Isabella’s Rabbit
Chapter 03 - Isabella’s Rabbit
I did not sleep.
Neither did Naomi.
Jack and Rosie finally slept in my room because neither wanted to return to theirs.
I sat in a chair beside the bed until sunrise.
Naomi sat outside the door with the phone and the rabbit.
No one trusted anyone enough to leave both pieces of evidence alone.
That was reasonable.
At six-thirty, I asked:
“How long have you known about the key?”
“Four days.”
“And the note?”
“Four days.”
“Why didn't you tell me?”
She looked at the dried blood on my cuff.
That was answer enough.
I went to change.
When I returned, she said:
“You scare people.”
“I know.”
“No.”
She held my gaze.
“You know people obey you.”
Different sentence.
More accurate.
Naomi had been Isabella's preferred housekeeper during the last year of her illness.
Not personal nurse.
Not confidante officially.
But Isabella liked her.
Trusted her with the children.
Trusted her enough to ask Naomi to keep the rabbit safe after she died.
“Did she tell you something was inside?”
“No.”
“Then how did you find it?”
“Camille tried to throw it away.”
I went still.
Three weeks earlier, Camille told Rosie the rabbit was dirty.
Naomi rescued it from a trash bag.
While repairing a loose seam, she felt the key.
The note.
She did not know what the key opened.
Neither did I.
But Isabella wrote Arthur's name.
That changed everything.
My wife died from an aneurysm.
Sudden.
At home.
Thirty-six years old.
She had complained of headaches for two weeks.
Dr. Patel examined her.
Arthur arranged a specialist appointment.
The appointment was scheduled for three days after she died.
I had accepted that.
Bad luck.
Tragedy.
No conspiracy.
Now Naomi said:
“Arthur canceled the first appointment.”
My chest tightened.
“What?”
She had found email records on Isabella's old tablet.
Arthur told the neurologist Isabella was traveling.
She wasn't.
The appointment moved by eight days.
She died during the delay.
That did not make Arthur a murderer.
It made the cancellation matter.
“Why would he do that?”
Naomi shook her head.
“I don't know.”
The brass key had a number.
417.
Daniel traced it to a private safe-deposit facility.
Not a bank.
North Side.
Account holder:
Isabella Moretti.
Opened six months before her death.
I could access it as executor.
Arthur had never disclosed it during probate.
That was impossible unless he deliberately omitted it.
At nine, Daniel and I went.
Naomi stayed with the children.
Her choice.
Important.
Box 417 contained three folders.
One audio recorder.
And a handwritten letter.
Roman,
If you are hearing this because I am dead, do not decide what happened before you know what happened.
Even dead, Isabella knew me.
I almost smiled.
Then couldn't.
The first folder documented irregular withdrawals from the children's trust before it officially became theirs.
Not theft from the trust.
Transfers from Isabella's investment account.
Arthur had moved money.
Seven million over two years.
Authorized by documents carrying Isabella's electronic signature.
She denied signing them.
Second folder:
Medical records.
Headaches.
Dizziness.
Two fainting episodes.
Arthur received copies because he managed estate planning.
Isabella had become suspicious after he canceled the neurology appointment without permission.
Third folder:
Patrick Sloane.
Camille's father.
Why?
Isabella discovered Arthur moving her money into funds that financed Sloane logistics projects.
Arthur and Patrick were connected years before Camille entered my life.
I stared at the dates.
Three months before Isabella died.
She had started documenting both men.
The recorder contained one conversation.
Isabella and Arthur.
Her voice alive.
Sharp.
Angry.
“You moved my money.”
Arthur:
“It was temporary.”
“You canceled my doctor.”
“I rescheduled.”
“You had no right.”
“I was trying to manage the week.”
“My headaches are not a scheduling problem.”
Silence.
Then Arthur:
“Roman has enough violence around him. Don't turn paperwork into another war.”
Isabella laughed bitterly.
“You're afraid he'll find out you used my account.”
“Yes.”
Not murder.
Fraud.
Fear.
Then she said:
“If something happens to me before I fix this, the children get everything outside Roman's control.”
Arthur's voice sharpened.
“You don't mean that.”
“I do.”
There.
The guardianship plan began before she died.
Not because Arthur killed her.
Because her death left him exposed to an independent trust he could no longer manipulate.
He spent three years waiting.
Then Camille.
Political marriage.
Patrick's access.
A guardian who could be influenced.
The plan evolved.
Daniel swore quietly.
I kept listening.
Isabella's final sentence on the tape:
“I told Naomi enough to protect the kids if I can't.”
I looked at Daniel.
Naomi had said Isabella never told her about the key.
Maybe true.
Enough could mean something else.
Back at the penthouse, I asked her.
She looked confused.
“What did Isabella tell you?”
Naomi's face changed.
“She made me promise something.”
“What?”
“If anyone ever tried to make Jack afraid of you, I had to watch the adults, not Jack.”
I sat down.
That was why Naomi recorded Camille.
Not because she suspected abuse first.
Because she saw Jack changing.
And remembered Isabella's warning.
“What else?”
Naomi hesitated.
“Roman.”
“What?”
“She said Arthur was loyal to power, not people.”
That was Isabella.
Precise.
Unsentimental.
I looked toward the children's room.
“What do I do?”
Naomi stared.
“You're asking me?”
“Yes.”
“I clean your house.”
“You also protected my children while I failed to notice they needed protecting.”
Her expression tightened.
“Don't make me the good person in this story.”
I blinked.
She continued.
“I waited eleven weeks.”
“Because you needed evidence.”
“I also needed the paycheck.”
Honest.
“I was afraid you'd fire me.”
“I wouldn't have.”
“You don't know that.”
She was right.
The version of me from eleven weeks ago?
Maybe I would have believed Arthur.
Camille.
My own need for the alliance.
Naomi looked down.
“I told myself I was being strategic.”
“And?”
“Some nights I was just scared.”
That made me trust her more.
Not less.
We called federal prosecutor Miriam Shaw.
A woman I had spent years avoiding professionally.
She listened.
Then said:
“If you want to protect your children, Mr. Moretti, stop treating this like a family matter.”
I knew what she meant.
Evidence.
Lawyers.
Courts.
Not guns.
Not disappearance.
Not my old grammar.
I agreed.
Arthur arrived at eleven thirty expecting signatures.
The penthouse looked normal.
Camille wore cream.
The children were at school under police-protected transport.
Naomi served coffee.
Arthur opened the folder.
“Routine guardianship revision.”
I picked up the pen.
Camille smiled.
Naomi did not look at me.
Hidden cameras were running.
Miriam's team listened from two floors below.
I asked:
“What happens if I die?”
Arthur answered smoothly.
“Camille receives temporary guardianship subject to court approval.”
“And the trust?”
“Separate.”
Lie.
I looked at him.
He kept smiling.
I signed the first page.
Not the signature line.
Just my initials beside a paragraph Miriam told me was harmless.
Arthur relaxed.
Then I asked:
“Did Isabella know you canceled her neurologist?”
His face changed.
Camille froze.
Arthur stared.
“Roman.”
I leaned back.
“Answer.”
He looked toward Naomi.
There it was.
The moment he understood.
Naomi had survived long enough to become visible.
Arthur stood.
“This conversation is over.”
I said:
“No.”
My old voice.
The one men feared.
Naomi moved closer to the doorway.
Not to me.
Away from me.
A reminder.
I lowered my tone.
“Sit down.”
Arthur looked at Camille.
She looked at him.
Alliance breaking.
Then Camille said:
“You told me he didn't know about Isabella.”
Arthur's face went white.
Miriam's agents entered.
And before they handcuffed him, Arthur said the sentence that opened the next door.
“Ask Patrick why Isabella's specialist was working for him.”
May you like
Camille looked genuinely confused.
For the first time, she may not have known the whole plan either.
