Chapter 3 - THE WOMAN IN THE SNOW
Priscilla drove through the storm with no coat, no engagement ring, and no plan beyond reaching her father before Raphael’s men reached him first.
Her humiliation burned hotter than the cold.
She had expected tears from Nadia.
Confusion.
Perhaps a frightened accusation spoken privately to Marisol.
She had never imagined the girl would expose Ashwood Grove in front of senators, bankers, and men who understood exactly what Raphael Santoro’s silence meant.
The gates of the Hail estate opened before Priscilla reached them.
Arthur Hail waited in the library.
At sixty-one, he was tall, silver-haired, and elegant in the old New England manner that made cruelty appear disciplined. Portraits of Hail ancestors watched from paneled walls as Priscilla entered in her ivory gown.
Her father’s eyes went immediately to her empty finger.
“You lost the ring.”
“Raphael ended the engagement.”
Arthur struck her.
Priscilla staggered against a reading table.
“Do you understand what you’ve done?” he demanded.
“Nadia heard me speaking to Sloan.”
“You discussed Ashwood Grove where she could hear you?”
“She barely spoke for three years!”
“And you confused silence with stupidity.”
Priscilla touched her bleeding lip.
“Raphael would have signed after the wedding. I had him prepared.”
“You had him suspicious.”
“I made one mistake.”
“You made the only mistake that mattered.”
Arthur walked to the fireplace.
Hail Atlantic Bank had been secretly insolvent for nearly a year. Massive commercial loans tied to empty office towers and failed waterfront developments were hidden behind falsified valuations.
Nadia’s Santoro shares would have provided the collateral Arthur needed to survive the coming examination.
The marriage would also have given the Hails access to Santoro shipping assets, ports, and political influence.
Now all of it was gone.
“We can still recover,” Priscilla said. “Raphael loves me.”
“He threw you into a snowstorm.”
“He was angry.”
“He was finished.”
Arthur faced her.
“What did Nadia say about the road?”
Priscilla’s composure slipped.
“Nothing.”
“Do not lie to me.”
“She mentioned Ashwood Grove. That was all.”
Arthur moved closer.
“Did she mention the ambush?”
“No.”
“Did she remember Voss?”
“I don’t know.”
The library door opened.
Charles Voss entered without removing his wet coat.
He had served as Arthur’s private security director for twelve years. A pale scar ran from his ear to his collar, and a silver compass cuff link gleamed at his wrist.
Priscilla stared at it.
“You were on the road.”
Voss looked at Arthur.
“She knows too much.”
“I know you arranged an attack intended for Raphael,” Priscilla said. “You told me Teresa’s death was a rival-family assassination.”
“It became one after we paid the surviving gunman to claim responsibility,” Arthur replied.
Priscilla’s face drained.
She had participated in destroying Nadia’s future, but until that moment, she had allowed herself to believe her father was merely exploiting a tragedy created by someone else.
“You killed Teresa?”
“The device was meant for Raphael.”
“That doesn’t answer me.”
Arthur’s gaze was empty.
“Teresa entered the wrong vehicle.”
Priscilla stepped backward.
“And Nadia?”
“Was collateral damage.”
Voss placed a phone on the table.
The failed assault on the Santoro estate had been recorded by a dash camera. The driver was dead, and the second attacker had not yet returned.
“Raphael will connect us to the phone near the coastal road,” Voss said.
Arthur looked at his daughter.
“How much evidence is on your devices?”
“Raphael has my engagement phone.”
“Then every account you used is compromised.”
“I can explain the Ashwood transfer.”
“You cannot explain three years of surveillance.”
Priscilla stared at him.
“What surveillance?”
Voss opened a cabinet.
Inside were photographs of Nadia at medical appointments, therapy sessions, and the Santoro estate gardens.
Some had been taken only days after the ambush.
“You watched her from the beginning,” Priscilla said.
“We needed to know what she remembered.”
“And when you realized the trauma had taken her voice, you decided to wait.”
Arthur poured himself a drink.
“Silence gave us time.”
Priscilla finally understood the true shape of her engagement.
Her father had not merely encouraged her relationship with Raphael because of Santoro wealth.
Arthur chose her because she could enter Nadia’s home, monitor her memories, and eventually place her somewhere no investigator could reach.
He had turned his daughter into a beautifully dressed jailer.
“You used me.”
Arthur gave her an impatient look.
“I gave you the opportunity to marry one of the most powerful men in the country.”
“You never intended to let me control the Santoro shares.”
“Control is earned.”
“You were going to take everything.”
“I was going to save this family.”
Priscilla laughed bitterly.
“They’re saying the same thing at the Santoro estate. The difference is Raphael actually means Nadia.”
Arthur’s eyes hardened.
“Be careful.”
“Or what? You’ll lock me in Ashwood Grove too?”
Voss’s phone rang.
He listened for several seconds.
“Luciano Greco’s team has reached the Hail offices. Federal banking investigators are with them.”
Arthur set down his glass.
“Move the records.”
“To North Point?”
“No. They’ll search the warehouses.”
Arthur looked at Priscilla.
“Take your car to the summer house in Rockport. Drive slowly and make certain you are followed.”
“You want me to distract Raphael’s men.”
“You wanted an opportunity to repair your mistake.”
Priscilla did not move.
Voss opened his coat enough for her to see the weapon beneath it.
She understood.
She left through the rear entrance.
Snow covered the road as she drove north.
Within twenty minutes, a black sedan appeared behind her.
Santoro security.
Priscilla took the coastal highway toward Rockport as instructed. At the junction near Halibut Point, she deliberately lost control, sending her car into a snowbank.
The black sedan stopped.
Two of Luciano’s men approached.
Priscilla stumbled out barefoot, blood visible on her lip.
“Help me,” she cried. “My father is going to kill Nadia.”
The men hesitated.
Priscilla collapsed in the snow.
Back at the Santoro estate, Raphael watched the body-camera feed.
“Bring her in,” he ordered.
Luciano’s voice came through the speaker.
“Boss, this could be staged.”
“It is staged. Bring her anyway.”
Marisol stood beside Nadia near the study fireplace.
Nadia had spent the past hour drawing the silver compass again and again.
Each version became more detailed.
In one sketch, a man stood beside a black sedan.
In another, he held a phone.
The final drawing showed a woman’s face reflected in the window of the attacking car.
Marisol studied it.
“Who is she?”
Nadia’s pencil stopped.
“I don’t know.”
“Was she on the road?”
“No. I saw her at the hospital afterward.”
Raphael knelt beside the sketch.
“What did she do?”
“She stood outside my room.”
“Did she speak to you?”
Nadia nodded.
“She said if I told anyone about the silver compass, you would die too.”
Raphael felt the room tilt.
“Was it Priscilla?”
“No.”
“Who?”
Nadia shaded the woman’s hair dark.
“She wore a nurse’s uniform.”
Marisol examined the drawing.
The woman’s badge contained three visible letters.
ASH.
Before anyone could speak, the estate intercom activated.
Luciano’s convoy was approaching with Priscilla.
At the same moment, Marisol received a message from the neurological clinic that had referred her to the Santoros.
Your original placement records have been breached. Do not return home. Someone accessed your family address and your brother’s medical file.
Marisol stared at the final words.
Her older brother Mateo had disappeared six years earlier after working briefly as an orderly at Ashwood Grove.
The police believed he had left Massachusetts voluntarily.
Marisol had never believed it.
Now, beneath Nadia’s sketch, she recognized the face of the woman in the nurse’s uniform.
May you like
Dr. Evelyn Crowe.
The physician who had signed Mateo’s final employment record.
