The House That Wasn't Safe
Chapter 07 - The House That Wasn't Safe
I did not look away from Gabriel while reading the message.
That was a useful discipline in my life: never let the person holding the knife know exactly when you notice the blade.
"Dessert," I said.
Gabriel smiled.
"Bella chose lemon. Your mother loved lemon."
There are men who threaten loudly because they want fear.
Gabriel threatened softly because he wanted ownership.
He had no idea how tired I had become of being owned by ghosts.
I slipped my phone back into my pocket.
"Give us a minute."
"Of course."
Gabriel stepped away, but not before looking at Isabella.
It was not affection.
It was command.
When the door closed again, Isabella whispered, "What happened?"
"You tell me."
She looked genuinely confused.
I showed her the photograph.
The brownstone door.
The cream invitation.
The blue crayon.
Her face went pale in a way that could not be performed quickly enough.
"That's not me."
"You expect me to believe that?"
"No. I expect you to verify it. That's what you do when you're not furious."
The insult landed because it was accurate.
I sent Marco a new address: an old service apartment above a bakery in Queens, owned by a retired driver who had hated Gabriel since 2003. Then I forwarded the invitation photo to my tech man.
Isabella watched.
"He knew your safe house."
"He knew one of them."
"Then he knows more than you think."
"Clearly."
She touched the table, steadying herself.
"Leon, if Gabriel knows Sophie saw him, he won't stop at scaring her."
"You should have considered that before bringing a recorder into my study."
"I did consider it. I considered every day for eight months."
"Eight months."
"That's how long he's had me."
I studied her.
"You came into my life a year ago."
She looked at me with a sadness that almost made her beautiful again.
"No. Gabriel sent me into your life a year ago. I decided six months ago I couldn't let him finish."
That was the trouble with betrayal.
Sometimes it arrived wearing remorse, and remorse made it harder to shoot cleanly.
"Where are the documents?" I asked.
"I don't know. But I know who does."
"Who?"
"Your mother."
The room went perfectly silent.
"My mother is dead."
"No," Isabella said. "She isn't."
It took every year of discipline I had not to move.
My mother, Elena Moretti, had been declared dead after a house fire in Newport when I was seventeen. I had seen the official report. I had watched my father bury an empty box because the remains were never properly identified. He told me grief needed something to stand over.
An empty box.
I had never let myself examine the phrase closely.
"Say that again," I said.
Isabella's voice dropped.
"Your mother survived. Gabriel has kept her hidden because she knows where your father kept his final evidence."
My hand closed around the back of a chair.
"Where?"
"I don't know. I swear. I only heard Gabriel mention a woman in Vermont. A convent property. Saint Agnes."
Saint Agnes.
My mother had studied there as a girl.
My father sent roses there every year until he died.
A coincidence, perhaps.
Coincidences had become scarce.
The library door opened again.
This time Gabriel did not smile.
"Leon," he said. "A private call. Now."
"From whom?"
He looked at Isabella once, and she lowered her eyes.
Then he turned back to me.
"From your mother."
The world did not tilt.
It sharpened.
Gabriel held out a phone.
I took it.
For three seconds, there was only static.
May you like
Then a woman's voice, older and thinner than memory, whispered my childhood name.
"Leo?"
