Chapter 8 - What Was Buried With Sofia Rossi

Bianca did not cry.

That was worse.

She stared at the silver key in her father’s hand as if tears would make the sentence real.

“My mother was cremated.”

Carlo nodded.

“Her coffin was buried with personal effects.”

“You told me there were photographs.”

“There were.”

“And?”

Carlo looked at Vincent.

“One other thing.”

Vincent laughed.

“You expect anyone to believe you buried financial records in a cemetery?”

Carlo said:

“No.”

Then he looked at Damian.

“I buried a safe-deposit cylinder.”

Mr. Harrow frowned.

“Fireproof?”

“Yes.”

“Sealed?”

“Yes.”

“Where?”

“Inside the memorial vault beneath Sofia’s headstone.”

Bianca whispered:

“You used her grave.”

Carlo lowered his head.

“I used the one place Vincent would not search.”

Vincent smiled.

“He just told me.”

One of the agents stepped closer to him.

Vincent’s smile disappeared.

Carlo continued.

“I thought if I ever needed to trade the ledger for Bianca’s life, I could.”

She stared at him.

“For nineteen years you called that protecting me.”

“I was afraid.”

“You keep saying that like fear is a moral argument.”

Carlo had no answer.

Damian looked at the agents.

“Can the cemetery be secured?”

One of them nodded.

“We can send a team.”

Carlo held up the key.

“I go.”

Bianca shook her head.

“No.”

“It is your mother.”

“That is exactly why you don’t get to go alone.”

They left with the agents.

Vincent remained at the penthouse under guard.

Evelyn sat across from him.

Damian stood near the windows.

Mr. Harrow beside the fountain.

And me?

I made coffee.

Not because anyone asked.

Because three in the morning becomes more survivable when people have something warm in their hands.

I set a cup near Evelyn.

She looked at it.

“You really are household staff.”

“Yes.”

She smiled faintly.

“Damian never drinks coffee after midnight.”

Damian looked over.

“I do now.”

For one second, they looked like mother and son.

Then Vincent spoke.

“You’re all assuming the ledger matters.”

Evelyn turned.

“It does.”

“It proves transactions from twenty years ago.”

“It proves intent.”

“Maybe.”

Mr. Harrow said:

“It also proves a forged fiduciary history if your approvals match.”

Vincent shrugged.

“You would need handwriting authentication.”

“Easy.”

“You would need originals from related accounts.”

“Already requested.”

Vincent’s eyes moved to Damian.

“You’ve become very efficient.”

Damian looked at him.

“You trained me.”

That silenced him.

My phone buzzed.

Unknown number.

I almost ignored it.

Then I remembered every unknown number tonight mattered.

A text.

ELENA, CHECK THE POCKET INSIDE BIANCA’S RED COAT.

I stared at the screen.

There was no red coat.

Bianca had arrived wearing a black evening wrap.

I typed:

WHO IS THIS?

No answer.

I looked toward the coatroom.

Damian noticed.

“What?”

I showed him the message.

His expression changed.

“Bianca’s coat?”

“She didn’t have a red one.”

Evelyn stood.

“Her mother did.”

Everyone turned.

Evelyn looked toward Carlo’s abandoned chair.

“Sofia wore a red coat the night she brought me the first records.”

Vincent’s face changed.

Very slightly.

Damian saw it.

“Where is that coat?”

Evelyn looked at Vincent.

“You kept it.”

He laughed.

“Why would I?”

“Because there was blood on the sleeve.”

The room froze.

Bianca’s mother had died in a car crash.

At least officially.

Evelyn continued.

“Sofia came to my house that night. Her wrist was cut. She said someone had tried to take the files from her.”

Vincent stood.

The agent blocked him.

Evelyn looked at Damian.

“She left her coat with me because the cuff was torn.”

“What happened to it?”

“Thomas found it after I disappeared.”

Damian looked toward the old storage wing.

Crowe House had been emptied.

The penthouse had inherited many sealed family boxes.

I knew where they were.

“Basement archive.”

Damian looked at me.

“There are six Crowe House boxes downstairs.”

We moved.

Vincent did not.

He watched us leave.

The basement archive smelled like paper and cedar.

Box 1.

Tax records.

Box 2.

Photographs.

Box 3.

Thomas’s clothes.

Box 4.

I opened it.

Red wool.

Evelyn stopped breathing.

“That’s it.”

Damian lifted the coat.

Inside pocket.

Nothing.

I felt the lining.

One seam was thicker.

Household staff notice seams.

We repair them.

I found three hand stitches beneath the pocket.

Cut them with a small office blade.

Something slid into my palm.

A microcassette.

Mr. Harrow whispered:

“My God.”

Damian stared.

“What’s on it?”

Evelyn looked at the red coat.

“Sofia’s insurance.”

We found an old recorder in the archive.

The tape crackled.

Then a woman’s voice.

Sofia Rossi.

“If Carlo gives these records back to Vincent, this copy goes to Evelyn.”

Static.

Then another voice.

Carlo.

You shouldn’t have come here.

Sofia:

I know what you did.

Carlo:

Keep your voice down.

Sofia:

Did Vincent order the transfers?

Silence.

Carlo:

Yes.

Sofia:

Did Thomas know?

Carlo:

No.

Sofia:

And if Evelyn finds out?

Carlo:

Vincent said he would handle her.

Then a third voice entered.

Calm.

Male.

Vincent.

“Give me the ledger, Sofia.”

The tape ended.

No confession to murder.

No threat.

But enough to place all three of them together before Sofia died.

Damian looked toward the ceiling.

Vincent was upstairs.

Waiting.

My phone rang again.

This time it was Bianca.

I answered.

“Elena?”

“Yes.”

Her voice shook.

“We opened the memorial vault.”

I looked at Damian.

“And?”

A pause.

“The cylinder was gone.”

Carlo shouted something in the background.

Bianca continued.

“But there was a note inside.”

“What did it say?”

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She took a breath.

“Ask Vincent what he buried with Thomas.”