Chapter 5 - What Her Father Saw
The photograph changed everything.
For three years, Dr. Malcolm Prentiss had presented himself as an outside specialist recruited after Emilio became ill.
That story was now impossible.
He had been inside Corsaro House years earlier.
With Rafe.
With Etta’s father.
Police reopened Patrick Malloy’s death investigation before sunrise.
His wrecked truck had been destroyed years ago, but the original photographs remained archived.
A detective noticed something missed the first time.
One brake line had been damaged.
The original investigator assumed the rupture occurred during the crash.
A forensic specialist disagreed.
It might have been cut beforehand.
Etta sat alone on the conservatory steps after hearing the news.
Emilio found her there.
He was walking farther every day now.
Still thin.
Still weak.
But alive in a way he had not been two weeks earlier.
“I’m sorry.”
Etta stared at the citrus trees.
“I spent six years thinking he drove too fast.”
Emilio sat beside her.
“My father used to say guilt is useful because it makes obedient children.”
She looked at him.
“That explains more about you than you probably intended.”
“Probably.”
“My father wasn’t perfect.”
“I didn’t know him.”
“He snored. Forgot birthdays. Put hot sauce on everything. Once he tried fixing our washing machine and flooded the kitchen.”
Emilio smiled.
“He sounds dangerous.”
“He was.”
Her smile lasted only a second.
“He also never lied to me.”
Emilio lowered his gaze.
“Then believe the man he was, not the story Rafe left behind.”
Etta looked at him.
“Was that comforting?”
“I’m inexperienced.”
“It was terrible.”
“I suspected.”
She laughed despite herself.
That sound became the first good thing about the day.
The investigation accelerated.
Financial records linked Rafe to Prentiss.
Prentiss had been receiving payments for years.
Police obtained warrants.
Federal investigators became involved when money crossed state lines.
But Rafe remained invisible.
Emilio understood why.
“He’s waiting.”
“For what?” Etta asked.
“For me to die.”
“But now he knows you’re improving.”
“Which means waiting is no longer useful.”
Gabriel doubled security.
Emilio wanted Etta moved somewhere secret.
She refused.
Instead, she resigned.
The letter sat on Emilio’s desk.
He read it twice.
“No.”
“You don’t get to reject a resignation.”
“I can if it’s badly written.”
“It’s four sentences.”
“The third has unnecessary punctuation.”
“Emilio.”
He lowered the paper.
Etta stood across from him in her maid uniform.
For some reason, seeing her dressed that way suddenly bothered him.
Not because of the work.
Because he finally understood what the uniform represented between them.
A hierarchy he had used without thinking.
“You’re leaving?”
“I’m leaving the job.”
“Because of me?”
“Partly.”
His face became unreadable.
Etta continued.
“You asked me for something personal while you were paying my salary. Then you learned better.”
“I did.”
“I know. But if anything ever happens between us…”
She stopped.
Emilio did not breathe.
Etta’s cheeks warmed.
“I need to know I can walk away without losing my paycheck.”
He stared at her.
“Anything?”
“That is not the important part of that sentence.”
“It was extremely important to me.”
She tried not to smile.
Failed.
Emilio folded the resignation carefully.
“What will you do?”
“My father left debts when he died. I dropped out of nursing school to work.”
“You want to return?”
“I don’t know.”
“I could—”
Etta raised one eyebrow.
He stopped.
“Right. Money.”
“Good.”
“I was going to say I could introduce you to someone.”
“You were going to pay.”
“I was absolutely going to pay.”
“At least you’re learning honesty.”
She left Corsaro House that afternoon as Etta Malloy.
Not the maid.
Emilio watched from the front steps.
He did not ask her to stay.
That mattered more than asking ever could.
For the next three weeks, they saw each other deliberately.
Coffee.
Lunch.
A walk through City Park that required Emilio to rest twice.
Etta discovered he hated bananas, loved old jazz records, and knew surprisingly little about grocery stores.
Emilio discovered Etta collected used mystery novels, secretly wanted to become a respiratory therapist, and became viciously competitive over card games.
They did not kiss.
Not yet.
Something between them was growing too carefully to rush.
Then one Thursday night, Emilio took her to a small restaurant far from the French Quarter.
No guards at the table.
No mansion.
No uniform.
No cane, for the first time.
Etta noticed halfway through dinner.
“You forgot it.”
“No.”
Emilio looked almost proud.
“I left it.”
She smiled.
“You’re showing off.”
“Absolutely.”
Afterward they walked beneath balconies glowing with warm lights.
Music drifted from somewhere nearby.
Emilio stopped.
“Etta.”
She turned.
“I asked you something once when I was afraid I had six weeks left.”
“I remember.”
“I’m not asking again.”
“Good.”
“I want to ask something else.”
Her heart accelerated.
“Can I kiss you?”
She looked at the man New Orleans supposedly feared.
He looked terrified.
“Yes.”
Emilio touched her face gently.
Their first kiss was quiet.
No audience.
No bargain.
No desperation.
When they separated, Etta whispered, “That was better.”
“Than what?”
“Four thousand dollars of laboratory testing.”
He laughed.
Then a gunshot shattered the restaurant window behind them.
Emilio pulled Etta down.
A second bullet struck the brick wall.
Gabriel’s men rushed from the car.
People screamed.
Emilio covered Etta with his body.
And across the street, beneath a flickering streetlamp, a familiar figure lowered a pistol.
Rafe.
Alive.
May you like
Smiling.
Then he disappeared into the crowd.
