Chapter 4 - The Woman Who Ran My House
Margaret Donnelly had worked for my family for eighteen years.
She had known Isabelle before we were married.
She organized birthdays, funerals, Christmas dinners and security evacuations with the same calm expression.
When my mother died, Mrs. Donnelly had selected the flowers because I could not.
When Isabelle was murdered, she packed the girls’ black dresses.
If she betrayed me, then betrayal had been setting my table for nearly two decades.
I found her in the upstairs linen room.
She was folding towels.
People did strange things when terrified.
Some ran.
Some lied.
Mrs. Donnelly folded towels.
“Margaret.”
Her hands stopped.
I had not called her by her first name in years.
“Mr. Romano.”
“Come downstairs.”
She looked at my cuff.
I had forgotten about the dried blood.
“That isn’t mine.”
“I didn’t ask.”
“Library.”
Her face changed.
She knew.
Grace stayed with the girls while Luca joined us.
I placed Isabelle’s letter on the desk.
Mrs. Donnelly read it.
Then she sat down without permission.
That frightened me more than tears would have.
“Did you delete security footage?”
“No.”
“Your code did.”
She closed her eyes.
“Mr. Vincent had my master credentials.”
Luca swore.
I looked at him.
“You knew?”
“No.”
Mrs. Donnelly spoke quickly.
“He said you authorized it after Mrs. Romano died. He said there were threats against the family and he needed administrative access.”
“When?”
“The day after the funeral.”
Perfect timing.
I looked at Luca.
“Change every credential in this house.”
He nodded and left.
Mrs. Donnelly remained pale.
“What else did Vincent ask you to do?”
“Nothing.”
I stared.
She lasted seven seconds.
Then her shoulders sagged.
“He asked me to remove a folder from Mrs. Romano’s desk.”
“When?”
“The night before she died.”
Grace’s rule echoed in my head.
Silence could belong to the person answering.
I waited.
Mrs. Donnelly began crying.
Not dramatically.
Quietly.
“I thought it was about your marriage.”
“What folder?”
“I don’t know. Blue. Thick.”
The blue ledger.
“Did you give it to him?”
“No. I couldn’t find it.”
“Did Isabelle know you searched?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“She caught me.”
My chest tightened.
“What happened?”
“She looked at me for a long time and said, ‘Margaret, if anything happens to me, remember that you made a choice tonight.’”
Mrs. Donnelly covered her mouth.
“I have heard that sentence every day for fourteen months.”
Anger came hot and clean.
“You said nothing.”
“I was afraid.”
“My wife died.”
“I know.”
“My daughters stopped speaking.”
“I know!”
Her voice broke.
Grace appeared in the doorway.
I had not heard her enter.
Mrs. Donnelly wiped her face.
“Mr. Vincent knew about my son.”
“What about him?”
“Daniel owed money.”
I knew Daniel Donnelly vaguely. Forty-two. Divorced. Gambling problem.
“How much?”
“Two hundred thousand.”
That was not gambling.
That was drowning.
“Vincent paid it?”
She nodded.
“And then reminded you that he had?”
“Yes.”
I wanted to destroy something.
Instead I asked, “Did he ever threaten Isabelle?”
Mrs. Donnelly hesitated.
“One week before she died, they argued in the breakfast room.”
“What did he say?”
“I only heard the end.”
She looked at me.
“He said, ‘You think Dominic will choose you over blood?’”
The room went silent.
“What did Isabelle say?”
Mrs. Donnelly’s face collapsed.
“She said, ‘I’m not asking him to choose. I’m giving him a chance to know what his blood has become.’”
I turned away.
The library window looked over gardens Isabelle had planted herself.
Fourteen months earlier, I had stood at that same window while police told me no useful witnesses had seen the shooter.
Now witnesses were appearing everywhere.
Inside my own house.
“Did you see Vincent on the morning she died?”
Mrs. Donnelly looked at the floor.
That was answer enough.
“Margaret.”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“In the garage.”
My skin went cold.
“He told everyone he was in Atlantic City that morning.”
“I know.”
“What time?”
“A little after eight.”
Isabelle had been shot at 9:17.
Garden City was less than thirty minutes away.
“What was he doing?”
“Taking one of the unregistered sedans.”
Grace whispered, “Oh my God.”
“Which one?”
“The black Mercedes.”
“Who was driving?”
Mrs. Donnelly shook her head.
“He was.”
“Did Isabelle see him?”
“I don’t know.”
Then her eyes widened as if remembering something she had spent fourteen months trying not to remember.
“There was someone else.”
“Who?”
“I didn’t see his face.”
“Describe him.”
“Tall. Gray jacket. Baseball cap.”
Not enough.
Then she added, “He had a tattoo behind his left ear.”
My heart stopped.
A black crown.
I knew a man with that tattoo.
Carlo DeSantis.
A contract killer from Brooklyn who had disappeared eleven months earlier.
Everyone assumed he had fled the country.
I had believed that because Vincent told me so.
My phone buzzed.
Unknown number.
I opened the message.
A photograph filled the screen.
Grace leaving the mansion two weeks earlier.
Another photograph.
Grace grocery shopping with Sophie.
A third.
Nora asleep against Grace’s shoulder in the garden.
Under the photographs were six words.
STOP DIGGING OR SHE JOINS ISABELLE.
I looked toward Grace.
The murder had happened fourteen months ago.
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The threat was happening now.
And whoever sent it knew exactly where we were looking.
