The Brother Who Was Supposed to Be Dead
Chapter 05 - The Brother Who Was Supposed to Be Dead
Julian Romano had been dead for twelve years.
At least that was what Dominic had been told.
His father had brought Julian home when Dominic was sixteen and Julian was fourteen, the result of an affair nobody discussed after the first month.
Same dark hair.
Same Roman nose.
Same shoulders as they grew older.
Different mothers.
Different place in the family.
Dominic inherited the name.
Julian inherited everybody’s discomfort.
They fought constantly.
Then, at twenty-six, Julian disappeared after a warehouse shooting in Palermo.
Cesare brought the news home.
Car burned.
Body identified by a watch.
Closed casket.
Dominic never went to Sicily.
His father had been dying.
Isabelle had been pregnant with Olivia.
Life moved.
That memory now disgusted him.
“What proof was there?” Grace asked.
They sat in the library at sunrise.
Anthony had been moved to a guest room voluntarily.
Not a prisoner.
Matteo was pulling records.
The girls had finally gone back to sleep.
Dominic looked at Grace.
“Cesare handled it.”
“That is not proof.”
“No.”
“Dental records?”
“I never saw them.”
“DNA?”
“No.”
“Photograph?”
“No.”
Grace leaned back.
“That is not death. That is a story.”
Dominic stared at her.
“You speak to your employer like this?”
“You are not asking me about linens.”
Fair.
Matteo entered carrying a laptop.
“Found something.”
Julian Romano’s passport had expired thirteen years ago.
But a nearly identical identity appeared eight years later.
Julian Rinaldi.
Same birth date.
Different surname.
Italian passport.
One entry into the United States.
Seventeen days before Isabelle died.
Dominic’s hands went cold.
“Exit?”
“None.”
Grace looked at him.
“So if it is him…”
“He may still be here.”
Matteo continued.
“Arrival address was a private residence.”
“Where?”
He turned the screen.
Romano Estate, Glen Cove.
Dominic stood.
“No.”
“Customs declaration says he was staying with family.”
“Who sponsored?”
Matteo’s face tightened.
“Cesare.”
There.
Dominic’s father’s brother had told everyone Julian was dead.
Then quietly brought him back.
“Gate records?”
“Not under Julian.”
“Rinaldi.”
Matteo searched.
Three entries.
Then a monthly service credential.
J. RINALDI — RESTORATION CONSULTANT.
Grace frowned.
“Restoration?”
Dominic looked toward the old house.
The estate had been undergoing continuous repairs since before Nora was born.
Roof.
Stonework.
East-wing plumbing.
Garden walls.
Anyone with a contractor badge could disappear into the background.
Just like a maid.
“Photograph?” Dominic asked.
Matteo opened the badge file.
Blank.
No employee photo.
“Who approved it?”
“Cesare.”
Dominic laughed once.
Of course.
He looked at the estate map.
“Where would a consultant stay?”
Mrs. Donnelly answered from the doorway.
“The north gatehouse.”
Everyone turned.
She wore a robe beneath a wool coat, gray hair hastily pinned.
Dominic stared.
“You knew?”
“I knew someone used it.”
“Who?”
She hesitated.
Grace watched her.
“Mrs. Donnelly.”
The older woman closed her eyes.
“Julian.”
Dominic felt something break cleanly inside him.
“How long?”
“On and off for years.”
“Years.”
“Yes.”
“You knew my brother was alive.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Mrs. Donnelly’s face tightened.
“Because Isabelle asked me not to tell you.”
Silence.
That hurt differently.
“Why would my wife hide my brother?”
“She did not trust why Cesare brought him back.”
“Did she tell you that?”
“Yes.”
“Did she know before the murder?”
“Yes.”
“How long?”
“Six weeks.”
Dominic sat.
Every person in his house had known pieces of his life he did not.
Grace looked at Mrs. Donnelly.
“Is Julian in the gatehouse now?”
“No.”
“When did you last see him?”
The house manager looked toward Dominic.
“Last night.”
Dominic stood.
They reached the north gatehouse in less than three minutes.
Small stone cottage beyond the cedar hedge.
Locked.
Matteo opened it.
Inside:
One bed.
Hot plate.
Coffee cup still damp.
Prescription bottles.
Men’s clothing.
Newspaper from yesterday.
Julian had been living here.
Not twelve years ago.
Not fourteen months ago.
Yesterday.
Grace picked up one paperback from the table.
A photograph slipped out.
Three little girls in the mansion garden.
Taken from a distance.
Dominic’s chest tightened.
“My daughters.”
Mrs. Donnelly said quickly:
“He never touched them.”
“You know that?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“Because I brought him the photographs.”
Dominic looked at her.
“Why?”
Her eyes filled.
“Because he asked what they looked like now.”
Grace stepped between anger and action without physically moving.
“Dominic.”
He breathed.
The girls.
Always the girls.
Matteo found a locked drawer.
Inside:
Old newspaper clippings about Isabelle’s murder.
Peter Bennett’s obituary.
A train ticket to Boston never used.
And one folded note.
Addressed to Grace.
She stared.
“My name.”
Dominic did not touch it.
Grace opened it herself.
Three sentences.
GRACE BENNETT—
YOUR FATHER KNEW I DID NOT KILL ISABELLE.
HE CHANGED THE BALLISTICS REPORT TO PROTECT SOMEONE ELSE.
IF YOU WANT TO KNOW WHO, FIND HIS BLUE CASE FILE.
—JULIAN
Grace went pale.
Dominic looked at her.
“Blue case file?”
“My father kept case files at home.”
“Still?”
She swallowed.
“I boxed everything after he died.”
“Where?”
“Storage in Queens.”
Dominic reached for his phone.
Grace said:
“No.”
He stopped.
“My father.”
“Yes.”
“My storage.”
“Yes.”
“I go.”
Dominic’s instinct screamed to send six men ahead.
Instead:
“Do you want police?”
Grace thought.
“Yes.”
“Matteo?”
“No.”
Matteo nodded without offense.
“Me?”
Grace looked at Dominic.
“Not yet.”
That answer hurt.
Good.
It was hers.
Then Matteo’s phone rang.
He listened.
His face changed.
“What?”
“The guest sitting room.”
Dominic’s stomach tightened.
“Cesare?”
“Gone.”
The guard assigned to the hall had been found unconscious in the service stairwell.
No gunfire.
No broken window.
Just one old passage Dominic had forgotten existed.
May you like
Cesare had left the mansion.
And somewhere outside its walls, Julian Romano had vanished at exactly the same time.
