Chapter 2 - The Room Above the Ballroom

Damian climbed the stairs alone.

Harold followed several steps behind.

So did I.

Claire Morgan.

Twenty-eight.

Maid.

Still wearing the black uniform Isabella had chosen for the anniversary ball.

The second floor was silent.

Music had stopped below.

The guests had not left.

They were waiting.

Everyone was waiting.

Harold pointed toward the old guest room at the end of the corridor.

“She’s there.”

Damian stopped outside the door.

His hand stayed on the handle.

Twenty-three years.

One missing mother.

One photograph.

One door.

He opened it.

A woman stood beside the window.

Fifty-seven.

Dark hair streaked with gray.

Thin face.

Same eyes as Damian.

Same small crease between the eyebrows when afraid.

She held today’s newspaper.

The same one from the photograph.

Damian stared.

She whispered:

“Damian.”

He did not move.

“You’re alive.”

“Yes.”

“You were downstairs this morning.”

“Yes.”

“You stood beside the clock.”

“Yes.”

“And Isabella sent you away.”

His mother looked down.

“She asked me to wait.”

Damian laughed once.

“Everyone has been asking you to wait.”

She began crying.

Damian entered.

Harold closed the door.

The woman looked at him.

“My name is Lucia Moretti.”

Damian’s face changed.

He remembered the name.

Barely.

A photograph.

A voice.

A perfume.

Then nothing.

He asked:

“Why did you disappear?”

Lucia looked at Harold.

Then at Damian.

“Because your grandfather gave me a choice.”

“What choice?”

“Leave.”

“Or?”

“He would send your father to prison.”

Damian frowned.

“My father?”

“Yes.”

“For what?”

Lucia sat slowly.

“For crimes your grandfather ordered.”

Damian’s jaw tightened.

“My father worked for him.”

“Yes.”

“Did he commit them?”

Lucia closed her eyes.

“Some.”

Silence.

Damian looked away.

Then back.

“So you left to protect him.”

“At first.”

“What changed?”

Lucia pointed toward the floor.

Toward the ballroom.

Toward the clock.

“I found the ledger.”

“The missing money.”

“Yes.”

“And?”

“It wasn’t only theft.”

Damian stared.

“What else?”

Lucia whispered:

“Payments.”

“To whom?”

“Police.”

“Judges.”

“Officials.”

“And one doctor.”

Damian frowned.

“What doctor?”

Lucia looked at him.

“The doctor who signed your father’s death certificate.”

Silence.

Damian stopped breathing.

“My father died nine years ago.”

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Lucia shook her head.

“No.”