Chapter 3 - THE PHOTOGRAPH IN THE WIDOW'S PURSE
I stared at the photograph until the faces blurred.
Vanessa Bellini. The woman who had treated me like dirt, who had threatened to fire me if I stepped out of line.
She was standing in an alleyway with Dr. Evans, the surgeon who had operated on my brother, Sam, six months ago.
“Why does she have a picture with Sam’s doctor?” I whispered, my heart pounding in my ears.
Rosa Marino sat on the edge of the bed, her black funeral dress stark against the white sheets.
“Frank took that picture,” Rosa said quietly. “He was following Vanessa. He knew she was up to something, long before Isabella came back.”
I looked at the bus locker ticket in my other hand.
“Frank was investigating her?”
Rosa nodded. “Frank loved the Moretti family. He knew Vanessa didn’t love Luca. He knew she was digging into the backgrounds of everyone who worked here. Finding our weaknesses.”
My hands began to shake.
My brother’s motorcycle accident. The sudden, crippling medical debt. The hospital threatening to seize my mother’s house.
It was the reason I had begged for a job at the Moretti estate. The reason I accepted every extra shift and endured Vanessa’s cruelty without a single complaint.
“It wasn’t an accident,” I breathed, the horrific realization washing over me.
“No, Claire,” Rosa said softly. “Vanessa paid someone to run your brother off the road. She paid the doctor to inflate the bills. She manufactured your desperation.”
Tears of pure rage sprang to my eyes.
She almost killed my brother just to get a loyal, desperate servant in Luca’s house.
“But why me?” I asked, my voice cracking. “I’m nobody.”
Rosa looked toward the locked bedroom door.
“Because of Mia.”
Mia. Luca’s seven-year-old daughter from a previous relationship. Her mother had passed away when she was an infant.
Mia was a quiet, terrified little girl who rarely spoke to anyone except me. I spent hours reading to her in the library while the rest of the house ignored her.
“Vanessa hates that child,” Rosa whispered. “She couldn’t send Mia away because Luca would never allow it. But she needed someone to watch her. Someone who would never speak up. Someone she could easily frame if Mia... had an accident.”
A sickening wave of nausea hit me.
Vanessa wasn’t just a manipulative fiancé. She was a monster planning to murder a seven-year-old girl to secure her total control over Luca’s empire.
“I have to show this to Luca,” I said, gripping the photograph.
“You can’t,” Rosa warned sharply.
I stopped. “Why not? He already locked her in the basement. He knows she killed Frank.”
“He knows she’s involved,” Rosa corrected. “But Matteo is still out there. And Matteo is the one who ran your brother off the road.”
I froze.
“Matteo?”
“He’s drowning in gambling debt, Claire,” Rosa explained. “Vanessa bought his debt. She owns him. If you give that photo to Luca now, Matteo will panic. He’ll find a way to silence us both before the truth comes out.”
Rosa pointed to the bus locker ticket.
“Frank hid the real evidence in that locker. We need to get it before Matteo figures out Frank’s watch was given back to me.”
A sudden, sharp knock on the bedroom door made us both jump.
“Claire.”
It was Matteo’s voice.
Muffled, but urgent.
“Open the door, Claire. Luca wants Rosa downstairs.”
Rosa’s eyes went wide. She grabbed my arm, her grip surprisingly strong.
“He’s lying,” she whispered. “Luca told us to stay here.”
“Claire, I know you’re in there,” Matteo called out. The brass doorknob began to rattle. “Open the door.”
I quickly shoved the photograph and the bus ticket into the deep pocket of my housekeeping apron.
I took a deep breath, trying to steady my racing heart.
“Just a moment, Mr. Moretti!” I called back, making my voice sound as normal as possible. “Mrs. Marino is changing out of her funeral dress.”
The rattling stopped.
“Tell her to hurry,” Matteo snapped.
I looked at Rosa. We couldn’t stay in this room. If Matteo forced his way in, he would search her purse. He would realize the watch was open.
“We have to go to the bus station,” I whispered.
“How?” Rosa asked. “Matteo is right outside.”
I looked around the luxurious guest suite. My eyes landed on the heavy velvet curtains covering the French doors that led to the balcony.
“We aren’t going through the door,” I said.
I quietly opened the French doors. The cool Chicago night air rushed in. We were on the second floor, directly above the kitchen patio.
There was a thick, decorative trellis covered in ivy attached to the brick wall.
“Can you climb down?” I asked Rosa.
The sixty-three-year-old widow looked down at the patio, then back at me.
She reached down, grabbed the hem of her black funeral dress, and ripped it up the side to give her legs freedom to move.
“My husband was murdered, Claire,” Rosa said, her eyes burning with a fierce, terrifying grief. “I would jump if I had to.”
We climbed over the wrought-iron railing.
I went first, guiding Rosa’s feet onto the sturdy wooden slats of the trellis. We moved slowly, the shadows hiding us from the security cameras Daniel had intentionally disabled earlier that night.
When our feet hit the concrete patio, we didn’t stop.
We ran through the manicured gardens, slipping through the service gate at the back of the property.
My heart pounded as we hit the quiet suburban street. We flagged down a passing taxi three blocks away.
“Greyhound Station downtown,” I told the driver, sliding into the backseat next to Rosa.
For the entire twenty-minute ride, neither of us spoke. I kept my hand in my apron pocket, my fingers tightly gripping the locker ticket.
When we arrived at the terminal, it was nearly empty. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead.
We found the bank of metal lockers near the back restrooms.
I checked the number on the ticket.
Locker 402.
I stepped up to the locker. My hands were shaking so badly I almost dropped the small key attached to the ticket.
I slid it into the lock. Turned it.
The metal door popped open.
Inside the locker sat a single, heavy object.
It was a dark winter coat.
I carefully pulled it out.
“Frank’s driving coat,” Rosa gasped, recognizing the heavy wool.
But as I held it under the harsh fluorescent lights, I saw something that made my blood run cold.
The left sleeve of the coat was completely soaked in dried blood.
And tucked into the breast pocket was a child’s drawing.
I pulled it out.
It was drawn in crayon. Stick figures.
It showed a tall man in a black suit holding the hand of a little girl with pigtails.
Mia’s drawing. She had given this to Frank weeks ago.
But flipped over on the back, written in Frank’s hurried handwriting, was a message that changed everything.
May you like
Isabella isn’t the only one in danger. Vanessa found the real will. Tell Luca his daughter isn’t safe in her own bed.
TITLE: The Coat In The Bus Station Locker
