Chapter 5 - My Father Had Loved Carter's Mother
Carter stared at the photograph for so long I wondered if he had stopped breathing.
The police were still outside. Mara had convinced them the shooting involved an attempted robbery by unknown assailants, which was technically true if you ignored every important detail.
We moved to Carter’s car.
No one spoke.
I sat beside him in the back.
He held the photograph under the interior light.
My father, Daniel Vale.
Carter’s mother, Alessandra Battalia.
Young.
Maybe thirty.
Standing near the Schuylkill River.
Her hand in his.
His forehead against hers.
“This is fake,” Carter said.
I wanted it to be.
“It’s Dad’s handwriting.”
“That proves the note.”
“And the photo?”
“Could be anything.”
“Do you recognize her?”
His jaw tightened.
“Yes.”
That was enough.
Leon drove.
Mara sat in front making calls.
I looked at Carter.
“What did your mother tell you about my father?”
“Nothing.”
“Did you know him?”
“No.”
“My father knew your family.”
“So did half the city.”
“He hid a box behind a painting connected to your mother.”
Carter said nothing.
“That isn’t half the city.”
“No.”
“Did your father know mine?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“Business.”
“What kind?”
“The kind I don’t discuss in moving cars.”
I laughed once.
“Do you hear yourself?”
“Yes.”
“My sister framed me for fourteen million dollars. Somebody shot through my gallery. My father apparently had a relationship with your mother. I think we’re past mysterious pauses.”
Carter looked at me.
“You’re angry.”
“Excellent observation.”
“You’re also scared.”
“Less excellent.”
“I’m trying to keep you alive.”
“Then give me information.”
His eyes narrowed.
“You bargain like your father.”
I turned toward the window.
“Apparently I don’t know who my father was.”
Carter’s voice softened.
“Neither do I.”
That surprised me.
“What do you mean?”
“My father was Salvatore Battalia. He owned restaurants, construction firms, clubs, unions, judges, and people.”
“People?”
“Yes.”
I looked at him.
“He was what everyone says you are.”
Carter smiled without humor.
“Worse.”
“And your mother?”
“She hated him.”
“Then why stay?”
“She tried to leave twice.”
“What happened?”
“The first time, he broke the man who helped her.”
My stomach turned.
“The second?”
“She died.”
The car felt smaller.
“You think your father killed her?”
“I always did.”
“Vanessa says he didn’t.”
“Vanessa says what creates leverage.”
“True.”
We reached a townhouse in Society Hill that Carter apparently used as a secure residence.
Inside, the walls held art.
Real art.
Not decoration.
I stopped in front of a small oil painting of the Delaware River.
“Whistler influence,” I murmured.
Carter removed his jacket.
“You do that often?”
“What?”
“Forget danger because a painting interests you.”
“Yes.”
He smiled.
“Good.”
I looked around.
“You collect?”
“My mother did.”
There were dozens of paintings.
He led me into a study.
On the wall hung a photograph of Alessandra.
Same eyes as in my father’s photo.
Same smile.
I sat.
“What was Blue Mercy?”
Carter poured water.
“My mother’s painting.”
“Who painted it?”
“She did.”
That surprised me.
“She was an artist?”
“Before she married my father.”
“Why did she stop?”
“He did not like her making things he couldn’t control.”
Something about that sentence moved through me.
Vanessa and I had spent years inside a smaller version of the same rule.
“Blue Mercy was hers?”
“Yes. Abstract. Blue field, white seam through the center.”
I pictured the missing painting from my gallery.
“Did my father buy it?”
“Maybe.”
“What was hidden in the frame?”
“My mother started collecting evidence against my father. Payments. Names. Accounts. Judges.”
“Why?”
“To leave.”
“And Dad helped her?”
“I don’t know.”
“What happened after she died?”
“The painting disappeared.”
“And now?”
“Someone believes your father kept it.”
I stared at the photograph.
“Vanessa.”
“Possibly.”
“Dominic.”
“Yes.”
“Why does Dominic want the list?”
“He thinks whoever owns the old leverage owns the old network.”
“And you?”
“I want it destroyed.”
I studied him.
“Really?”
He met my eyes.
“Yes.”
“Why should I believe that?”
“You shouldn’t yet.”
That answer was more persuasive than trust me would have been.
Mara entered.
“We have a problem.”
“Only one?” I asked.
She almost smiled.
“Federal agents raided Marlowe House.”
My stomach dropped.
“On what grounds?”
“Financial crimes. Art smuggling. Money laundering.”
Carter looked at me.
“They moved fast.”
Mara nodded.
“Too fast.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means somebody prepared the warrant before tonight.”
Vanessa.
Or Dominic.
Or both.
My phone buzzed.
Mom.
Except Mom had been dead for two years.
I stared at the screen.
The number belonged to her old cell, canceled after the funeral.
Carter saw my face.
“What?”
I showed him.
The phone kept ringing.
“Answer,” he said.
I did.
“Hello?”
Static.
Then Vanessa’s voice.
“Hi, Diana.”
My hand tightened.
“Where are you?”
“Safe.”
“Why are you using Mom’s number?”
“Because she’d want to be included.”
“You’re sick.”
“Maybe.”
“Did you call the FBI?”
“No.”
“Did Dominic?”
Silence.
“Vanessa.”
“You really like him, don’t you?”
I looked at Carter.
He was watching me.
“Who?”
She laughed.
“Don’t insult me.”
“What do you want?”
“You have something I need.”
“I don’t have the archive.”
“Not the archive.”
“What?”
“Dad’s key.”
I frowned.
“What key?”
“The one he gave you at the funeral.”
I remembered.
A brass key on his old watch chain.
I wore it sometimes.
Not tonight.
“What does it open?”
Vanessa said, “The truth.”
“Where?”
“If I knew, I wouldn’t need you.”
“That’s not helpful.”
“Bring it to the old family house tomorrow at midnight.”
“No.”
“You’ll come.”
“Why?”
“Because I found Blue Mercy.”
Carter stood.
My pulse accelerated.
Vanessa continued.
“And because Dad left something inside the frame for you.”
“What?”
Her voice softened.
“A letter explaining why he spent his last ten years pretending you were his daughter.”
The room went silent.
I could barely breathe.
“What did you say?”
Vanessa whispered:
“You’re not a Vale, Diana.”
May you like
Then the line went dead.
Long after the call ended, I sat on Carter’s study floor with the brass key in my hand. He did not tell me Vanessa was lying, even though I could see he wanted to. Instead he asked what I remembered about my earliest childhood. I remembered yellow curtains, a woman singing badly, and a silver bracelet sliding against my cheek when someone carried me. Evelyn never wore silver. I had always assumed memories from before age three were invented, little scraps assembled from photographs. Now I wondered whether one of them belonged to Alessandra. Carter opened a drawer and removed an old photograph of his mother wearing a thick silver bracelet. My breath stopped. The tiny bells on it were exactly the sound I had sometimes heard in dreams. Neither of us called that proof. We had both been lied to by people who mistook certainty for love. But when Carter placed the photograph beside my father’s letter, the impossible stopped feeling impossible. It began feeling overdue.
