Chapter 2 - The Country House Before Midnight

The road was dark.

Leonard drove.

Vincent sat beside him.

I sat in the back.

My name is Amelia Grant.

Maid.

Twenty-eight.

I had no reason to be in that car.

Except Isabella had handed the old letter to me.

Except Sofia had told me to burn it.

Except nineteen years of lies had just walked into an engagement party.

Vincent looked at the clock.

11:41.

“How far?”

Leonard tightened his hands on the wheel.

“Twelve minutes.”

Vincent stared through the windshield.

“That gives her seven minutes.”

“She said midnight.”

“And she keeps her word?”

Leonard looked at him.

“Always.”

Vincent laughed quietly.

“Interesting.”

His phone rang.

Sofia.

He declined it.

Again.

Declined.

Then her father.

Declined.

Leonard said nothing.

At 11:49, the country house appeared beyond the trees.

Old stone.

Dark windows.

One light upstairs.

Vincent got out before the car stopped.

The front door was unlocked.

Leonard followed.

So did I.

The hallway smelled like dust and cedar.

Vincent looked around.

“My father used to bring me here.”

Leonard nodded.

“You were nine the last time.”

Vincent’s eyes moved toward the staircase.

“Where is she?”

“Library.”

The library door was open.

A woman stood beside the window.

Early sixties.

Dark hair streaked with silver.

Thin.

Elegant.

She turned.

Vincent stopped.

No one spoke.

Isabella Marchetti looked at her son.

Her hand trembled.

“You came.”

Vincent stared.

“You waited.”

“I said I would.”

He stepped closer.

Nineteen years.

No grave.

No funeral.

No goodbye.

Just distance.

“Why didn’t you call me?”

Isabella looked down.

“Because I didn’t know who answered your phone.”

Vincent frowned.

“What?”

“Your uncle controlled the house.”

“He controlled staff.”

“Security.”

“Accounts.”

“Your schedule.”

Vincent’s face hardened.

“And Sofia?”

Isabella’s expression changed.

“She came yesterday.”

“I know.”

“She asked me to leave.”

“I know.”

“She cried.”

“I know.”

Vincent looked around the room.

“What don’t I know?”

Isabella walked toward a desk.

She opened a drawer.

Inside were photographs.

Vincent as a child.

Vincent at graduation.

Vincent taking control of Marchetti Holdings.

Vincent leaving a hospital.

Vincent at charity events.

Years of his life.

Photographed from a distance.

Vincent picked one up.

“You watched me.”

“Yes.”

“For nineteen years.”

“Yes.”

“And never came closer.”

“I did.”

He looked at her.

“When?”

“Three times.”

Vincent froze.

“The first?”

“Your eighteenth birthday.”

“What happened?”

“Your uncle’s men followed me from the airport.”

“The second?”

“When your father died.”

Vincent’s face changed.

“You came to the funeral?”

“No.”

“I reached the city.”

“Then Leonard called.”

Vincent looked at the caretaker.

Leonard nodded.

“I told her not to come.”

Vincent stared.

“You stopped her.”

“I kept her alive.”

Vincent turned back.

“And the third?”

Isabella looked at him.

“Last year.”

Silence.

Vincent’s jaw tightened.

“You were here last year?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because Sofia’s father contacted me.”

Everyone stopped.

Leonard frowned.

“That was before I knew.”

Isabella nodded.

Vincent asked:

“What did he want?”

“To confess.”

“About my father?”

“Yes.”

“Did he?”

“Partly.”

Vincent’s voice lowered.

“What does partly mean?”

“He told me who covered up your father’s murder.”

“Who killed him?”

Isabella hesitated.

Then:

“Your uncle ordered it.”

Vincent’s face went still.

Leonard closed his eyes.

Isabella continued.

“But Sofia’s father signed the false report.”

Vincent whispered:

“And you met him last year.”

“Yes.”

“What else did he tell you?”

“That your father left something.”

“Where?”

“He didn’t know.”

Leonard looked at her.

“What?”

Isabella turned.

“He said Vincent’s father hid the original financial records before he died.”

Vincent frowned.

“The notebook?”

“No.”

“The notebook is a copy.”

She opened another drawer.

Empty.

Vincent saw it.

“What was there?”

“A metal box.”

“Where is it?”

“Gone.”

Leonard stepped closer.

“When?”

“This afternoon.”

Vincent stared.

“Who took it?”

Isabella looked toward the door.

“I don’t know.”

Then we heard a sound.

A floorboard.

Upstairs.

Leonard whispered:

“We weren’t alone.”

Vincent moved first.

He climbed the stairs.

Fast.

At the end of the hallway, a bedroom door closed.

Vincent pushed it open.

Empty.

Window open.

Curtains moving.

On the bed sat one object.

A dark red glove.

Sofia’s.

Vincent stared.

Then his phone rang.

Sofia.

This time he answered.

“Where are you?”

She was crying.

“At the estate.”

“Are you alone?”

“No.”

Vincent looked at the glove.

“Then why is your glove in my mother’s bedroom?”

Silence.

Sofia whispered:

“I can explain.”

Vincent looked at Leonard.

Then Isabella.

“Start.”

Sofia took one breath.

“My father went back to the country house after I left yesterday.”

Vincent’s expression changed.

“Why?”

“He wanted the box.”

“What box?”

“The one your father hid.”

“Did he take it?”

“I don’t know.”

Vincent looked at the open window.

Then at the glove.

Sofia continued.

“But Vincent…”

“What?”

“My father isn’t at the estate anymore.”

“Where is he?”

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A pause.

“I think your uncle took him.”