Chapter 3 - The Name Rose Buried With Her
For two days, I told myself Vincent Moretti was wrong.
People survive terrible things by believing something familiar.
A kitchen table.
A school bell.
A dog asleep beside the woodstove.
I went to work Monday because twenty-four third graders did not care whether my birth certificate was real.
They cared that I had promised pumpkin painting.
I needed that.
For six hours, I was Mrs. Whitaker because the school records still carried my married name.
I cut orange paper.
Helped Tyler spell scarecrow.
Tied Ava’s shoe.
Pretended my life had not become a crime story.
Then I drove home.
Vincent’s SUVs were gone.
Good.
One remained farther down the road.
Less good.
Marco had assigned security without asking.
I called Vincent.
“You left a man outside my house.”
“Yes.”
“Take him back.”
“No.”
I closed my eyes.
“You were so reasonable Saturday.”
“I had a broken leg and no leverage.”
“So now we’re being honest.”
“Yes.”
“I don’t want a bodyguard.”
“You have one anyway.”
I hung up.
He called back immediately.
I ignored it.
Three minutes later, someone knocked.
Marco stood outside holding a folder.
“Please don’t say Vincent sent you.”
“He sent me.”
“Of course.”
I let him in because apparently my boundaries had become decorative.
The folder contained documents.
Court records.
Hospital records.
A sealed adoption order opened through an attorney.
Rose Bell’s signature.
My hands shook.
“Where did you get these?”
“Mr. Moretti’s attorney filed an emergency request.”
I stared at him.
“He can just do that?”
“No. But your situation involves an active criminal investigation.”
That sounded worse.
The first document listed a different surname beneath my first name.
Hannah Vale.
Father: Daniel Vale.
Mother: Rebecca Vale.
Guardian: Rose Bell.
I sat down.
“I want Delia.”
Marco looked uncertain.
“My sister.”
He nodded.
“I’ll find her.”
“You’re not finding anyone.”
“I meant contacting her.”
“I’ll do it.”
Delia answered on the third call.
I said:
“Come to the house.”
Silence.
“Hannah—”
“Now.”
She arrived forty minutes later.
The moment she saw the folder, she started crying.
That told me everything.
“You knew.”
“Not all of it.”
“How much?”
“That Rose wasn’t your biological mother.”
“When?”
“My whole life.”
The answer hurt more than expected.
“You knew?”
“I was four when she brought you home.”
“You remember?”
“Yes.”
I stood.
“Why didn’t anyone tell me?”
“Mom made me promise.”
“She made a four-year-old promise?”
“No. Later.”
Delia wiped her face.
“When I was sixteen, I asked.”
“What did she say?”
“That telling you could get you killed.”
I stared.
“She believed that?”
“She was terrified.”
Delia sat at the kitchen table.
“I hated you for years.”
That surprised me less than it should have.
“You got the bigger bedroom. She trusted you with everything. When Dad left, you were the one she leaned on.”
“Our father died.”
“Your father died.”
The words landed between us.
Delia covered her mouth.
“I’m sorry.”
“No. Finish.”
She looked miserable.
“My father left when I was eight.”
I had been told he died in an accident.
Another lie.
“Rose lied about that too?”
“She thought it was easier.”
I laughed once.
“Rose had a generous definition of easier.”
Delia looked at my locket.
“She loved you.”
“That doesn’t erase lying.”
“No.”
For once, she did not defend her.
I sat.
“Why did you almost tell me last month?”
Delia stared at her hands.
“Because I needed money.”
“For what?”
“Debt.”
“How much?”
“Forty thousand.”
I nearly choked.
“How?”
Her boyfriend’s construction business.
Loans.
Bad decisions.
Then worse loans.
“Who lent you the money?”
She hesitated.
My stomach tightened.
“Delia.”
“A company called North Crest Financial.”
Marco, standing near the window, turned.
“What?”
Delia flinched.
Marco stepped closer.
“Say the name again.”
“North Crest.”
His face hardened.
I knew before asking.
“Who owns it?”
Marco looked at me.
“On paper? Three holding companies.”
“And off paper?”
“Aldo Russo controls it.”
The kitchen went silent.
Delia began shaking her head.
“I didn’t know.”
“What did they ask you about?”
“Nothing at first.”
“Later?”
Her eyes filled.
“They asked about the property.”
“What property?”
“This house.”
I stood.
“They knew I lived here?”
“They asked if Rose left any documents.”
Marco cursed under his breath.
“When?”
“Two weeks ago.”
That was before Vincent’s ambush.
“What did you tell them?”
“Nothing.”
“Delia.”
“I said Hannah wouldn’t sell.”
“What else?”
“They asked whether Mom kept old papers.”
My hand went to the locket.
“Did you tell them about this?”
“No.”
She answered too quickly.
I stared.
Her face collapsed.
“They already knew.”
Every hair on my arms lifted.
“How?”
“I don’t know.”
“Delia.”
“One man described it.”
Marco took out his phone.
“What man?”
“Older. Dark hair going gray. Scar near his chin.”
Marco turned the screen toward her.
A photograph.
Delia went white.
“That’s him.”
I looked.
Aldo Russo.
Handsome in a hard way.
Standing beside Vincent at some charity gala.
Vincent’s arm rested across his shoulder.
Two men smiling like brothers.
My phone rang.
Vincent.
This time I answered.
“You need to come here.”
“Why?”
“Because Aldo knew about me before the ambush.”
Silence.
Then:
“I’m on my way.”
He arrived with a brace on his leg and anger in his eyes.
Delia repeated everything.
Vincent said nothing until she finished.
Then he asked:
“Did Aldo ask about Rose?”
“Yes.”
“What exactly?”
Delia thought.
“He asked if she ever talked about a man named Daniel.”
Vincent looked at Marco.
That was enough.
I stood.
“No more protecting me from information.”
Vincent’s gaze returned to mine.
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
“Hannah—”
“No. Everybody does it. Rose did it. Delia did it. Ethan did it by saying nothing. You don’t get to decide what I can handle.”
He went still.
Then nodded.
“You’re right.”
Marco looked surprised.
Vincent continued.
“Aldo’s father worked for mine twenty-nine years ago.”
I waited.
“His father was one of the men Daniel Vale accused of stealing.”
My throat tightened.
“And the fire?”
“We never proved who ordered it.”
“But you suspected him.”
“Yes.”
“Then why is Aldo your best friend?”
Vincent looked tired.
“Because Aldo was thirteen when his father died.”
“What happened?”
“My father had him killed.”
Nobody moved.
Vincent stared at the floor.
“I grew up with the son of the man my father executed.”
I whispered:
“And now you think Aldo tried to kill you.”
“Yes.”
“Why now?”
“That’s the question.”
Delia slowly looked toward the wall beside Rose’s old pantry.
Her expression changed.
“What?”
She stood.
“There’s something Mom told me before she died.”
I stared at her.
“Something else?”
“She said if anyone ever came asking about Daniel Vale…”
May you like
Delia walked toward the pantry.
“…I was supposed to burn the wall.”
