tear finally slipping down his cheek. He looked up at me, his face pale. “Claire... this is my father’s watch. I placed it inside his coffin ten years ago. It’s been locked inside the family crypt ever since.”
