Chapter 2 - THE MAN WHO CAME TOO EARLYVincent Romano had spent thirty-eight years being my younger brother.
I knew the way he walked.
The way he laughed when he was nervous.
The way he loosened his tie when he wanted somebody to believe he was relaxed.
I knew the scar beneath his chin, earned when he fell off a bicycle at nine.
I knew he hated black coffee.
I knew he called every expensive car a toy because he never wanted anyone to think money impressed him.
I thought I knew everything about him.
Standing in my library with my daughter’s silver butterfly hidden in my fist, I realized how little that knowledge might mean.
“Dominic?”
His voice came closer.
Grace moved instinctively in front of the girls.
I noticed.
Vincent entered wearing a charcoal suit and the easy smile he had perfected in every room where our family conducted business.
“There you are.”
He stopped when he saw the children.
His smile widened.
“Look at my beautiful girls.”
Nora immediately ducked behind Grace.
Sophie grabbed Olivia's hand.
Vincent noticed.
Something crossed his face.
It vanished almost instantly.
“What's wrong with them?”
I forced myself to shrug.
“Long day.”
He looked at Grace.
“Everything all right?”
“Yes, sir.”
His eyes moved toward Olivia.
Then Sophie.
Then Nora.
“Your father tells me you've been doing better.”
None of them answered.
Vincent smiled.
“Well, that's wonderful.”
He reached into his coat.
My body went rigid.
He withdrew three small boxes.
Presents.
Pink ribbons.
Gold wrapping paper.
“I brought surprises.”
Olivia shook her head.
“No presents,” she whispered.
Vincent froze.
I watched the blood drain from his face.
“What?”
My daughter immediately fell silent.
He looked at me.
“Did she just speak?”
I kept my expression still.
“She said no presents.”
For a moment, my brother seemed genuinely astonished.
Then he laughed.
“That's incredible.”
He crouched.
“Olivia, sweetheart, say it again.”
She backed away.
Vincent straightened.
His smile was gone.
“Maybe we should talk privately.”
I looked at Grace.
“Take the girls to the garden.”
Olivia gripped my sleeve.
“Daddy—”
I bent toward her.
“I promise I'm not going anywhere.”
She searched my face.
“Don't let him take the butterflies.”
Vincent's eyes flickered toward her necklace.
I saw it.
For the first time in thirty-eight years, I watched my brother recognize something he desperately wanted and pretend it meant nothing.
“What butterflies?” he asked.
I opened my empty left hand.
“Her jewelry. She's protective of it.”
He chuckled.
“Kids.”
Grace gathered the girls.
They moved toward the back door.
Vincent watched until they disappeared.
Then he turned toward me.
“That's a miracle.”
“What is?”
“The girls talking.”
I nodded.
“Maybe we're finally making progress.”
“Because of the new housekeeper?”
“Apparently.”
He walked toward the fireplace.
Looked at Isabelle's photograph.
Then touched the frame.
“Isabelle would have loved hearing their voices again.”
I studied him.
“Yeah.”
He turned.
“What's really going on?”
“Nothing.”
“Come on, Dom. You look like somebody died.”
I almost laughed.
Instead, I walked toward the bar.
Poured two glasses of bourbon.
Handed him one.
He accepted it.
“Rough day at the warehouse?”
“Something like that.”
He took a drink.
Then said, “I heard you came home without your usual security detail.”
I watched him over my glass.
“Who told you?”
“Anthony.”
Anthony Bellucci.
My attorney.
The fourth face in the Christmas photograph.
“He keeps tabs on everything,” Vincent continued.
“Apparently.”
Vincent sat.
“Listen, there's something I need to discuss with you.”
I waited.
“About the girls.”
A cold feeling moved through me.
“What about them?”
“Their situation isn't healthy.”
I said nothing.
“They're isolated. Traumatized. Surrounded by security guards and a house full of people who barely know what to say to them.”
I took another drink.
“And?”
“I found a place.”
“What place?”
“A residential treatment center in Connecticut. Private. Excellent reputation. Specialized care.”
I put my glass down.
“You want to send my daughters away?”
“Temporarily.”
“For how long?”
“Six months. Maybe a year.”
I stared at him.
Fourteen months of silence.
And now, the afternoon they had finally spoken, Vincent wanted them removed from my home.
“When did you arrange this?”
He hesitated.
“I haven't arranged anything.”
“Then how did you find it?”
“Anthony made inquiries.”
“Why?”
“Because somebody has to think about what's best for those girls.”
I felt anger rise.
Not the familiar kind.
This was colder.
More focused.
“What did the doctors say?”
“Which doctors?”
“The ones treating my daughters.”
Vincent shifted.
“I haven't spoken to them personally.”
“So you and Anthony decided to send my children away without speaking to their doctors or asking me?”
“Dominic—”
“No.”
My voice cracked through the room.
Vincent stood.
“I'm trying to help.”
“Then stop.”
He stared at me.
For a long moment, neither of us moved.
Then he lifted both hands.
“Fine. Forget I mentioned it.”
He walked toward the window.
Outside, the girls were moving across the garden with Grace.
Nora was holding her hand.
Sophie was carrying a small basket.
Olivia kept looking toward the house.
Vincent watched them.
“Where did you find that girl?”
“What girl?”
“The housekeeper.”
“Mrs. Donnelly hired her.”
“Background check?”
“Obviously.”
“Maybe we should run another.”
I turned.
“Why?”
He shrugged.
“Three children suddenly start talking after fourteen months. That's a dramatic change.”
“That's usually what progress looks like.”
“Or somebody's putting ideas in their heads.”
There it was.
The first direct accusation.
I kept my face neutral.
“You think Grace taught them to speak?”
“I think people can manipulate traumatized children.”
I stared at him.
“That's a serious accusation.”
“I'm not accusing anyone.”
“You just did.”
He sighed.
“Forget it.”
He checked his watch.
“I have to go.”
I followed him toward the door.
At the threshold, he stopped.
“One more thing.”
“What?”
“Isabelle's dressing room.”
My heartbeat slowed.
“What about it?”
“I need to get inside.”
I studied him.
“Why?”
“Some old paperwork.”
“What paperwork?”
“Insurance records. Anthony thinks there might be documents related to her estate.”
“Then Anthony can ask me.”
Vincent smiled.
“Don't make everything difficult.”
“I'll check the room myself.”
His smile tightened.
“You still have the key?”
“Of course.”
He nodded.
“Good.”
He moved closer.
Lowered his voice.
“Dom, you know I'd never hurt those girls.”
I looked directly into his eyes.
“I know you wouldn't want me to think you had.”
His expression changed.
Only for a second.
But I saw it.
Then he laughed.
“Jesus. You really did have a rough day.”
He embraced me.
I stood still.
His hand struck my back twice.
Our usual goodbye.
When he pulled away, I noticed something on his wrist.
A thin red scratch.
Fresh.
Exactly where Sophie had pointed in the photograph.
I glanced down.
He noticed.
“Cat,” he said.
“You don't own a cat.”
“Somebody at the office does.”
He walked away before I could answer.
I watched his car leave through the front gates.
Then I returned to the library.
Grace was waiting near the garden doors.
The girls stood behind her.
“All right?” she asked.
“No.”
I showed her Olivia's pendant.
“Do you know anything about these?”
Grace examined it.
“I've seen all three girls wearing them.”
“There's a lock.”
She leaned closer.
“A very small one.”
“I need to find the key.”
Grace looked toward the hallway.
“Your wife's room?”
I nodded.
We walked upstairs.
The east wing smelled faintly of cedar and furniture polish.
Nothing had changed since Isabelle died.
Her favorite painting hung beside the bedroom.
A blue ceramic bowl sat on the console.
Her slippers remained beneath the bench outside the dressing room.
I had refused to move them.
The lock was polished brass.
I reached into my pocket.
Found the key.
Inserted it.
Turned.
Nothing.
I tried again.
The lock wouldn't move.
Grace crouched.
“Someone damaged it.”
I looked closer.
Tiny scratches marked the brass.
Fresh scratches.
Somebody had been picking the lock.
I called my head of security.
“Marco. Upstairs. Now.”
Grace stepped back.
“Mr. Romano, there may be another way.”
She pointed toward the wall.
An old service panel stood beside the linen closet.
“Mrs. Donnelly told me it was sealed years ago.”
I remembered Isabelle laughing about it.
The house had once included hidden passages for staff.
The original owners apparently believed servants should be invisible.
Isabelle had hated that.
She had insisted on opening the corridors and removing several walls.
But one passage had remained.
Behind her dressing room.
Marco arrived carrying a small toolkit.
I explained what I wanted.
He removed the panel.
Dust fell.
Cold air drifted out.
Beyond it was a narrow passage.
And on the wooden floor—
Fresh footprints.
I entered first.
Grace followed.
The passage ended at a small door.
I pushed it open.
We stepped into Isabelle's dressing room.
Her perfume still lingered faintly beneath the smell of old wood.
Everything looked untouched.
Her dresses.
Her jewelry boxes.
The photograph on her vanity.
Then Grace pointed toward the carpet.
“Mr. Romano.”
A small rectangular section had been cut from beneath the vanity.
Someone had lifted it and replaced it badly.
I knelt.
Pulled the loose carpet back.
Underneath lay a narrow compartment.
Empty.
Except for one thing.
A white envelope.
My name was written across it in Isabelle's handwriting.
I picked it up.
The paper felt strangely heavy.
Inside was a single photograph.
Isabelle stood outside the preschool.
Vincent stood beside a black Cadillac.
And between them was a woman I had never seen before.
On the back, Isabelle had written:
If Vincent tells you this woman is dead, don't believe him.
I turned the photograph over again.
Looked at the woman's face.
Then Grace made a small sound.
I looked up.
She had gone completely white.
“Grace?”
She stared at the photograph.
“Where did you get that?”
“Why?”
May you like
Her eyes filled with tears.
“Because that's my sister.”
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