Chapter 3 - THE SILVER POCKET WATCH
The drive to the Oakwood Care Center was completely silent.
Rain hammered against the tinted windows of Luca’s SUV.
I sat in the passenger seat, staring at the silver pocket watch resting on the dashboard.
It was unmistakably expensive.
Engraved on the lid was the Moretti family crest.
“My security team was scouting the perimeter of your father’s old bakery,” Luca said, his eyes fixed on the wet road. “We were looking to buy the block for development. They found this watch hidden beneath the floorboards.”
My hands trembled in my lap.
“My father is a good man,” I whispered. “He wouldn’t steal.”
“Good men do desperate things, Emma.”
We arrived at the nursing home at 10:00 PM.
The hallways were dimly lit and smelled of bleach.
I led Luca to Room 114.
When I pushed the door open, my father was awake.
He sat in his wheelchair by the window, watching the rain.
The right side of his face drooped slightly, a cruel reminder of the stroke that had stolen his voice and his livelihood.
“Dad?”
He turned.
When he saw me, his eyes lit up.
But when he saw Luca stepping into the room behind me, his expression changed.
Fear.
Pure, unadulterated fear.
My father tried to push his wheelchair backward, but it bumped against the wall.
“Mr. Reed,” Luca said quietly.
He didn’t shout. He didn’t threaten.
He just placed the silver pocket watch on the small rolling table in front of my father.
My father stared at it.
His breathing grew ragged.
“My mother’s wedding ring was pawned in 1996 with your signature,” Luca said. “And my father’s watch was found in your bakery. I need to know why.”
My father looked at me, his eyes begging for forgiveness.
He raised his left hand—the only one that still worked.
He reached for the silver watch.
His trembling fingers pressed the small button on the side.
The lid popped open.
I leaned in, expecting to see a clock face.
Instead, there was a tiny, faded photograph glued inside the lid.
It was a picture of a little boy.
Maybe five years old.
Dark hair. Bright green eyes.
He looked exactly like Luca.
“Who is that?” I asked.
Luca stopped breathing.
He leaned closer, staring at the photograph as if he had seen a ghost.
“That’s my older brother,” Luca whispered. “Matteo.”
I looked at Luca.
“You have a brother?”
“Had,” Luca corrected, his voice hollow. “He died in a house fire when he was five. Long before I was born.”
My father shook his head violently.
He tapped his finger against the glass of the watch.
Over and over.
Then he grabbed a black marker from his nightstand.
He pulled a small whiteboard onto his lap—the one we used for him to communicate basic needs.
His hand shook terribly as he wrote three letters.
A - L - I
He paused, catching his breath.
V - E
ALIVE.
The word hit the room like a thunderclap.
“No,” Luca said, taking a step back. “That’s impossible. The police found his remains. My parents buried him.”
My father erased the board.
He wrote one more word.
V - A - N - E - S - S - A
My blood ran cold.
Vanessa.
“Vanessa knows he’s alive?” I asked.
My father nodded.
He pointed to the door.
Then he made a rocking motion with his arms.
Like holding a baby.
“A child,” I realized. “Vanessa is hiding a child?”
Before my father could write another word, the door to the hospital room swung open.
A nurse stepped inside.
She wasn’t one of the regular staff.
She wore a surgical mask and held a syringe filled with clear liquid.
“Visiting hours are over,” the nurse said smoothly.
But her eyes were locked on my father.
And her hand was moving entirely too fast toward his IV line.
Luca didn’t hesitate.
He crossed the room in two strides, grabbing the nurse’s wrist and twisting it hard.
The syringe clattered to the floor.
“Who sent you?” Luca demanded.
The nurse yanked her arm free, her mask slipping down to reveal her face.
I recognized her immediately.
It was Vanessa’s personal assistant.
She didn’t say a word. She bolted out the door and sprinted down the hallway.
Luca started to chase her, but stopped when he heard a choking sound.
My father was pointing frantically at his nightstand.
At a child’s drawing of a train.
And written across the top in messy crayon were the words:
May you like
TO GRANDPA THOMAS. COME FIND ME.
TITLE: THE DRAWING OF THE TRAIN
