Chapter 8 - THE MAN AT THE SCHOOL GATE
By the time the police reached Bella's former school, Vincent Bardi was gone.
He hadn't approached a child. He had parked across the street, taken photographs of the front entrance, and spoken briefly with a maintenance worker. Those details were enough to frighten everyone who knew what he'd done, but they were not enough to prove what he intended to do next.
Detective Reyes was careful about that distinction.
“We're investigating the contact,” she said during a meeting at Rachel's office. “We've also issued appropriate alerts to the people responsible for Bella's safety. Her current location hasn't been disclosed.”
Luca stood beside the window, both hands gripping the sill.
“He knows how to frighten people without touching them,” he said.
“Then don't give him control of your decisions,” Rachel answered.
She had become one of the few people willing to interrupt Luca when his anger began to outrun his judgment. He usually looked annoyed. Then he listened.
I sat across from them with Vivian. The bruise around my collarbone was fading, but I still dreaded the smell of expensive perfume. It reminded me of Vanessa bending close enough to whisper that she could ruin my mother's life.
“Has Dr. Mercer spoken?” I asked.
“His attorney has requested an interview,” Reyes said. “We don't know what he'll say until he says it.”
The conversation shifted to hospital records and Vincent's finances. Investigators had discovered payments from a property holding company to Felix Rowe's firm and to a medical consulting business associated with Dr. Mercer. No single transfer explained the crime. Together, the records showed a network that deserved examination.
Then Rachel brought out the document that changed the room.
It was a copy of Elena Moretti's trust, established before Isabella's birth. Elena had inherited shares in her family's real estate company, separate from Luca's own businesses. If her daughter survived her, Isabella would become the beneficiary of those shares. Trustees would manage the assets under strict limits until Isabella reached adulthood.
“Vincent knew about this,” Rachel said. “He was involved in the original estate planning. The trust protected the shares from being treated as ordinary Moretti business property.”
“Why did it matter whether Luca thought Bella was dead?” I asked.
“Because Vincent was named as a backup trustee if no beneficiary could be located. He was able to make representations about the trust that should have been independently reviewed.”
Luca's face darkened. “He used my grief to get access.”
“And when Vanessa discovered the living beneficiary,” Rachel said, “that threatened his control. Their apparent plan was to install Vanessa as someone claiming legal authority over the child, then push through transactions benefiting companies connected to them.”
“It wasn't even her money,” I said.
“It wasn't anyone's to take,” Rachel replied. “It was set aside for Isabella.”
The room went silent. I could hear a leaf blower outside the window and the distant hum of traffic. People had spent six years making decisions for a child they'd never allowed to know her own name.
Later that day, Luca visited Bella again. He told me about it afterward, while we walked through a public botanical garden near the lake. It was the first time we'd met somewhere that wasn't a hospital, a lawyer's office, or his mansion. Vivian knew where I was; I wanted normal surroundings and space to leave whenever I chose.
“Bella brought a bird book,” he said. “She asked me whether swallows come back to the same roof every year.”
“What did you tell her?”
“I looked it up with her. Some do. She says her mother used to like birds.”
“Marisol?”
“No. Elena. Someone must have told her about the painted nursery.”
I thought of the letter in the wooden box. “You can show her the clouds someday.”
“When she's ready.” He looked toward the pond. “She asked whether Mari could come too.”
“Of course she did.”
“I told her yes.”
We walked beneath trees glowing gold against a pale sky. Luca didn't bring guards close enough for me to see them, though I knew security was nearby. I was grateful he hadn't tried to create an impressive evening. I liked seeing him in daylight, listening to birds and worrying about pancakes.
“I resigned because I needed my life back,” I said.
“I know.”
“I'm considering a job at a community arts center.”
“That sounds like something you would enjoy.”
“It pays less than the mansion.”
“It might give you more.”
I studied him. “You sound like my mother.”
“I'm beginning to think I should consult her before making major decisions.”
I laughed. It didn't hurt this time.
A call from Rachel ended the quiet walk. Dr. Mercer had begun speaking with investigators. He admitted signing an inaccurate certificate after Vincent presented paperwork saying the family wanted Isabella's death kept private. He claimed he had been threatened with exposure of unrelated professional misconduct if he refused.
“Is he saying he knew she was alive?” Luca asked.
“Yes,” Rachel said. “He says he saw the baby leave the hospital. He also claims Teresa was told the arrangement would last only a few weeks.”
Luca closed his eyes. “Six years.”
Rachel continued. “Investigators are examining his records and statement. He has offered to identify the original file storage locations.”
I watched the light change on the water. Confessions were arriving, but none could return Bella's birthdays or erase the years Marisol had spent afraid of losing her.
Two evenings later, the authorities requested another statement from me. A lawyer representing Vanessa had argued that I was angry about my employment and had invented the assault. Detective Reyes asked whether I had any photographs of my injuries from before the dinner.
“My mother took pictures at the hospital,” I said. “The staff also documented them.”
“May we obtain those through the proper process?”
“Yes.”
Reyes told me that a preliminary medical review of the wine had found evidence of tampering, though further analysis and testimony would be required to establish what occurred and who was responsible. She wouldn't give me a dramatic conclusion just to make me feel better. I was beginning to value that restraint.
While I sat in the interview room, my phone vibrated with a call from Mom. I wasn't supposed to answer during questioning, so I called back afterward.
A strange man's voice responded.
“Olivia Hayes?”
My stomach tightened. “Who is this?”
“Officer Bennett, Chicago police. Your mother is safe. She reported someone trying to enter her apartment building using a false maintenance badge.”
I pressed a hand against the wall. “Where is she?”
“With another officer. We have a patrol unit there. She asked us to reach you.”
By the time I arrived with Vivian, my mother was sitting at the kitchen table, furious rather than frightened. She had refused to open the door because the supposed maintenance worker couldn't name the building manager.
“Do I look like I was born yesterday?” she demanded when she saw me.
I hugged her carefully. “You don't look like anything but wonderful.”
She pulled back. “Your hands are freezing.”
The officer explained they were collecting video from the building cameras. No one had been harmed. They couldn't yet connect the incident to the Moretti case.
That uncertainty was its own kind of terror.
While an officer finished speaking with Vivian, Mom pointed to a small framed photograph on the shelf. In it I was twelve, standing beside my father in front of the first apartment we'd ever been able to call our own.
“Your dad used to say a locked door is only useful if people inside know they're allowed to say no,” she told me. “He grew up with relatives who walked in whenever they pleased. He hated making children feel they had no privacy.”
I looked toward the hallway where the stranger had stood. “You did say no.”
“And I intend to keep doing it.”
She took my hand. “But I don't want this man and his dreadful fiancée to become the center of your life forever.”
“They won't.”
“Promise?”
I thought of the arts center application saved on my phone, my unfinished sketchbook, and the calm morning I'd spent with Luca among the trees. I thought of Bella asking for pancakes shaped like stars. We were all entitled to days that were not organized around someone else's threats.
“I promise I'll build something good,” I said. “Even if I have to build it slowly.”
My mother squeezed my hand, satisfied, and went to find her suitcase.
That night Luca offered to help relocate my mother temporarily through a professional service selected by Vivian. This time I accepted, after speaking with the advocate and reviewing the options myself. My mother grumbled about leaving her plants behind, then packed her favorite blue cardigan and insisted on bringing the soup pot.
As we loaded her suitcase, Rachel called.
“Olivia,” she said, “Vanessa has changed her story again. She says Vincent promised to make the child's disappearance permanent.”
My heart stumbled. “What does she mean?”
“We don't know whether it's true. Investigators are treating it seriously.”
After the call, I stood at the curb watching my mother climb into the car. I thought of Bella, who had been moved from place to place by adults who claimed they were acting for her own good.
Then a second message arrived from Rachel, this one meant for Luca but copied to the legal team.
Teresa had provided the location of a second storage unit, rented under Vincent's assistant's name. Inside was a metal box marked with Elena's initials.
May you like
It contained six years of letters Luca had written to his daughter after her supposed death—letters he'd never imagined she could read.
And every envelope had been opened.
