Part 2: The Number I Thought I’d Never Call
The number belonged to my sister.
Elena.
I hadn’t spoken to her in eight months.
Not since she’d stood in our kitchen with tears in her eyes and told me that Roman was changing me into someone I no longer recognized.
I had called her jealous.
Bitter.
Unwilling to accept that my life had moved forward without her.
The truth was less flattering.
She had seen through me before I was ready to see through myself.
I pressed the call button.
It rang once.
Twice.
Then Elena answered, her voice cautious.
“Aaron?”
I closed my eyes.
Hearing my name from her made something inside me loosen and ache at the same time.
“Hi.”
There was a pause.
In the background, I heard the faint hum of what sounded like a refrigerator and the distant bark of a dog.
“Is Sophie okay?”
“She’s fine. She’s sleeping.”
“Are you okay?”
I looked around the kitchen.
At the bottle beside the sink.
At the small pile of burp cloths folded on the counter.
At the rain sliding down the dark windows.
“No,” I whispered.
Elena didn’t ask me to explain.
That was one of the things I had always loved about her. She knew when questions would help and when silence was kinder.
“Where are you?” she asked.
“Home.”
“With Roman?”
“Yes.”
Another pause.
This one was heavier.
“Do you want me to come?”
My throat tightened.
“I don’t know.”
“You called me.”
“I know.”
“That usually means you do know.”
I leaned against the counter, suddenly aware of how tired I was. My legs were trembling beneath me, and the incision in my abdomen pulled whenever I moved too quickly.
“I got a voicemail,” I said.
“From who?”
“An unknown number.”
“What did it say?”
I looked at the transcription again.
It was only three sentences.
You don’t know the whole truth about Laya.
Roman didn’t go to her birthday dinner for the reason you think.
If you want to protect Sophie, call before he comes home.
I hadn’t heard a voice. I hadn’t seen a name.
Only those words.
Elena breathed out slowly.
“What does ‘protect Sophie’ mean?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did the message mention where Roman was?”
“No.”
“Did it sound threatening?”
“No. Just…urgent.”
“Send it to me.”
I forwarded the voicemail before I could change my mind.
A few seconds later, Elena said, “I’m coming.”
“You don’t have to.”
“I know.”
“Roman might be home soon.”
“Then I’ll leave before he gets there.”
I glanced toward the hallway.
“I don’t want him to know you’re here.”
“I didn’t say he would.”
The quiet confidence in her voice almost made me smile.
Elena had never been afraid of Roman. Not when we were dating, not when he sent a driver to pick us up from dinner, and not when he had offered to pay off the debt she’d accumulated after our mother became ill.
She had refused his money.
That was when Roman began calling her difficult.
I had agreed with him.
Now I wondered whether I had been trying to convince myself as much as him.
“How long?” I asked.
“Twenty minutes.”
“I’ll leave the back door unlocked.”
“Aaron?”
“Yes?”
“Put a bag together.”
My heart began to beat faster.
“For what?”
“For you and Sophie.”
I stared at the nursery doorway.
“I don’t even know where we would go.”
“You don’t need to decide tonight. Just pack enough for a few days.”
The reasonable part of me wanted to argue. Wanted to insist that leaving in the middle of the night with a newborn was irrational, dramatic, and dangerous.
But another part of me remembered the message.
If you want to protect Sophie.
“Okay,” I said.
I ended the call and stood still for several seconds.
Sophie made a small sound from the nursery.
I went to her immediately.
She was awake, her dark eyes open beneath the soft brim of her cap. Her tiny fists moved beside her face, and her mouth formed a quiet, uncertain pout.
“Hi, sweetheart.”
I lifted her from the bassinet and held her against my chest.
She smelled like milk and baby shampoo.
The warmth of her body settled me in a way nothing else could.
Whatever the voicemail meant, whatever Roman had been hiding, I would not let fear make me careless. I would not drag my daughter into a reckless decision simply because I was hurt.
But I also would not ignore a warning.
I carried Sophie to our bedroom and opened the closet.
Roman’s side was almost empty. He kept most of his clothes at the downtown apartment he used for business meetings, though he called this house home whenever it suited him.
My side was crowded with maternity clothes, old sweaters, and the dress I had planned to wear home from the hospital before my labor began early.
I pulled a small suitcase from the back of the closet.
For Sophie, I packed diapers, wipes, two bottles, formula, burp cloths, three sleepers, a blanket, and the stuffed rabbit Elena had given us.
For myself, I added clean clothes, medication, toiletries, and the folder containing my insurance
information.
I hesitated over the folder.
Then I slipped in my passport, Sophie’s birth certificate, and the marriage documents I had kept in a
locked drawer.
The drawer had been empty when I opened it.
My breath caught.
I checked again.
The folder was gone.
I searched the other drawers. Then the nightstand. Then the desk in the hallway.
Nothing.
I remembered placing the documents there two weeks earlier, after the hospital asked for proof of insurance. I had taken out the birth certificate and put everything back myself.
I was certain.
A floorboard creaked behind me.
I turned.
Roman stood in the doorway.
For one terrifying second, I could not move.
He had come home without me hearing the front door.
His black coat was wet at the shoulders, and rain had darkened his hair. He looked tired, but not drunk. There was no scent of alcohol on him, no looseness in his expression.
Only a strange stillness.
His gaze moved from the open suitcase to the clothes in my hands.
Then to Sophie, asleep against my shoulder.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
I held the baby closer.
“Packing.”
“Why?”
I thought of the voicemail.
I thought of the missing documents.
I thought of the promise he had made to return before nine.
It was nearly eleven.
“Because you’re late.”
His eyes shifted toward the clock.
“I lost track of time.”
“That’s what happens when you’re celebrating someone else’s birthday.”
His jaw tightened.
“I told you it was dinner.”
“You told me you’d be home before nine.”
“I’m here now.”
“You’re here because the evening ended.”
Roman stepped into the room.
I instinctively moved between him and the suitcase.
His expression changed.
Not anger.
Something closer to surprise.
“You think I’m going to take the baby?”
“I don’t know what you’re going to do.”
He looked at Sophie.
“May I hold her?”
The question should have softened me.
Instead, it made my chest hurt.
He had not asked about her when he walked through the door.
He had asked about the suitcase.
“She just fell asleep,” I said.
“Then I’ll be quiet.”
“No.”
The word came out more firmly than I expected.
Roman’s eyes returned to mine.
For a moment, neither of us spoke.
Then his phone vibrated.
He looked down at the screen.
I saw the name before he angled it away.
Laya.
His thumb hovered above the notification.
“Answer it,” I said.
“Aaron—”
“Answer it.”
He didn’t.
The phone stopped vibrating.
A second later, it began again.
Roman turned and walked toward the hallway.
I followed him with my eyes as he stepped into the shadows near the stairs and accepted the call.
“What happened?” he asked quietly.
I couldn’t hear the voice on the other end, but I saw the change in his face.
The tiredness vanished.
His shoulders tightened.
“What do you mean, she’s gone?”
My fingers went cold.
He listened.
Then said, “No. Don’t call anyone else.”
Another pause.
“Where is the envelope?”
I looked toward the empty drawer.
Roman turned slightly, his eyes meeting mine.
The call ended.
He lowered the phone.
“What envelope?” I asked.
He said nothing.
“What envelope, Roman?”
He walked back toward me, and I noticed something I had missed before.
There was a pale scrape along the side of his hand.
Not serious. Barely more than a red mark.
But it hadn’t been there when he left.
“Who is gone?” I asked.
His eyes flicked toward the nursery.
Then back to me.
“Laya.”
The name struck with unexpected force.
“Gone where?”
“I don’t know.”
“You just asked where the envelope was.”
“I was trying to find out what happened.”
“You knew something was going to happen?”
“I knew she was worried.”
“About what?”
Roman glanced at the suitcase again.
He seemed to be choosing his words.
That frightened me more than anger would have.
“Laya came to see me tonight,” he said.
“At her birthday dinner?”
“She asked me to meet her privately.”
“Did she?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
He looked toward the windows, where rain tapped steadily against the glass.
“She received information about a financial account connected to one of my companies.”
I almost laughed.
Not because it was funny.
Because it sounded like another carefully prepared explanation.
“So you left your wife and newborn daughter to discuss an account with your mistress?”
His face hardened.
“She is not my mistress.”
“Then what is she?”
“Someone who was trying to warn me.”
“About what?”
Roman’s gaze dropped to Sophie.
“About a person inside my organization.”
The room seemed to narrow around us.
I thought of the voicemail.
You don’t know the whole truth about Laya.
“What person?”
“I don’t know yet.”
“And the envelope?”
“Laya said she had proof.”
“Proof of what?”
“That someone has been moving money through accounts in Sophie’s name.”
The suitcase handle slipped from my fingers.
For a second, I couldn’t understand the sentence.
Then every word found its place.
“Sophie doesn’t have accounts.”
“She does now.”
I stared at him.
“What does that mean?”
“Someone opened accounts using her identity.”
“She’s six days old.”
“I know.”
His voice was low, controlled, but I saw the tension in his hands.
“Why would anyone use my baby’s identity?”
“I don’t know.”
“Why would you know anything about accounts connected to her?”
“I didn’t. Not until tonight.”
“You’re lying.”
“I’m not.”
“You’ve been hiding something from me since before she was born.”
His expression changed again.
This time, pain crossed his face so quickly I almost missed it.
“Aaron—”
“I found out months ago that Laya had access to your office. She knew things about our marriage that she shouldn’t have known. She sent you messages in the middle of the night, and you lied about where you were.”
“She was helping me.”
“Helping you do what?”
“Find out who was leaking information.”
I shook my head.
“That makes no sense.”
“It will.”
“Then explain it.”
He looked at me.
For the first time since he came home, he seemed uncertain.
Not afraid of me.
Afraid of what would happen if he told me the truth.
“I can’t explain everything tonight.”
I stared at him in disbelief.
“You came home two hours late after celebrating another woman’s birthday, told me someone used our daughter’s identity, and now you’re asking me to wait for an explanation?”
“I’m asking you to stay calm.”
“I am calm.”
My voice cracked on the last word.
Roman took a step forward.
I took one back.
He stopped immediately.
That small gesture landed harder than I expected.
He had always known how to command a room. How to make people listen. But he had never been good at standing in front of me when I was hurt.
“I’m not leaving with Sophie tonight,” I said. “Not because you told me not to. Because I need to make a safe decision.”
“I agree.”
The answer startled me.
“You agree?”
“Yes.”
“Then why were you looking at my suitcase like I had betrayed you?”
“I wasn’t.”
“You were.”
“I was trying to understand.”
“Understanding would have involved telling me the truth before I found a voicemail from a stranger.”
His eyes sharpened.
“What voicemail?”
I said nothing.
Roman’s phone vibrated again.
This time, it was a text.
He read it.
The color drained from his face.
“What?” I asked.
He looked at me, and the distance between us seemed to fill with something neither of us could name.
“The envelope was taken from my office.”
“By Laya?”
“She was the only person who knew where it was.”
“Then why did you ask where it was?”
“Because she told me she had left it somewhere safe.”
“Where?”
“In this house.”
My skin prickled.
“What?”
“Laya said she brought the documents here before dinner.”
I looked around the bedroom.
The lamps.
The open closet.
The bassinet monitor glowing on the dresser.
“She was here?”
“Earlier.”
“While I was with Sophie?”
“She said you were asleep.”
“I wasn’t.”
“I know.”
“You knew she came here?”
“I didn’t know until tonight.”
The words sounded impossible.
I remembered that afternoon. The nurse had visited to check Sophie’s weight. I had been too tired to
shower, so I had stayed upstairs after the appointment.
Roman had been gone.
At least, I thought he had been.
“Where did she leave the envelope?”
Roman shook his head.
“She didn’t say.”
“Did she come inside?”
“She must have.”
“Roman, who gave her access to this house?”
“I did.”
He reached into his coat pocket and took out a small silver key.
The sight of it made my stomach turn.
“You gave her a key?”
“For emergencies.”
“What kind of emergency requires another woman to enter our home?”
“It wasn’t like that.”
“Then what was it like?”
He had no answer.
A soft cry came from the nursery.
Sophie was awake.
I went to her immediately, leaving Roman standing in the bedroom.
She began to fuss when I lifted her, and I rocked her gently while warming a bottle.
Roman remained in the doorway.
He did not try to come closer.
That was almost worse than if he had.
When Sophie began drinking, I glanced at him.
“Call your attorney.”
“Why?”
“Because I need to know whether someone opened accounts in our daughter’s name and what that means legally.”
“I can handle it.”
“No. You can’t handle it alone anymore.”
His mouth tightened.
“I never intended for you to be involved in this.”
“That stopped being an option when someone used our daughter’s identity.”
“I will fix it.”
“You don’t even know where the documents are.”
His gaze lowered.
“I’ll find them.”
“Then start by telling me everything.”
“I can’t.”
“Why?”
“Because the person responsible may be watching the house.”
The words made me look toward the dark windows.
Rain blurred the streetlights outside. The security lights cast pale circles over the driveway, but beyond them was only blackness.
I felt Sophie’s tiny fingers curl around mine.
“Who would be watching us?”
“I don’t know.”
“Another person in your organization?”
“Possibly.”
“Could they hurt us?”
Roman’s expression tightened.
“No one is going to hurt you.”
“That isn’t an answer.”
“No.”
The single word hung between us.
I looked at him.
He did not try to take it back.
That honesty, however small, frightened me more than reassurance would have.
Elena’s car pulled into the driveway.
Roman turned toward the window.
“Your sister is here.”
“Yes.”
“You called her?”
“Yes.”
He nodded slowly.
“I’ll leave.”
I expected resistance.
Instead, he removed his coat and placed it over the back of the chair.
“You’re not leaving the house?”
“Not until I know you and Sophie are safe.”
“You don’t get to decide that.”
“I’m not deciding. I’m asking.”
“You’re asking me to let the man who hid another woman’s key in our home stand guard outside the nursery?”
His face tightened with shame.
“No.”
“Then go.”
He looked at Sophie.
“May I say good night?”
I hesitated.
The sensible part of me knew he was her father. Whatever he had done, whatever he had concealed, I did not want to punish him by denying a simple moment between them.
I carried her toward him.
“Wash your hands first,” I said.
Roman nodded.
He went to the bathroom, washed carefully, and returned without speaking.
I lowered Sophie into his arms.
He held her with practiced care, supporting her head and keeping her close to his chest.
Something inside me twisted.
He looked natural with her.
As though this was where he had always belonged.
Sophie opened her eyes and stared up at him.
Roman’s entire expression softened.
“Hi, little one,” he whispered.
His voice broke slightly.
I looked away.
He kissed her forehead, then held her for another minute before giving her back.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
I did not ask whether he meant the dinner, the lies, the missing envelope, or all of it.
“Go,” I said quietly.
He nodded and walked downstairs.
A moment later, the front door opened.
Then closed.
Elena came up the stairs carrying a canvas bag and wearing the dark green coat she’d had since college. Her brown hair was twisted into a careless knot, and concern had drawn shadows beneath her eyes.
She stopped when she saw my face.
“Oh, Aaron.”
“I’m fine.”
“You look exhausted.”
“I am.”
She set down the bag and touched my shoulder.
“Give me the baby.”
“I can hold her.”
“I know. Give her to me anyway.”
For some reason, that made me want to cry.
I handed Sophie over.
Elena held her securely and kissed the top of her head.
“She’s beautiful.”
“She has Roman’s eyes.”
“She has yours, too.”
I didn’t answer.
Elena glanced toward the stairs.
“Is he gone?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
“He told me Laya came here today.”
Elena’s expression changed.
“What?”
“He gave her a key.”
“Of course he did.”
“He said she brought an envelope containing proof that someone opened financial accounts in Sophie’s name.”
Elena studied me.
“Do you believe him?”
“I don’t know.”
“That’s not the same as no.”
“I want to believe him.”
“That’s different, too.”
I sank onto the edge of the bed.
Elena placed Sophie in the portable bassinet she had brought from the nursery and sat beside me.
“Tell me exactly what he said.”
I did.
When I finished, Elena was quiet.
Then she asked, “Did he mention the name of the account holder?”
“No.”
“Did he say whether the accounts were opened before or after Sophie was born?”
“No.”
“Did he explain why Laya would bring the documents here?”
“No.”
“Did he tell you where the envelope was?”
“No.”
She looked toward the closet.
“Could he have taken it?”
“I don’t know.”
“Could Laya have taken it?”
“I don’t know.”
“Could someone else have entered the house?”
I thought about the missing marriage documents.
“The folder from my desk is gone.”
Elena turned sharply.
“What folder?”
“Our passports. Sophie’s birth certificate. Marriage documents.”
“Was it locked?”
“Yes.”
“Who had access?”
“Roman. Me.”
“And Laya, if she had a key.”
I nodded.
Elena stood and crossed to the desk.
She examined the empty drawer, then crouched beside the closet.
“Don’t touch anything else,” she said.
“Why?”
“Because if someone removed those documents, we need to know what they disturbed.”
I looked at the room.
Everything seemed ordinary.
Too ordinary.
The bed was made. The suitcase stood open. The curtains were closed.
Then I noticed the photograph on the dresser.
It was a picture of Roman and me at our wedding.
The frame was turned slightly toward the wall.
I had left it facing the room.
I walked over and picked it up.
There was a faint smear across the glass.
Not a fingerprint exactly, but a pale mark where someone had wiped the surface.
Elena took the frame from me.
“Was it like this?”
“No.”
She turned it over.
The backing was loose.
A small white corner of paper showed beneath it.
My breath stopped.
Elena carefully lifted the backing and drew out a folded note.
My name was written across the front.
Not Aaron.
Not my full name.
Just one word.
Brother.
Elena looked at me.
“Who calls you that?”
I couldn’t answer.
My mother had called me that when she was alive, but only in letters. She had never used it aloud.
I unfolded the paper.
The handwriting was unfamiliar, but the message was short.
The envelope was never in Roman’s office.
He brought it home because he knew the person searching for it would look there first.
Do not trust the woman who warned you.
At the bottom was a final line.
Ask Roman what happened to your father.
I read it twice.
Then a third time.
Elena’s fingers closed around my arm.
“Aaron?”
I looked at her.
“My father died when I was eight.”
“I know.”
“He died in a car accident.”
“That’s what Mom told us.”
The room felt suddenly colder.
I turned the note over.
There was something written on the back.
An address.
A Milwaukee street I recognized immediately.
It was the address of the old Moretti family warehouse near the river.
The place Roman had told me was abandoned years ago.
Beneath the address was a date.
Tomorrow.
And a time.
Nine o’clock in the morning.
Elena read it over my shoulder.
“You’re not going there alone.”
“I wasn’t planning to.”
“Good.”
I folded the note and held it tightly.
For months, I had believed my marriage was falling apart because Roman loved another woman more
than he loved me.
Now I wasn’t sure what frightened me more—that I had been wrong, or that the truth might be worse.
From downstairs came the faint sound of the front door opening again.
Roman had returned.
Elena moved toward the hallway.
I held up a hand.
“Wait.”
His footsteps crossed the foyer.
Then stopped.
He didn’t call my name.
He simply stood below us, silent.
I looked down at the note in my hand and realized there was one question I could no longer avoid.
Not about Laya.
Not about the missing envelope.
Not even about the accounts opened in our daughter’s name.
I needed to know why a stranger believed Roman knew what happened to my father.
I walked to the top of the stairs.
“Roman,” I called.
His head lifted.
“Where is my father?”
PART 3
“Where is my father?”
Roman stood at the bottom of the stairs, one hand resting on the banister.
For a moment, he looked as if he had misunderstood me.
Then the color left his face.
Elena came to stand beside me. Sophie slept quietly in the portable bassinet behind us, unaware that the air in the house had changed.
Roman’s eyes moved from mine to the folded note in my hand.
“Who gave you that?”
“That isn’t an answer.”
“Where did you find it?”
“You knew something about my father.”
His jaw tightened.
“I knew what people told me.”
“What people?”
“Aaron, come downstairs.”
“No.”
The word echoed through the foyer.
Roman looked toward the nursery, then lowered his voice. “Not here.”
“You brought this into our home,” I said. “You gave Laya a key. You knew there was an envelope connected to my daughter. You came back talking about accounts you supposedly didn’t know existed. And now I find a note asking about my father.”
“I didn’t write it.”
“I didn’t ask if you wrote it.”
His gaze shifted again to the paper.
“What does it say?”
“You already know.”
“I know someone wanted you to believe I had information.”
“Did you?”
He closed his eyes briefly.
That small hesitation was enough.
My stomach tightened.
Elena moved closer to me. “Roman, answer him.”
He looked at her.
“I’m not going to have this conversation on the stairs.”
“Then have it in the living room,” I said. “But you’re not leaving until you tell me the truth.”
His expression became tired rather than angry.
“You should sit down.”
“I’ve been sitting down while people made decisions about my life. I’m standing now.”
Something shifted in his face.
Maybe he recognized the change in me. Maybe he understood that the version of me who had accepted half-answers and carefully worded explanations was gone.
Roman walked into the living room.
I followed with Elena beside me.
The room still held traces of the life we had built together. A folded blanket rested over the arm of the
sofa. A small wooden rattle lay on the coffee table. The Christmas decorations I had bought but not yet put away were stacked in a box near the fireplace.
Roman remained standing.
I took the chair closest to Sophie’s bassinet, needing to see her while we spoke.
Elena sat beside me.
“Start with my father,” I said.
Roman looked at the floor.
“Your father’s name was Daniel Hale.”
“I know his name.”
“He worked for my father.”
The words landed softly, but they changed everything.
I stared at him.
“My father never worked for your family.”
“That’s what you were told.”
“By my mother.”
“And by my father.”
“Why would they lie?”
Roman pulled out the chair across from us and sat down.
For the first time since I had known him, he looked older than his thirty-seven years.
“Because Daniel wasn’t a criminal,” he said. “But he was close enough to dangerous people that the distinction stopped protecting him.”
I felt Elena’s hand close around my wrist.
“What did he do?”
“He handled accounts for several businesses connected to the Moretti family. Not illegal accounts. Legitimate businesses. Construction, transport, commercial properties. My father trusted him because he
was meticulous.”
“Then what happened?”
“Money began disappearing.”
“From the businesses?”
“Small amounts at first. Nothing that would draw attention. A payment changed here. An invoice redirected there. Someone was moving funds through accounts that appeared unrelated.”
“Was my father responsible?”
“No.”
Roman’s answer came immediately.
I searched his face.
“How do you know?”
“Because he came to my father.”
“Why not the police?”
Roman’s mouth tightened.
“Because my father’s name was attached to the companies. Daniel believed the police would see a pattern and assume the worst. He wanted to resolve it quietly.”
“Did he?”
“He found the person doing it.”
The room seemed to narrow.
“Who?”
Roman glanced toward the window.
“An accountant named Paul Vetrano.”
The name meant nothing to me.
“What happened to him?”
“He disappeared.”
Elena’s voice was quiet. “Disappeared how?”
“He left Milwaukee. That was the story.”
“And my father?”
Roman folded his hands.
“Daniel was supposed to meet my father at the warehouse by the river. He had documents proving what Vetrano had done.”
“The warehouse on the note?”
“Yes.”
“What happened there?”
Roman looked at me.
“Daniel never made it home.”
I stopped breathing for a second.
“My mother said he died in a car accident.”
“She believed that.”
“You said he never made it home.”
“His car was found near the old bridge. It had gone through the barrier and into the river.”
“Then it was an accident.”
“There were no witnesses.”
“That doesn’t mean it wasn’t.”
“No.”
His voice was careful.
“But my father believed Daniel had been followed.”
“By whom?”
“We never found out.”
I looked down at the note.
Ask Roman what happened to your father.
“You knew this all these years.”
“I knew pieces.”
“You knew my father had worked for your family.”
“I learned it after we were married.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
Roman’s eyes met mine.
“Because I promised your mother I wouldn’t.”
The answer hurt in a way I hadn’t expected.
“My mother knew?”
“She came to see my father after Daniel died.”
“Why?”
“She wanted the truth.”
“And he gave it to her?”
“He gave her a version of it. Enough to make her believe Daniel had been involved in something dangerous. He told her that if she kept asking questions, you might become a target.”
I felt the blood drain from my hands.
“She had me to protect.”
“She believed silence was the safest choice.”
“And you agreed with her?”
“At the time, I was nineteen. My father controlled every part of my life. I didn’t know what was true and
what wasn’t.”
“But later you found out.”
“I found documents.”
“What documents?”
“Records Daniel kept. Copies of transfers, names, dates. He had been building a case against Vetrano.”
“Where are they?”
Roman’s gaze fell to the note.
“That was the envelope.”
I stared at him.
“The envelope Laya had?”
“Yes.”
“Why would it be here?”
“Because someone sent it to me three weeks ago.”
“Who?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know who sent you the documents about my father?”
“They were delivered without a return address.”
“Then why didn’t you tell me?”
“I wanted to verify them first.”
“You had three weeks.”
“I wasn’t certain they were real.”
“You could have told me there was a possibility.”
“You were pregnant.”
The word was an explanation he seemed to believe should settle the matter.
Instead, it made my anger rise.
“I was pregnant, Roman. I wasn’t incapable of understanding my own life.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
He looked toward Sophie.
“I wanted to protect you.”
“You keep saying that as if protection means deciding what I’m allowed to know.”
“I thought if the documents were false, I could spare you more pain.”
“And if they were real?”
“I would tell you.”
“When?”
“When I knew what they meant.”
I stood too quickly, and a dull ache pulled across my abdomen. Elena rose with me, steadying my elbow.
Roman noticed, but he didn’t reach for me.
That restraint was probably wise.
“You came home tonight talking about financial accounts in Sophie’s name,” I said. “Is that connected to my father?”
“I don’t know.”
“Then tell me what you do know.”
He rubbed his hands over his face.
“Two months ago, one of my auditors found irregular payments moving through a dormant account. The account had been opened under a variation of my company’s name. At first, we thought it was simple
fraud.”
“And it wasn’t?”
“The money was being transferred into several smaller accounts. One of them was connected to a trust created six days ago.”
“Sophie’s birth date,” Elena said.
Roman nodded.
“Why would someone create a trust for her?”
“To make the funds look legitimate. A newborn beneficiary attracts less suspicion than a business associate.”
“Who opened it?”
“That’s what the documents were supposed to show.”
“The envelope.”
“Yes.”
“Why would Laya have it?”
Roman’s expression tightened.
“She helped me locate the account.”
“You said she was an old family friend.”
“She is.”
“You also said she was worried.”
“She discovered that one of the transfers was linked to a company owned by her late father.”
Elena’s eyes narrowed. “So this involves her family, too?”
“Possibly.”
“Was she working with you?”
“Unofficially.”
I gave a humorless laugh. “That explains everything.”
“No, it doesn’t.”
“It explains why she had access to your office. Why she knew things about your business. Why she had a
key to our house. Why you left me and Sophie tonight.”
“I went because she said she had found the missing records.”
“You went because she called.”
“I went because the records might identify the person who opened the trust.”
“And now she’s gone.”
“She left the restaurant before I arrived.”
“Yet you told me you met her privately.”
“I went to the place she gave me. She wasn’t there.”
“Why did you lie?”
“Because I didn’t want you to know I was looking into your father’s death.”
“Those are not the same thing.”
“I know.”
His voice cracked slightly.
The admission silenced me.
Roman leaned forward, elbows on his knees.
“I have made terrible choices,” he said. “I know that. I have withheld information. I have allowed you to believe things about Laya because correcting them would have exposed other secrets. But I never slept
with her.”
The room went still.
I had expected him to deny it eventually. I had imagined the words would make me feel relieved.
They didn’t.
“What am I supposed to do with that?”
“Believe it or don’t.”
“You acted like a man having an affair.”
“I know.”
“You let her stand beside you at events. You answered her calls in the middle of the night. You disappeared whenever she needed you.”
“She was investigating the accounts.”
“You could have told me.”
“I should have.”
His answer did not repair anything. It only made the years of silence more difficult to dismiss.
Elena glanced toward the bassinet.
“Sophie is still asleep,” she said softly.
The reminder brought all of us back to the present.
I sat again.
Roman remained across from me.
“Where is Laya now?”
“I don’t know.”
“Could she have taken the envelope?”
“Yes.”
“Could she have written the note?”
“I don’t know.”
“Do you trust her?”
Roman took a long breath.
“I trusted her.”
“That wasn’t my question.”
He looked away.
“I don’t know what to believe about her anymore.”
“Then why should I believe anything you say?”
“You shouldn’t. Not automatically.”
The honesty surprised me.
Roman reached into his coat and withdrew a small envelope.
It was cream-colored, creased at one corner.
He placed it on the coffee table.
“This is what I had.”
I didn’t touch it.
“Open it.”
“Why?”
“Because you deserve to see it.”
Elena picked it up first. She checked the edges, then handed it to me.
Inside were photocopies.
Old bank records. Handwritten notes. A faded photograph of a man I recognized immediately despite the years.
My father stood beside a younger version of Roman’s father outside the warehouse.
On the back of the photograph, someone had written a date.
October 18, 1998.
The year before my father died.
I turned to the next page.
It was a list of account numbers and initials.
At the bottom, in my father’s handwriting, were four words:
Trust no one inside.
My fingers trembled.
“Why did you keep this from me?”
“Because the original documents were missing pages.”
“What pages?”
“The ones that identified who else was involved.”
“Vetrano?”
“Maybe.”
“Maybe?”
Roman nodded toward the papers.
“Look at the account numbers.”
I did.
One of them appeared repeatedly beside different initials.
D.H.
P.V.
And another set of letters.
R.M.
My heart seemed to stop.
“R.M.,” I whispered.
Roman’s face was pale.
“That’s why I didn’t tell you.”
“You thought this meant you were involved?”
“I was nineteen. I didn’t have access to the company accounts.”
“Your initials are there.”
“I know.”
“Could it be your father?”
“His name was Marco Moretti. His initials were M.M.”
Elena leaned over the papers.
“Could it be someone else?”
“Possibly,” Roman said. “That’s what I’ve been trying to determine.”
I looked at him.
“You said the account connected to Sophie was created six days ago.”
“Yes.”
“And the account from my father’s records?”
“Still active.”
The words barely registered.
“Active?”
Roman nodded.
“Someone has been using it for years.”
“Why didn’t you shut it down?”
“I didn’t know where it was until recently.”
“Who found it?”
“Laya.”
“Then maybe she knows who R.M. is.”
“Or she wants me to believe she does.”
A faint sound came from the bassinet.
Sophie stirred, her tiny face tightening as she began to wake.
I rose and lifted her before she could cry. She settled against my shoulder, warm and soft, her breath
brushing my neck.
Roman watched us.
For once, he didn’t ask to hold her.
“I’m taking her to Elena’s tonight,” I said.
His face tightened, but he nodded.
“That may be safest.”
“You agree too easily.”
“I’m not going to stop you.”
“Because you’re afraid I’ll discover more?”
“Because you have every right to make decisions for yourself and Sophie.”
I studied him.
That was the first time he had said it without trying to soften the words afterward.
Elena began gathering the diaper bag.
I looked down at the note again.
“Tomorrow’s address. Nine o’clock.”
“I’m going with you,” Elena said.
Roman stood.
“So am I.”
“No.”
“Aaron—”
“If you know the warehouse, you can tell us what to look for. You don’t need to be there.”
“I need to be there.”
“Why?”
“Because if someone sent you there, they may expect me to come.”
“Then it’s more reason for you to stay away.”
“I can arrange for someone to watch the building.”
“I don’t want more of your men involved.”
“They won’t interfere.”
“You don’t know that.”
He accepted the accusation without protest.
Elena slipped her arms through her coat.
“We don’t have to decide tonight. We can go in the morning and call an attorney before we enter.”
Roman looked at her.
“Call Miriam Holt.”
“Who is she?” I asked.
“My father’s former attorney.”
“Is she still practicing?”
“Yes. She left the firm years ago.”
“Can she explain these records?”
“She may be able to.”
“Does she know about my father?”
“She was the one who helped settle his estate.”
I stared at him.
“You’ve spoken to her.”
“Once.”
“When?”
“Three weeks ago.”
The same time the envelope arrived.
I felt a fresh wave of betrayal, quieter than the first but just as deep.
“You spoke to a lawyer about my father and never told me.”
“I asked her whether the records were authentic.”
“And what did she say?”
“She said the handwriting appeared genuine.”
“Appeared?”
“She wanted to see the originals.”
“Which were in the envelope.”
“Yes.”
“And now they’re gone.”
Roman’s eyes darkened.
“Not all of them.”
He reached into his inner pocket and withdrew a single folded sheet.
“I kept this separate.”
I took it.
The paper was newer than the rest. The writing on it was not my father’s.
It contained a list of names.
At the top was Paul Vetrano.
Below him were two others.
Laya Crane.
And Roman Moretti.
I looked up slowly.
“Why is your name here?”
“I don’t know.”
“That’s not enough.”
“No,” he said. “It isn’t.”
At the bottom of the page was a handwritten sentence:
The first betrayal came from within the family.
A chill moved through me.
“Your family,” I said.
Roman shook his head.
“Maybe.”
“Your father?”
“He’s dead.”
“Your mother?”
“She died before I met you.”
“Then who?”
His gaze moved to the staircase, where the dark hallway led toward the nursery.
“I don’t know,” he said.
At that exact moment, the baby monitor on the table crackled.
A burst of static filled the room.
Then a voice whispered through the speaker.
Not Sophie’s.
Not Elena’s.
Not Roman’s.
“Ask him about the night Daniel came home.”
The monitor went silent.
I clutched Sophie closer.
Roman crossed the room and picked up the device.
His face had gone completely still.
Elena looked toward the nursery.
“No one is in there,” she whispered.
Roman checked the monitor’s screen.
The image showed Sophie’s empty bassinet, the dim night-light, and the rocking chair beside the window.
Then the camera shifted slightly.
Not much.
Just enough to reveal a small envelope resting beneath the chair.
Roman stared at it.
I stared at him.
“Was that there before?” I asked.
He didn’t answer.
Elena moved toward the hallway, but Roman caught himself before following her. He stopped several feet away, as if remembering that no one had invited him to lead us anywhere.
I carried Sophie while Elena went into the nursery.
A moment later, she returned with the envelope.
This one was sealed with dark blue wax.
My name was written across it in the same unfamiliar handwriting as the note.
Roman looked at the seal.
“I’ve seen that before.”
“Where?”
“On the documents Laya gave me.”
My pulse quickened.
Elena handed me the envelope.
Inside was a single photograph.
My father stood outside the warehouse, alive and older than in the wedding photograph.
Beside him was a woman I had never seen before.
But Roman recognized her.
He whispered her name.
“Laya’s mother.”
On the back of the photograph was a date.
The day after my father was supposedly killed in the accident.
And beneath it, three words:
Daniel survived.
