“You found the woman my wife was secretly working with the morning after my wife was murdered.”

“Yes.”

“And never told me.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because Sarah was terrified.”

“So was I.”

“I know.”

“No.

You watched me bury my wife while holding part of the explanation.”

Marco looked ashamed.

“Yes.”

Lorenzo stepped closer.

“What did Sarah tell you?”

“That she had found something inside Belladonna.”

“What?”

“She wouldn’t tell me.”

“Why not?”

“Because she thought I was involved.”

Lorenzo almost laughed.

“She had good instincts.”

Marco absorbed that.

“What happened to her?”

“She disappeared.”

Lorenzo stopped.

“When?”

“Two days later.”

“Disappeared how?”

“She emptied her apartment.”

“Phone?”

“Gone.”

“Bank accounts?”

“Untouched.”

“Family?”

“No close family I could find.”

“And Emma?”

Marco looked toward the photograph.

“She was with her.”

“So you lost them.”

“Yes.”

Lorenzo stared at him.

“For three years.”

“Yes.”

“Then Emma walks into my ballroom.”

“Yes.”

“And your name is under her crayon.”

Marco nodded.

“That means Sarah is alive.”

“Probably.”

“Probably?”

“The handwriting on the invitation isn’t Sarah’s.”

Lorenzo frowned.

“You know hers?”

“I kept copies.”

“Of what?”

“Notes she gave Isabella.”

Again.

Another layer.

Another secret.

Lorenzo walked away.

The key in his pocket pressed harder now.

Behind him, Marco spoke.

“There’s something else.”

Lorenzo closed his eyes.

“Of course there is.”

“Sarah had a sister.”

Lorenzo turned.

“Name?”

“Claire Bennett.”

“Where is she?”

“She died five years ago.”

“Actually died?”

Marco almost smiled.

“I saw the death certificate.”

“That no longer comforts me.”

“Fair.”

“What does Claire have to do with this?”

“She worked at St.

Vincent’s.”

Lorenzo frowned.

“The hospital?”

“Yes.”

“Doing what?”

“Neonatal nursing.”

The room changed.

Lorenzo stared at him.

Isabella.

Pregnant.

The unfinished nursery.

The baby who had died with her.

“What are you saying?”

Marco shook his head quickly.

“I don’t know.”

“You brought up neonatal nursing for a reason.”

“Because Sarah once told Isabella that Claire had seen something at St.

Vincent’s she wasn’t supposed to see.”

Lorenzo’s heartbeat slowed.

Not naturally.

The way it did before violence.

“What?”

“She never wrote it down.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know.”

“When?”

“Three weeks before Isabella died.”

Lorenzo’s hands curled.

“Was Isabella treated at St.

Vincent’s?”

“Yes.”

“During the pregnancy.”

“Yes.”

He knew that.

Routine visits.

Specialist consultations.

Nothing alarming until the shooting.

Lorenzo walked toward the window.

The nursery key burned inside his pocket.

“Find Emma.”

Gianni’s voice came through the intercom unexpectedly.

“Boss.”

Lorenzo pressed the button.

“What?”

“We traced the child.”

Marco looked up sharply.

“Where?”

Gianni answered.

“She entered through the catering entrance with a woman named Anna Ruiz.

Temporary pastry assistant.”

“Where is Anna now?”

“Gone.”

“Gone how?”

“She clocked out before dinner.”

“Address?”

“Fake.”

Lorenzo looked at Marco.

“Emma?”

“Security footage shows her leaving alone through the service corridor after speaking to you.”

“Alone?”

“Yes.”

“Then where did she go?”

“Taxi camera picked her up two blocks away.”

“Destination?”

“West Forty-Ninth.”

Marco went rigid.

Lorenzo noticed.

“What’s there?”

Marco hesitated.

“A church.”

“Which?”

“St.

Matthew’s.”

Lorenzo stared.

“You know it.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

Marco lowered his eyes.

“That’s where Isabella used to meet Sarah.”

Forty minutes later, Lorenzo entered St.

Matthew’s through a side door.

Marco stayed several steps behind.

No entourage.

Gianni remained outside.

The church was nearly empty.

A priest arranged candles near the altar.

One woman prayed near the front.

And in the last pew sat Emma Bennett.

Alone.

Her faded blue dress had been covered by a too-large gray coat.

Her feet did not touch the floor.

Lorenzo stopped.

“Emma.”

She turned.

Her face brightened.

“You came.”

Marco whispered, “Jesus.”

Emma looked past Lorenzo.

Her smile disappeared.

She recognized Marco.

Lorenzo saw it.

“Emma.”

She moved closer to the aisle.

“Mommy said not to talk to him.”

Marco froze.

Lorenzo turned.

“What?”

Emma pointed.

“Him.”

Marco looked devastated.

Lorenzo crouched beside her.

“Where is your mother?”

Emma looked toward the confessional booths.

“She said if the tall man came, give him this.”

“The tall man?”

“You.”

She held out a small white envelope.

Lorenzo took it.

His name was written across the front.

Not in Sarah Bennett’s handwriting.

Not Marco’s.

Isabella’s.

Lorenzo stopped breathing.

He knew every curve.

Every letter.

He had hundreds of birthday cards, notes, grocery lists, anniversary letters.

His dead wife’s handwriting.

He opened the envelope.

Inside was one sentence.

Lorenzo, if Emma reached you, then Marco finally did what I asked him to do.

Trust him long enough to open the nursery.

Lorenzo stared at Marco.

Marco stared back.

“What nursery?” he whispered.

Lorenzo reached into his pocket.

For the first time in three years, he pulled out the old brass key.

Emma looked at it.

Then said quietly:

“My mommy has one just like that.”

Click NEXT at the end to read the next part.