Chapter 2 - ROOM 214 WAS WAITING

The car left the estate at 9:18 p.m.

Enzo sat in the back.

Aldo beside him.

I sat across from them.

Nobody spoke for the first twenty minutes.

The train ticket remained folded in Enzo’s hand.

He had not put the engagement ring back on.

Finally he looked at Aldo.

“Why is Mia here?”

Aldo answered before I could.

“Because Sofia tried to make her call security.”

Enzo’s eyes moved to me.

“And you didn’t.”

“No.”

“Why?”

I thought about Sofia reaching for my phone.

About the fear in Aldo’s face.

“Because he looked scared of her.”

Aldo gave a tired smile.

“That may be the nicest thing anyone has said about me tonight.”

Enzo didn’t smile.

He looked at the bandages.

“What happened to your hand?”

Aldo stared out the window.

“Vermont.”

“That isn’t an answer.”

“It’s the place where I got it.”

Enzo leaned forward.

“Then give me the rest.”

Aldo slowly unwrapped one layer.

A dark cut crossed his palm.

Not fresh.

Not old either.

“I went to the clinic three weeks ago.”

“You said you disappeared eight months ago.”

“I did.”

“Where were you before Vermont?”

“Hiding.”

“From Sofia?”

Aldo shook his head.

“From her father.”

That was the first time anyone said Vittorio Valenti’s name.

Enzo’s jaw tightened.

Aldo continued.

“Eight months ago, I found transfer authorizations from Marchetti accounts to companies that should not exist.”

“Why?”

“Because three of the owners were dead.”

Enzo looked at him.

“The same names from Valenti Shipping?”

“Yes.”

Aldo swallowed.

“I made copies. Sofia saw me.”

“And called security.”

“Yes.”

Enzo’s eyes went cold.

Aldo added quietly:

“Not your security.”

The car became silent again.

“Her father’s men took me from the service entrance.”

I felt my hands tighten.

Enzo asked:

“How long?”

“One night.”

“What did they want?”

“The copies.”

“Did you give them up?”

“No.”

Aldo almost smiled.

“I gave them an empty folder.”

Enzo looked at his hand.

“And this?”

“That came later.”

The private clinic stood behind a line of pine trees outside a small Vermont town.

No sign.

No large entrance.

Only a stone building with warm windows and a brass plaque.

Enzo read the name twice.

“North Hollow Recovery Center.”

Aldo nodded.

“Your mother has lived here under another name for ten years.”

Enzo didn’t move.

I had never seen a man look afraid of a door before.

Then he opened it.

The woman at reception was expecting us.

That frightened me more.

She looked at Aldo.

“You came back.”

“Yes.”

Her eyes dropped to his bandaged hand.

“You were told not to.”

Enzo stepped forward.

“I’m Enzo Marchetti.”

The woman froze.

Then looked toward the hallway.

Room 214.

Second floor.

Last door.

Aldo stopped five feet away.

“You should go in alone.”

Enzo stared at him.

“You’ve made every decision for me tonight.”

“Only because other people have been making them for you for twenty years.”

Enzo said nothing.

Then he opened the door.

I stayed in the hallway.

But I heard the woman inside say his name.

Not loudly.

Not dramatically.

Like she had been saying it to herself every day.

“Enzo.”

He stopped.

She was sitting beside the window.

Early sixties.

Dark hair streaked with silver.

Thin.

Elegant even in a plain cardigan.

Her hands shook.

Enzo looked at her face.

Then at the small scar beside her eyebrow.

I saw recognition happen.

Not because of the photograph.

Because of memory.

“My mother had that scar.”

The woman smiled through tears.

“You gave it to me.”

Enzo’s face changed.

“What?”

“You were four.”

A tiny laugh escaped her.

“You threw a wooden horse down the stairs.”

Enzo covered his mouth.

She stood slowly.

“My name is Isabella Marchetti.”

He did not move toward her.

Not yet.

He asked the question he had carried across three states.

“Did you leave me?”

“No.”

“Did my father?”

Her eyes closed.

“No.”

“Then why did everyone tell me you did?”

Isabella looked at Aldo in the doorway.

Then at me.

Then back at her son.

“Because Vittorio Valenti needed your father to believe I was broken.”

Enzo’s voice dropped.

“Why?”

“Because I found the ledger.”

“What ledger?”

“The one that connected his shipping company to your father’s accounts.”

Enzo stared at her.

“My father knew?”

“At first, no.”

She paused.

“Later, yes.”

Enzo took one step back.

Isabella saw it.

“That is not the worst part.”

Aldo lowered his eyes.

Enzo noticed.

“What is?”

Isabella looked directly at him.

“Your father was on that boat with Vittorio.”

“I know.”

“No.”

Her voice shook.

“You know they were together.”

She reached for a drawer beside the bed.

From it, she removed a man’s wristwatch.

Old.

Scratched.

The initials M.M. engraved on the back.

Enzo went completely still.

“My father wore that every day.”

“I know.”

“Where did you get it?”

Isabella held it tightly.

“He gave it to me.”

Enzo’s breathing changed.

“When?”

“Three months ago.”

Aldo looked up sharply.

Even he had not known that.

Enzo whispered:

“You saw him?”

Isabella nodded.

“Here?”

“No.”

“Where?”

She looked toward the clock.

10:47 p.m.

Then toward her son.

“He said if Aldo ever brought you to me, I was allowed to tell you one place.”

Enzo stepped closer.

“What place?”

“The old St. Gabriel boathouse.”

Aldo’s face lost color.

Enzo noticed.

“You know it.”

“Yes.”

“What is it?”

Aldo answered softly.

“The place your father was supposed to die.”

Isabella reached for Enzo’s hand.

This time he let her take it.

Then she said:

“But if we go there, Sofia will know exactly where we are.”

Enzo looked at her.

“How?”

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Isabella’s eyes filled again.

“Because she has already been here.”