Chapter 4 - THE TRUTH IN THE DEAD MAN'S POCKET
The dining room descended into absolute chaos.
Guests screamed. A chair tipped over as someone scrambled away from the table.
Vanessa stared at the broken security radio on the white tablecloth, her perfect posture crumbling.
“No,” Vanessa whispered. “He was supposed to be waiting outside.”
“He was,” Isabella said.
She didn’t look like the broken, terrified woman who had walked in ten minutes ago. She stood tall, her wet coat dripping onto the marble floor.
“He met me at the west gate,” Isabella continued. “He thought I was coming to beg you for money. He got into the passenger seat to threaten me.”
Luca stepped closer to his sister. “Isabella. What did you do?”
“I didn’t do anything, Luca,” Isabella said, her voice shaking slightly. “He pulled a gun on me. He said Vanessa ordered him to make sure I never reached the front door. We fought. The gun went off.”
She pulled her hands out of her pockets.
There was dried blood on her palms.
“I put him in the trunk,” she whispered. “And then I walked up the driveway.”
Vanessa realized she had no leverage.
The mole was dead. The threat of burning the car was a bluff.
She lunged for the dining room doors.
Luca moved faster.
He didn’t grab her. He just signaled the two remaining security guards at the edge of the room.
They grabbed Vanessa by the arms, lifting her off her feet.
“Let me go!” Vanessa shrieked, kicking wildly. “You can’t prove anything! The child’s drawing means nothing in court!”
“I don’t need a court,” Luca said softly.
He looked at the guests.
“Everyone out,” he ordered.
Within ninety seconds, the room was empty of outsiders. The caterers fled. The wealthy guests practically ran for the front doors.
Only Luca, Isabella, Vanessa, Sophie, and I remained.
I was standing near the wall, desperately trying to shield Sophie from the violence of the moment. I covered her ears, pulling her face into my apron.
Luca looked at Vanessa, who was breathing heavily between the two guards.
“Where is the car, Vanessa?”
“Go to hell,” she spat.
Luca didn’t flinch.
“Emma,” he called.
I looked up.
“Take Sophie upstairs. Lock her bedroom door. Do not come out until I come for you.”
I nodded quickly. I didn’t want Sophie to see what was going to happen next.
I scooped the seven-year-old into my arms and practically ran up the grand staircase. We reached her bedroom, and I slammed the door, turning the deadbolt.
I set Sophie on her bed. She was shaking.
“It’s okay, sweetie,” I lied, pulling her blankets around her. “It’s going to be okay.”
“Emma,” Sophie whimpered, clutching her tiny silver bracelet. “Vanessa is bad.”
“I know.”
“She used to come into my room at night.”
I froze.
I sat on the edge of the bed. “What do you mean she came into your room?”
Sophie looked down at her hands.
“When Daddy was out of town. She would come in here and look through my drawers. She was looking for Mommy’s things.”
My heart pounded in my chest.
“Did she find anything?”
Sophie shook her head. “No. Because I hid them.”
“Hid what, Sophie?”
The little girl reached under her pillow. She unzipped the hidden lining of the decorative case and pulled out a small, folded piece of paper.
She handed it to me.
It was a train ticket.
Dated four years ago. The exact night Elena Moretti disappeared.
The name on the ticket wasn’t Elena’s.
It was Isabella Moretti.
I stared at the ticket.
Why would Elena have a train ticket in Isabella’s name on the night she died? Isabella had supposedly fled the city a year earlier.
I turned the ticket over.
There was a handwritten note on the back, scribbled in frantic cursive.
I found her. She never left Chicago. Meet me at Union Station at midnight. Don't tell Luca.
It was signed with a single initial: E.
Elena.
Elena hadn’t been killed because she found out about the blackmail.
She had been killed because she found Isabella.
I had to tell Luca.
“Sophie, lock the door behind me,” I said, standing up quickly.
“Don’t leave me!” she cried.
“I’ll be right back. I promise. Do not open the door for anyone but me or your dad.”
She nodded, tears spilling down her cheeks.
I slipped out of the room, listening for the click of the lock behind me.
I sprinted down the hallway toward the back stairs, intending to sneak into the dining room.
But as I reached the landing, I heard a floorboard creak in the shadows.
A hand clamped over my mouth from behind.
An arm wrapped tightly around my waist, lifting me off the ground.
I thrashed wildly, dropping the train ticket onto the carpet.
The person dragged me backward, into the dark, unused linen closet at the end of the hall.
The door shut. We were plunged into total darkness.
The hand slowly withdrew from my mouth.
“Don’t scream,” a rough voice whispered in my ear.
I spun around, my back hitting the shelves.
A flashlight clicked on, blinding me for a second.
When my eyes adjusted, I couldn’t breathe.
Standing in the cramped closet, holding the flashlight under his chin, was Daniel.
The head of security.
The man Isabella claimed was dead in the trunk of her car.
He was bleeding from a nasty cut on his forehead, and his suit was torn, but he was very much alive.
And he was holding a gun pointed directly at my chest.
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“Isabella is a terrible shot,” Daniel grinned, blood staining his teeth. “Now. Let’s go get the kid.”
TITLE: The Hostage In The Linen Closet
