Chapter 2 - THE WOMAN MY MOTHER FEARED
My mother had not walked downstairs without assistance in six months.
Yet there she stood.
Eighty feet of polished hallway separated her bedroom from the drawing room, and she had crossed every inch alone.
Her silver hair was pinned carelessly.
Her dressing gown hung crookedly from one shoulder.
But there was nothing confused about her expression.
She was terrified.
"Isabella!" Vivien exclaimed.
The performance began instantly.
Concern flooded her face as she hurried forward.
"You shouldn't be walking alone. You'll exhaust yourself."
My mother stepped backward.
It was a small movement.
I doubt anyone else would have noticed.
But I had spent my childhood watching Isabella Duca face men twice her size without flinching.
I knew what fear looked like on her.
And I had never seen it before.
"Mom," I said, approaching slowly. "What is it?"
Her hand trembled.
She pointed toward Vivien again.
Then toward the staircase.
Vivien caught her wrist.
"She's been doing this all afternoon, Lorenzo. The doctors warned us about confusion."
"Let go of her."
Vivien blinked.
"What?"
"Her wrist."
She released my mother.
I took Isabella's hand.
Her fingers closed around mine with surprising force.
"Blue," she whispered.
My pulse quickened.
"Blue what, Mom?"
Her mouth worked.
Nothing came.
Vivien touched my shoulder.
"Darling, she's tired."
I ignored her.
"Is it a book?"
Isabella squeezed my hand.
Once.
"Where?"
Her eyes moved toward the ceiling.
Then toward the study.
Before I could ask another question, her knees buckled.
I caught her.
Vivien screamed for help, but I was already lifting my mother into a chair.
Her breathing was rapid.
Her gaze remained focused.
"Call Dr. Mercer," I ordered.
Vivien reached for her phone.
"I'll call the private physician."
"No. I'll handle it."
She stopped.
It was the first time in months I had denied her access to one of my mother's medical decisions.
She noticed.
So did I.
Within twenty minutes, our longtime family physician arrived.
Dr. Samuel Mercer had known my mother for fifteen years. He examined her carefully, checked her neurological responses, and asked several questions about medication.
Then he requested a private conversation.
"Is someone managing Isabella's prescriptions differently?" he asked.
"Vivien has been coordinating some of her care."
His expression tightened.
"Her chart shows a sedating medication I didn't prescribe."
The room seemed to tilt.
"What medication?"
He showed me a printout.
It had been ordered through an outside medical consultant two months earlier.
The consultant's name meant nothing to me.
Dr. Mercer explained that the drug could increase drowsiness and make communication harder in someone already recovering from a stroke.
"Is it dangerous?"
"It could be, especially without careful monitoring. I'll review everything before we change her treatment."
I wanted to find Vivien immediately.
Instead, I asked one question.
"Can my mother understand what's happening around her?"
Dr. Mercer looked offended.
"Lorenzo, Isabella has demonstrated strong comprehension at every appointment. Her greatest difficulty is expressing herself."
I closed my eyes.
For months, Vivien had described my mother as increasingly confused.
I'd believed her.
I'd believed the woman preparing to become my wife over the woman who had raised me.
When I returned to Isabella's bedroom, Elena was changing the sheets.
She stopped the moment I entered.
"Mr. Duca."
"Elena, sit down."
Her face went pale.
"Did I do something wrong?"
"No."
She remained standing.
I pulled a chair away from the dressing table.
"Please."
She sat as though expecting a dismissal.
I stood near the door, careful not to make her feel trapped.
"I heard what Vivien said to you."
The towel slipped from her hands.
For a moment, she didn't breathe.
Then she whispered, "Please don't fire me."
That hurt more than I expected.
"Why would I fire you?"
"Because she'll say I misunderstood. She'll say I stole something. And if I lose this job—"
Her voice broke.
"My daughter has already lost her father."
I pulled another chair over and sat across from her.
"Tell me everything."
Elena stared at the floor.
"Three months ago, Mrs. Duca began getting stronger. She wanted to write again. Sometimes she could manage words. Sometimes only letters."
"Vivien didn't tell me."
"She told everyone your mother was having bad days."
Elena rubbed her palms together.
"One afternoon, Mrs. Duca asked me to bring her an old blue notebook from the library. I found it in a locked drawer."
"What was inside?"
"Names. Dates. Account numbers. Newspaper clippings. I didn't understand most of it."
"Then?"
"Miss Hart came into the room."
Elena swallowed.
"She saw the notebook. She became furious. She told me Mrs. Duca had been collecting nonsense and that the book needed to disappear."
"Did you give it to her?"
"No."
I leaned forward.
"Where is it?"
"I don't know anymore."
My suspicion sharpened.
"What happened?"
"Mrs. Duca took it back. Two days later, the notebook vanished."
Elena hesitated.
"That was when Vivien started threatening me."
"Why didn't you come to me?"
She finally met my eyes.
"Because she showed me pictures."
"What pictures?"
"Of Mia at preschool. At the playground. Sleeping in her car seat."
A cold pressure gathered behind my ribs.
"She said people watched us when we weren't here."
Elena's voice cracked.
"And she said my husband should have taught me what happens when people ask too many questions."
I became completely still.
"Your husband?"
She nodded.
"Gabriel died four years ago. A driver hit him on his way home from work."
"Where did he work?"
"Duca Logistics."
I knew thousands of employees by department rather than by name.
But something about her answer unsettled me.
"What was his position?"
"Warehouse safety inspector. He worked at Pier Nine."
I knew Pier Nine.
It was the last undeveloped property in our harbor portfolio.
And Vivien had spent six months encouraging me to sell it.
Before I could ask more, Isabella made a sound from the bed.
We turned.
She was awake.
Her gaze fixed on Elena.
"Book," she whispered.
Elena stood.
"I'm sorry, Mrs. Duca. I don't know—"
My mother shook her head.
Her eyes moved toward the doorway.
Then toward the floor.
I followed her gaze.
Mia was standing there.
She had slipped away from the nanny.
Her stuffed rabbit dangled from one hand.
Isabella stretched out her good arm.
Mia approached and held up the toy.
"Grandma Bella," she said proudly. "I kept it safe."
The color left Elena's face.
"What did you keep safe, sweetheart?"
Mia squeezed the rabbit.
"The little shiny thing."
My mother began crying.
I looked from Isabella to Elena.
Then to the stuffed animal.
May you like
And understood that the three-year-old who had led me upstairs was protecting more than her mother.
She was carrying something Vivien had spent three months trying to find.
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