Chapter 7 - What Vincent Took From Them
I had believed silence meant my daughters could not speak.
The truth was worse.
They had been protecting me.
Olivia sat in my lap for the first time since Isabelle died.
Her body shook while I held her.
Sophie pressed against Grace.
Nora stayed beneath a blanket with only her eyes visible.
Dr. Walsh had arrived before sunrise and immediately stopped me from asking more questions.
“They have told you enough for tonight.”
“Someone threatened them.”
“I know.”
“I need to know exactly what happened.”
“And they need to know they can speak without being interrogated.”
That word irritated me.
“Interrogated?”
Grace gave me a look.
I stopped arguing.
Later, in my study, Dr. Walsh explained what I should have understood months earlier.
“They were not simply traumatized by witnessing their mother’s death. They believed speaking could cause yours.”
“Vincent told them that?”
“According to Olivia.”
“How could nobody discover this?”
“Because adults kept asking what they saw happen to their mother. No one knew to ask what happened afterward.”
I remembered the funeral.
Vincent kneeling in front of Olivia.
Whispering to her.
I had assumed he was comforting her.
I had thanked him.
The memory nearly made me sick.
At nine, Vincent called.
I stared at his name.
Grace stood across the study.
“Answer normally.”
“You think I need coaching?”
“Yes.”
I answered.
“What?”
“Good morning to you too.”
“What do you want?”
“I heard about the package.”
“How?”
“People talk.”
“Apparently.”
Pause.
Then: “Dom, you need to stop.”
My hand tightened.
“Stop what?”
“Whatever Grace has convinced you you’re doing.”
There it was.
Grace.
A new target.
“She didn’t convince me of anything.”
“She’s been here two months and suddenly your daughters are accusing family.”
“My daughters accused you before Grace said a word.”
“You don’t know that.”
I stood.
“Choose your next sentence carefully.”
His voice hardened.
“I loved Isabelle too.”
I nearly broke the phone.
Instead I remembered her letter.
Do not give him revenge.
“Then come home.”
Silence.
“Why?”
“You said we’re family.”
“We are.”
“Then come explain why my daughters are terrified of you.”
“No lawyers?”
I smiled without humor.
“You worried about lawyers now?”
He hung up.
Grace exhaled.
“He won’t come.”
“No.”
“What happens next?”
“He attacks credibility.”
“Whose?”
“Everyone’s.”
I was right.
By noon, an anonymous complaint reached child protective services claiming I kept unsecured firearms around traumatized children and that Grace, an unlicensed caregiver, had improperly interfered with their treatment.
At one, photographs reached a tabloid showing me leaving a Manhattan bank with Grace.
The headline implied an affair had begun before Isabelle’s death.
At two, a Romano Construction board member called to ask whether grief had impaired my judgment.
At three, someone deposited fifty thousand dollars into an account Grace had not used in two years.
At three-ten, federal investigators contacted her about a suspected financial transfer.
Vincent moved quickly.
He always had.
Grace sat at my kitchen table while an attorney reviewed the transaction.
“I didn’t know this account was still open.”
“I believe you,” I said.
“That isn’t the problem.”
She was right.
Belief was personal.
Evidence was what survived attack.
My attorney, Miriam Cole, studied the transfer.
“Funds came through Bellweather Development.”
Vincent’s shell.
“Can we prove who authorized it?”
“Not yet.”
Grace laughed bitterly.
“So he threatens me, then pays me, then makes the payment look like motive.”
“Yes.”
“That’s almost elegant.”
I hated that she sounded impressed.
The door opened.
Mrs. Donnelly entered carrying a small metal box.
“I know where another copy is.”
We stared.
“Copy of what?” Miriam asked.
“The garage recording.”
I stood.
“You said Vincent deleted it.”
“He deleted the server copy.”
She placed the box on the table.
“Mrs. Romano didn’t trust the new security system.”
Inside was an old external hard drive.
“She asked me to connect a secondary recorder after she caught Mr. Vincent in the garage late one night. I did.”
“When?”
“Three weeks before she died.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
Tears filled her eyes.
“Because after she died, Vincent asked whether I wanted Daniel to live long enough to meet his daughter’s baby.”
Her grandson.
A direct threat.
Mrs. Donnelly looked toward the ceiling where my daughters were sleeping.
“I was a coward.”
Grace said quietly, “You’re here now.”
We connected the drive.
Most files were corrupted.
One opened.
Timestamp: 8:11 a.m., the morning Isabelle died.
The image was grainy.
Vincent crossed the garage.
Behind him walked Carlo DeSantis.
Then Isabelle entered frame.
She stopped.
Vincent turned.
No audio.
But Isabelle pointed at Carlo.
Then at Vincent.
She was furious.
Vincent stepped close enough that their faces nearly touched.
Isabelle backed away.
Before leaving, she looked directly at the camera.
Then she did something strange.
She raised one hand.
Three fingers.
Then one.
Then seven.
Three.
One.
Seven.
Grace whispered, “A number.”
Mrs. Donnelly gasped.
I knew immediately.
Room 317.
A private office on the third floor of Romano Harbor Construction.
Isabelle had used it when she audited charity accounts.
The room had been sealed since her death.
At 4:20 that afternoon, we opened it.
Behind a loose wall panel we found an old digital recorder.
I pressed play.
Isabelle’s voice filled the dark office.
“If Dominic is listening to this, Vincent already knows I found Northstar.”
Then another voice answered from across the room.
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My brother.
“You should have minded your own marriage, Isabelle.”
