Chapter 4 - The Lie My Mother Died With
I went to the police station.
Vincent did not stop me.
That mattered more than he probably understood.
Two of his men followed in another car, but they stayed outside.
Inside, Detective Walsh placed a recorder on the table.
“Are you being held against your will?”
“No.”
“Has Vincent Moretti threatened you?”
“No.”
“Did he or anyone working for him pressure you into saying that?”
“No.”
Walsh studied me.
Then he asked about Eric.
I told him everything.
The broken arm.
Previous violence.
The secret account.
The threats.
For the first time, I stopped protecting my husband.
It felt like tearing stitches out of my own skin.
Painful.
Necessary.
When I finished, Walsh closed the folder.
“Eric tells a different story.”
“I’m sure he does.”
“He claims you were having an affair with Moretti.”
I laughed.
That hurt my ribs.
“He’s my uncle.”
Walsh’s eyebrows rose.
Apparently that information had not reached everyone yet.
Then he slid an envelope toward me.
“Eric gave us this.”
Inside was a photocopy of an old police report.
My mother’s death.
Rebecca Moretti Brooks.
The name was there.
Not Rebecca Brooks.
Moretti.
Cause of death: gunshot wound.
Not car accident.
I stared at it.
For seventeen years, I had remembered rain.
A funeral.
A closed casket.
My father telling me there had been an accident.
It had all been a lie.
Walsh pushed another page forward.
A witness statement.
The name at the bottom:
VINCENT MORETTI.
According to the statement, Vincent had met my mother hours before she died.
They argued.
He followed her from a restaurant.
Then he claimed he went home.
No witnesses confirmed it.
“You think Vincent killed her?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Eric did.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“He says Vincent blamed Rebecca for leaving the family.”
I looked at the report.
That matched part of what Vincent himself had told me.
Walsh continued.
“Your husband also gave us this.”
A photograph.
Vincent standing beside my mother’s car the night she died.
My stomach turned.
“Where did Eric get these?”
“He wouldn’t say.”
“Convenient.”
“Mrs. Hart, I’m not asking you to decide whether Vincent Moretti is guilty.”
“Then what are you asking?”
“To understand that everyone around you may have reasons to lie.”
That sentence followed me outside.
Vincent was waiting across the street.
I walked to him.
“Did you follow my mother the night she died?”
He did not pretend not to understand.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“She called me.”
“You said you argued.”
“We did.”
“About what?”
“She believed someone was watching her.”
“Carbone?”
“She thought so.”
“And you?”
“I thought she was paranoid.”
His face changed.
“I was wrong.”
“Why were you beside her car?”
“Because I found it.”
“Before the police?”
“Yes.”
“Was she inside?”
“No.”
“Where was she?”
“Twenty yards away.”
I could barely breathe.
“Alive?”
“No.”
I closed my eyes.
“Did you kill her?”
Vincent looked as though I had struck him.
But he answered.
“No.”
“Did you have anything to do with her death?”
“No.”
“Then why lie to me?”
“I didn’t lie.”
“You left out the part where police suspected you.”
“Yes.”
“That’s lying.”
He looked away.
“Yes.”
I turned.
“Lena.”
“I need space.”
“You shouldn’t be alone.”
I spun back.
“There. That.”
“What?”
“Everyone keeps deciding what I should do.”
His expression softened.
“I’m trying to keep you alive.”
“My husband said he was protecting me too.”
Vincent flinched.
Good.
I wanted him to.
“Don’t compare me to him.”
“Then don’t behave like him.”
Silence.
I walked away.
For the first time in years, I had nowhere to go and still chose the direction myself.
I checked into a small hotel under my maiden name.
The next morning, I hired a lawyer.
Rachel Kim.
She specialized in domestic violence and financial crimes.
She did not care who Vincent Moretti was.
I liked her immediately.
“We freeze the account,” she said.
“Can we?”
“We can notify investigators you dispute ownership. We document the identity theft. We file for divorce. We pursue a protection order.”
The word divorce made my stomach twist.
Not because I wanted Eric.
Because for five years, divorce had sounded like something other women could do.
Women with money.
Family.
Confidence.
Not me.
Rachel looked at my cast.
“Lena.”
“Yes?”
“You already survived the hardest part.”
“What?”
“The moment you stopped pretending this was normal.”
I signed the papers.
Eric was served that afternoon.
He called me from a blocked number.
I answered before I realized who it was.
“You think you can divorce me?”
My blood went cold.
“You’re not supposed to contact me.”
“You belong to me.”
I hung up.
He called again.
I blocked it.
Another number.
Blocked.
Then a message arrived.
A photograph of my mother.
Not the one Vincent had.
This was different.
She stood outside a warehouse.
A timestamp in the corner showed it had been taken three days before her death.
On the back, photographed separately, someone had written:
ASK YOUR UNCLE WHAT SHE STOLE.
I called Vincent.
He answered before the first ring finished.
“Lena?”
“What did my mother steal?”
Silence.
“Vincent.”
“Where are you?”
“Answer me.”
He exhaled.
“A ledger.”
“What kind?”
“One that documented payments between my father’s organization and the Carbones.”
“Why did she take it?”
“She wanted insurance.”
“Against you?”
“Against everyone.”
“Where is it?”
“We never found it.”
I stared at the photograph.
“Eric knows about it.”
Vincent went silent.
Then I understood.
“That’s why he married me.”
“Lena—”
“That’s why the Carbones care about me.”
“We don’t know that.”
“Yes, we do.”
Five years.
Eric had met me shortly after I moved to New York.
He had been charming.
Patient.
Interested in my childhood.
My parents.
My mother.
Questions I had mistaken for intimacy.
“What if he was looking for it?”
Vincent’s voice became cold.
“Then your marriage was never an accident.”
The realization made me physically sick.
I went to the bathroom and vomited.
When I returned, Vincent was still on the phone.
“I’m coming to you.”
“No.”
“Lena.”
“I said no.”
A knock sounded at my hotel door.
I froze.
“Did you send someone?”
“No.”
Another knock.
“Housekeeping.”
Something felt wrong.
It was almost six in the evening.
I moved quietly toward the peephole.
A housekeeping cart stood outside.
No person visible.
“Lena?” Vincent said.
I backed away.
Then the door opened.
Someone had a key.
A man stepped inside.
I recognized him from the old photograph.
Older now.
Gray hair.
Scar beneath one eye.
Salvatore Carbone.
He closed the door.
“Hello, Lena.”
I held the phone behind me.
He smiled.
“Tell your uncle to stay exactly where he is.”
Vincent heard him.
His voice came through the phone.
“Sal.”
Carbone’s smile widened.
“Vincent.”
I looked between the phone and the man.
Carbone took a step toward me.
“Your mother left something that belongs to me.”
“I don’t have it.”
“I know.”
“Then why are you here?”
“Because you’re going to find it.”
“And if I don’t?”
He looked at my broken arm.
“Your husband was always impatient.”
My blood turned cold.
“You told him to hurt me?”
“No.”
Carbone’s expression became almost disgusted.
“I told him never to damage you.”
I felt sick.
“You knew him.”
“For a very long time.”
“Why did he marry me?”
Carbone smiled.
“To find Rebecca’s ledger.”
My knees nearly gave out.
Five years.
Every kiss.
Every anniversary.
Every apology.
Every question about my mother.
A job.
My marriage had been a job.
Carbone moved closer.
“But Eric failed.”
I forced myself to meet his eyes.
“What happens now?”
“Now you succeed where your husband didn’t.”
He placed an old photograph on the bed.
It showed my mother standing in front of the downtown diner.
My diner.
On the back were four handwritten words.
WHERE LENA WILL ALWAYS EAT.
May you like
Carbone smiled.
“Your mother hid the ledger for you.”
