Chapter 4 - The Crash Was Not an Accident
The Boston Public Library had never looked dangerous before.
Now Adelaide noticed every doorway.
Every reflection.
Every stranger.
Mateo stayed beside her.
Two security men remained far enough away to avoid attracting attention.
“Your people are terrible at looking inconspicuous,” Adelaide whispered.
“They’re six-foot-four and armed.”
“Exactly.”
Mateo glanced toward her.
“You're enjoying this.”
“I’m enjoying being right.”
“That seems frequent.”
“You’ll adjust.”
They reached the research wing.
Adelaide logged into a terminal and retrieved the encrypted archive.
The files were intact.
She downloaded them onto a secure drive Mateo provided.
Then she saw something she had forgotten.
An old scanned insurance document.
Her mother’s name.
Rebecca Jones.
Adelaide opened it.
“What is that?” Mateo asked.
“The car.”
The accident report.
She had copied it months earlier while reviewing family insurance history.
Mateo read silently.
Then stopped.
“What?”
He pointed.
“Brake inspection.”
Adelaide frowned.
The original police report said heavy rain caused the crash.
But the insurance inspection noted an abnormal hydraulic failure.
She had never understood what that meant.
Mateo did.
“Brake line.”
Her mouth went dry.
“What?”
“It says the damage was inconsistent with collision rupture.”
She stared.
“You think it was cut?”
“I think someone thought it might have been.”
“Then why wasn’t it investigated?”
Mateo’s face hardened.
“Look at the inspector.”
Charles Duvall.
Adelaide had seen the name.
“Moretti?”
“Formerly.”
Her blood chilled.
“He worked for your family?”
“For my uncle.”
“Which uncle?”
“Vittorio.”
Mateo’s father’s older brother.
Dead now.
Adelaide looked at him.
“So your family killed my mother.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You don’t need to.”
She stood too quickly.
The chair scraped loudly.
People looked over.
Adelaide walked away.
Mateo followed.
“Adelaide.”
“Don’t.”
“My father suspected Vittorio was laundering money.”
“And my mother investigated.”
“Yes.”
“And then her brakes failed.”
“Yes.”
She turned.
“You knew.”
“I suspected.”
“You brought me to your house knowing someone named Moretti may have murdered my mother?”
“My father spent years trying to prove Vittorio ordered it.”
“Convenient.”
“He failed.”
“So now what? You want me to finish your family investigation?”
“No.”
“Then why me?”
Mateo’s voice lowered.
“Because I owe you the truth.”
Adelaide laughed bitterly.
“You don’t even know me.”
“I know enough.”
“That’s not comforting.”
They stood between stone columns while strangers passed around them.
Mateo looked at the scar.
“When I was fifteen, I heard my father arguing with Vittorio.”
Adelaide stilled.
“About?”
“A woman named Rebecca Jones.”
Her mother.
“He said Vittorio had gone too far.”
“What happened?”
“My father removed him from several businesses. Two weeks later, Vittorio disappeared to Sicily.”
“Punishment?”
“Exile.”
“You call that justice?”
“No.”
Mateo’s answer came without hesitation.
“I call it what weak men do when family loyalty matters more than right and wrong.”
Adelaide stared.
“My father regretted it.”
“Did that bring my mother back?”
“No.”
They returned to the estate in silence.
That evening, Adelaide found a box outside her room.
Inside was no expensive dress.
No jewelry.
Only documents.
Everything Mateo had regarding the crash.
He had given her access.
All of it.
No conditions.
At midnight, she found him alone in the study.
“You could have hidden these.”
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“Because people have hidden enough from you.”
That answer broke something inside her.
Not painfully.
Like a locked door opening.
She sat opposite him.
“Tell me about your father.”
Mateo looked toward the fire.
“He wanted legitimate businesses.”
“Did he have them?”
“Some.”
“And the others?”
“He inherited an organization he never fully escaped.”
“Like you.”
Mateo looked at her.
“Maybe.”
“Do you want out?”
A long pause.
“I want enough power that nobody can decide my future for me.”
Adelaide understood that better than she wanted to.
Mateo continued.
“Your mother helped him identify money Vittorio was moving through Boston.”
“What happened to the evidence?”
“Gone after the crash.”
“And now Bellweather is using the same structure.”
“Yes.”
“So whoever stole your fifteen million may be connected to whoever killed her.”
“That is my belief.”
“And Evelyn?”
“Maybe.”
A thought hit Adelaide.
“My father married Evelyn two years after Mom died.”
Mateo nodded.
“Evelyn worked where before that?”
Adelaide knew.
She had attended enough charity dinners to hear the story.
“Duvall Capital.”
Silence.
Charles Duvall.
The insurance inspector tied to Vittorio Moretti.
Adelaide felt sick.
“Evelyn knew the man who examined the crash.”
Mateo was already reaching for his phone.
“Adelaide.”
“No.”
She stood.
“Don’t call anyone yet.”
“Why?”
“Because if Evelyn is involved, she has believed for fifteen years that nobody noticed.”
Mateo studied her.
“You want her comfortable.”
“I want her careless.”
His expression slowly changed.
Approval.
“Dangerous.”
“So I’m told.”
Then something unexpected happened.
Mateo smiled.
Not the controlled half-smile she had seen before.
A genuine one.
Adelaide forgot what she was saying for half a second.
Mateo noticed.
So did she.
Neither mentioned it.
Instead, he said, “Tomorrow, we invite your family here.”
“What?”
“For dinner.”
“That sounds terrible.”
“It will be.”
“Why?”
“Because Evelyn sent you here expecting rejection.”
He leaned back.
“I think she should discover how badly that plan failed.”
Adelaide’s pulse increased.
“What exactly are you planning?”
“Nothing dramatic.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“You shouldn’t.”
She should have been afraid.
Instead, for the first time in years, Adelaide found herself anticipating a family dinner.
Because this time she would not be sitting at the forgotten end of the table.
May you like
This time Evelyn would be walking into Adelaide’s territory without realizing it.
And Mateo Moretti intended to make sure she knew exactly whose side he had chosen.
