Chapter 3 - THE HOUSEKEEPER'S SECOND NAMEFor several seconds, I thought I had misunderstood her.
Grace Bennett stood in my dead wife's dressing room, staring at a photograph taken shortly before Isabelle's murder.
The woman standing between Isabelle and Vincent looked younger than Grace.
Dark hair.
Gray eyes.
A narrow face.
The resemblance was unmistakable once I knew to look for it.
“Your sister?”
Grace nodded.
“Her name is Hannah.”
I looked at the photograph.
“Hannah Bennett?”
She shook her head.
“Hannah Mercer.”
I stared at her.
“Then why are you Bennett?”
“Because I changed my last name.”
My fingers tightened around the photograph.
“When?”
“Eleven months ago.”
Three months after Isabelle died.
“Why?”
Grace looked toward the door.
“Because the people who killed my sister were still looking for me.”
I felt the room become very quiet.
Outside, somewhere beyond the windows, a bird called from the garden.
I could hear Marco speaking softly into his radio.
But inside the dressing room, there was only Grace.
And the photograph.
“Your sister is dead?”
“I thought she was.”
“You thought?”
Grace swallowed.
“Hannah disappeared fourteen months ago. The same morning your wife was murdered.”
I stared at her.
“And you took a job in my house without telling me?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because I needed to know what happened.”
I stepped toward her.
She didn't move.
“Did you know my wife?”
Grace nodded.
“Not personally. Hannah did.”
“How?”
“She worked for a medical billing company in Garden City. Your wife had hired her to review financial records.”
“What records?”
Grace hesitated.
I saw her calculating.
Not whether she should lie.
Whether telling the truth would get her killed.
“Grace.”
She raised her eyes.
“Your wife believed somebody was using a children's charity to move money.”
I stared at her.
“What charity?”
“The Isabelle Romano Foundation.”
The name struck me.
I had established the foundation five years earlier.
Isabelle had wanted to support preschool programs, pediatric trauma services, and scholarships for children whose families couldn't afford private education.
She had chaired its board.
Vincent handled the finances.
Anthony handled the legal work.
I funded it.
For years, I had signed whatever documents they placed in front of me.
“How much money?”
Grace shook her head.
“I don't know.”
“Did your sister tell you anything else?”
“She said the records contained payments to companies that didn't exist.”
I stared at the photograph.
“Why would Isabelle investigate her own charity without telling me?”
Grace's expression softened.
“Maybe she was trying to protect you.”
I almost laughed.
Protect me.
I had spent twenty years telling Isabelle she didn't need to worry about dangerous things.
I had surrounded her with guards.
Bought armored cars.
Built security walls.
Then she had apparently discovered something dangerous inside our own family.
And she had tried to handle it herself.
“What happened to Hannah?”
Grace looked down.
“She called me that Wednesday morning. She was frightened.”
“What did she say?”
“She told me she was meeting Isabelle outside the preschool. She said they had enough evidence to take to federal investigators.”
My stomach tightened.
“Federal investigators?”
Grace nodded.
“After that, she disappeared.”
“Did you contact the police?”
“Of course.”
“What did they say?”
“That she was probably involved in whatever criminal activity had gotten Mrs. Romano killed.”
I closed my eyes.
Of course they had.
A missing woman linked to a murdered mob boss's wife.
It was easier to assume she had been involved than to investigate whether she was another victim.
“I spent three months looking for her,” Grace continued. “Then somebody broke into my apartment.”
“What happened?”
“They took my laptop. My phone. Every photograph I had of Hannah.”
She touched her wrist.
A thin scar ran beneath her sleeve.
“One of them held me down while the other searched.”
I looked at the scar.
“Did they hurt you?”
“They said if I kept looking, they'd make sure nobody ever found me either.”
I felt anger settle inside me.
“Why didn't you come to me?”
Grace looked directly into my eyes.
“Because your name was on the bank accounts.”
I didn't answer.
There was nothing to say.
She had every reason to believe I was involved.
“Then why come into my house?”
“Because Hannah told me something before she disappeared.”
“What?”
“She said Isabelle had hidden evidence where nobody would think to look.”
My gaze dropped to the butterfly pendant.
Grace followed it.
Her eyes widened.
“The girls.”
I nodded.
She covered her mouth.
“Oh, God.”
I studied her.
“Did you make them talk?”
“No.”
“Did you ask them about the murder?”
“Never.”
“Then what happened?”
Grace sank onto the upholstered bench.
For the first time since meeting her, she looked exhausted.
“Three weeks after I started, Nora came into the laundry room while I was folding towels.”
I waited.
“She was holding a music box. It wouldn't play.”
“Isabelle's music box?”
Grace nodded.
“The little wooden one with the painted sunflowers.”
I remembered it.
Isabelle had kept it beside the nursery rocking chair.
“She handed it to me,” Grace continued. “I fixed the spring. When it started playing, she smiled.”
“What song?”
“You Are My Sunshine.”
My throat tightened.
“Isabelle sang it every night.”
“I know.”
“How?”
“Olivia showed me.”
I frowned.
Grace explained.
“She had a little notebook. She drew pictures. Whenever she wanted me to understand something, she'd draw it.”
“And the song?”
“She drew a sun. A bed. Three children. A woman with brown hair.”
I stared at the floor.
“Their mother.”
Grace nodded.
“So I sang.”
I looked at her.
“Just like that?”
“Just like that.”
“And they joined you?”
“Not immediately.”
She smiled faintly.
“Nora hummed first. About a week later. Then Sophie started making sounds while we baked. Olivia was the last.”
I felt something painful move through my chest.
“Why didn't you tell me?”
Grace's expression changed.
“Because they asked me not to.”
I stared at her.
“How?”
“They shook their heads whenever I mentioned you. Olivia wrote the word secret in her notebook.”
I turned away.
My daughters had been afraid to tell me they could speak.
Grace said softly, “They love you.”
I laughed bitterly.
“They hide behind you when I enter a room.”
“They hide because they know you're hurting.”
I turned back.
“What?”
“Every time they look at you, they see how sad you are. Children notice things adults think they hide.”
I couldn't speak.
Grace continued.
“They know their mother died. They know you're angry. They know people disappear when you're angry.”
I stared at her.
“Who told them that?”
“I don't know.”
The answer frightened me more than an accusation would have.
I looked down at the photograph.
“Hannah. Isabelle. Vincent.”
Then I noticed something.
The black Cadillac's damaged taillight wasn't visible in the photograph.
Instead, the picture showed the driver's side.
A small white sticker sat near the rear window.
I recognized it.
A parking permit.
Issued by the private garage beneath Anthony Bellucci's office.
I had seen identical stickers on his employees' cars.
I turned the photograph toward Grace.
“Look at this.”
She leaned forward.
“What is it?”
“A permit.”
“For what?”
“Anthony's building.”
She frowned.
“The attorney?”
I nodded.
Suddenly the fourth face in the Christmas photograph felt much more important.
I took out my phone.
Called Marco.
“Find me the vehicle records for every black Cadillac associated with Anthony Bellucci's office fourteen months ago.”
“Yes, boss.”
“And Marco?”
“Sir?”
“Don't use our usual people.”
A pause.
“Understood.”
I ended the call.
Grace stood.
“What are you going to do?”
“Find out who killed my wife.”
She looked at me for a long moment.
“That's not enough.”
I frowned.
“What?”
“You need to find out why your daughters are still afraid.”
Before I could answer, footsteps sounded in the hallway.
Mrs. Donnelly appeared.
“Mr. Romano?”
“What?”
“There's a woman downstairs.”
I looked at Grace.
Mrs. Donnelly continued.
“She says she's from the foundation.”
“Send her away.”
“She refuses to leave.”
“What does she want?”
The house manager hesitated.
“She says she has information about Mrs. Romano.”
I felt my jaw tighten.
“Name?”
Mrs. Donnelly looked at Grace.
Then back at me.
“Hannah Mercer.”
Grace staggered backward.
I caught her arm.
For fourteen months, she had believed her sister was dead.
Now somebody using that name was standing inside my house.
I looked at Mrs. Donnelly.
“Where is she?”
“In the foyer.”
“Is she alone?”
“Yes.”
I moved toward the door.
Grace followed.
At the staircase, I looked down.
A thin woman stood beneath Isabelle's portrait.
Her hair was cropped short.
A scar crossed her left eyebrow.
She wore an oversized coat despite the warm afternoon.
Grace gripped the railing.
“Hannah?”
The woman looked up.
Her eyes filled with tears.
“Gracie.”
Grace made a broken sound.
Then she ran downstairs.
The sisters collided in the foyer.
I watched Hannah cling to Grace as though she had spent fourteen months drowning and had finally reached shore.
Then Hannah looked over Grace's shoulder.
Straight at me.
Her face changed.
“Dominic Romano?”
“Yes.”
She released Grace.
“You have to get your daughters out of this house.”
My blood went cold.
“Why?”
Hannah glanced toward the front doors.
“Because Vincent knows they talked.”
I stepped closer.
“How?”
She pulled a small black object from her pocket.
A wireless listening device.
“I found this in the car they brought me in.”
I stared at it.
Hannah continued.
“Your brother isn't coming back tonight to ask questions.”
May you like
She swallowed.
“He's coming back to finish what he started.”
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