Chapter 2 - THE BUTTERFLY THAT CAME BACK FROM THE DEAD
Margaret Bennett did not touch the barrette.
Neither did Claire.
For several seconds, both women simply stared at the tiny silver letters scratched into the back.
G.C.
Grace Caruso.
Lily, oblivious to the fact that the room had suddenly become colder, hugged her new white rabbit.
“Can I have my butterfly back?”
Claire’s fingers closed around the clip.
“Not yet, sweetheart.”
“Why?”
“It might be important.”
Lily frowned.
“It’s mine.”
“I know.”
Margaret finally found her voice.
“Claire.”
Something in the older woman’s tone made Claire look up.
“Mr. Caruso needs to see it.”
Claire’s stomach tightened.
The previous night, Vincent’s face had changed the instant he saw the butterfly in Lily’s hair.
Now she understood why.
But understanding did not make the conversation easier.
“How certain are you?”
Margaret looked almost offended.
“I helped Emily order Grace’s things.”
“What things?”
“Jewelry. Hair clips. Shoes.”
Her eyes returned to the butterfly.
“The engraving was Emily’s idea. Grace kept losing everything. One month before Mr. Caruso’s birthday, Emily had several of the child’s favorite pieces marked.”
Claire looked at the tiny initials.
“So this was definitely hers?”
Margaret swallowed.
“I would swear to it.”
Lily reached for the barrette again.
Claire gently moved it away.
“Sweetheart, go draw me something.”
“I want butterfly.”
“I know.”
Lily’s lower lip pushed forward.
Margaret crouched.
“How about you draw Mr. Rabbit a house?”
The distraction worked.
Barely.
Lily carried the stuffed rabbit toward her new table.
Claire waited until she was out of easy hearing range.
Then whispered:
“What happened to Grace’s things after the hospital?”
Margaret’s expression became troubled.
“Mr. Caruso asked for everything.”
“And?”
“Most of it came back in sealed bags.”
“Most?”
Margaret nodded.
“The hospital listed Grace’s dress. Her shoes. Socks. A bracelet.”
“No barrette.”
“No.”
“Did anyone ask?”
“Mr. Caruso did.”
“And?”
“They said it may have fallen off during treatment.”
Claire looked at the clip.
Three years.
A missing item from a dead child had somehow traveled from a Westchester hospital to a thrift shop in Yonkers.
That did not happen by magic.
“Who handled the belongings?”
Margaret hesitated.
“I don’t know.”
“Someone does.”
Before Margaret could answer, a voice came from behind them.
“What are you holding?”
Claire’s heart jumped.
Vincent stood in the breakfast-room doorway.
Black suit.
No tie.
Expression unreadable.
His gaze moved from Claire’s face to the object in her hand.
Then stopped.
Everything changed.
He walked forward.
Slowly.
“Give it to me.”
Claire did.
The moment the barrette touched Vincent’s palm, his fingers tightened.
He turned it over.
Saw the initials.
And sat down.
Not dramatically.
That was what made it worse.
The feared Vincent Caruso simply reached for the nearest chair and lowered himself as though his knees had forgotten their job.
Margaret whispered:
“Vincent.”
He did not correct her for using his first name.
He stared at the clip.
“Emily did this.”
Claire remained quiet.
“The engraving.”
His thumb moved across the letters.
“She said Grace would lose her own head if it wasn’t attached.”
A sound escaped him.
Almost a laugh.
Almost something breaking.
Lily looked over from the table.
“Mister?”
Vincent lifted his eyes.
Lily immediately came closer.
Children had no instinct for respecting emotional distance.
She stopped beside him.
“You sad?”
Claire started forward.
Vincent raised one hand.
No.
He looked at Lily.
“Where did you get this?”
Lily pointed at Claire.
“Mommy.”
Vincent’s eyes shifted.
Claire answered.
“Thrift shop.”
“Which one?”
“Second Chances on McLean Avenue.”
“When?”
“About two months ago.”
“Who bought it?”
“I did.”
“Cash?”
Claire frowned.
“Card.”
“Good.”
The answer sounded like strategy now.
Vincent stood.
He turned toward Margaret.
“Nobody leaves the estate.”
Claire stiffened.
Vincent noticed.
“Except Claire and Lily if they choose to.”
Better.
Then:
“Do not tell Daniel.”
Margaret looked startled.
Claire caught it.
“Why not?”
Vincent’s jaw tightened.
“Because I said so.”
Claire crossed her arms.
“That is not an explanation.”
Margaret looked horrified.
Vincent stared.
For three years, apparently nobody had asked him to explain anything.
He looked toward Lily.
Then back at Claire.
“Because Daniel handled most of the hospital logistics.”
Claire’s stomach tightened.
“Your best friend?”
“Yes.”
“The man who helped you after they died?”
“Yes.”
“Do you suspect him?”
Vincent’s face hardened.
“I suspect everyone until I understand how my daughter’s missing property ended up in a thrift shop.”
That answer was cold.
Reasonable.
Painful.
Claire nodded.
“What happens now?”
“We verify it.”
“How?”
Vincent turned the barrette beneath the light.
“Grace’s birthday photographs.”
He walked toward his private study.
Claire followed.
So did Margaret.
Lily followed everybody because apparently secrecy did not apply to four-year-olds.
Vincent opened a locked drawer.
Inside were photographs.
Printed.
Not digital.
Grace at a playground.
Emily beside the lake.
A family Christmas.
Then the birthday.
Vincent stopped at one photograph.
Grace stood beneath the summer lights holding a drawing.
Pink butterfly above her right ear.
One rhinestone missing from the lower left wing.
Vincent placed the recovered barrette beside the photograph.
Same missing stone.
Same scratch along the enamel.
Same initials.
No doubt.
Claire felt cold.
“It’s hers.”
Vincent did not answer.
His face had become completely still.
Then Lily said:
“She had my butterfly.”
Vincent looked at her.
“No.”
Lily frowned.
“She had it first.”
His expression changed.
“Yes.”
Lily thought about that.
“Can she have it back?”
Silence.
Claire closed her eyes.
Margaret looked away.
Vincent crouched until he was closer to Lily’s height.
“Grace can’t use it anymore.”
“Because she died?”
“Yes.”
“Mommy says people who die don’t need their things.”
Claire winced.
“That was in relation to Grandpa’s sweater.”
Vincent almost smiled.
Lily continued.
“So I can keep it?”
Vincent looked at the barrette.
Claire expected him to say no.
Instead:
“Not yet.”
“Why?”
“Because I need to find out where it went.”
Lily considered.
“Then I get it?”
Vincent’s throat moved.
“If it’s safe.”
“Promise?”
His face changed again.
“I don’t make promises easily.”
Lily stared.
“That’s not promise.”
“No.”
She waited.
Vincent finally said:
“I promise I will try to give it back.”
Apparently acceptable.
Lily returned to her rabbit.
Vincent stood.
Then his phone rang.
Daniel Mercer.
The name on the screen seemed louder than a ringtone.
Vincent stared at it.
Answered.
“Daniel.”
Claire could hear the warmth in the other man’s voice.
“Happy day after your birthday, you miserable bastard.”
Vincent’s eyes hardened.
“What do you want?”
“Breakfast. You ignored my messages yesterday.”
“I was busy.”
“With what?”
Vincent looked directly at the barrette.
“A surprise.”
Claire watched.
Daniel laughed.
“That sounds dangerous.”
“It may be.”
A pause.
Then Daniel said:
“I’m driving over.”
“No.”
Silence.
“No?”
“I’ll call you later.”
“Vince, is something wrong?”
Vincent’s expression did not move.
“No.”
He ended the call.
Margaret whispered:
“You’ve never shut Daniel out.”
Vincent looked at her.
“Maybe that is why I should start.”
An hour later, two Caruso security men drove to the Yonkers thrift shop.
Vincent did not go.
Neither did Claire.
He said too many people recognized him.
Claire said that sounded like one of the drawbacks of terrifying an entire region.
Margaret left the room before he could answer.
The investigators returned with a receipt record.
Claire’s purchase.
$3.50.
The barrette had entered the store five days before she bought it.
Part of a donation box delivered by an estate-clearance company called Westbridge Liquidations.
Vincent’s security traced the batch.
It came from an abandoned storage unit in White Plains.
The unit’s renter had stopped paying sixteen months earlier.
Name:
Thomas Keene.
Vincent stared at the report.
Claire saw recognition.
“Who is he?”
“Former security.”
“At the estate?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“Three years ago.”
Her skin prickled.
“The night Grace died?”
Vincent looked at her.
“Yes.”
Thomas Keene had worked the rose-garden perimeter.
He resigned nine days after the poisoning.
No explanation.
Moved.
Disappeared from Vincent’s life.
And apparently carried Grace’s missing barrette with him.
“Find him,” Vincent said.
Security started moving.
Then Margaret entered the study.
She looked pale.
“Mr. Caruso.”
“What?”
“Someone was in the breakfast room.”
Vincent stood.
“What do you mean?”
“The cabinet was opened.”
Claire’s stomach dropped.
“What cabinet?”
Margaret looked at her.
“The one where Claire left Lily’s things.”
They ran.
The breakfast room had been searched.
Drawers open.
Papers moved.
The box that had originally held Lily’s thrift-store accessories lay on the floor.
Empty.
Whoever entered had been looking for the barrette.
Vincent’s expression changed.
This was no longer an old mystery.
Someone inside the Caruso estate knew the butterfly had returned.
And they were frightened enough to search a child’s belongings for it.
Vincent turned toward Claire.
“Where is Lily?”
Claire froze.
Then heard laughter from the kitchen.
Lily.
Safe.
She ran.
Vincent followed.
Lily was sitting on the floor feeding imaginary soup to her rabbit.
Claire dropped beside her and pulled her close.
“Mommy?”
“I’m okay.”
“You squeeze.”
“I know.”
Vincent stood in the doorway.
Watching.
His face changed.
Three years earlier, another four-year-old had been inside his house.
Safe.
Until she wasn’t.
Claire saw the memory in him.
“Vincent.”
His eyes found hers.
“I won’t let this become Grace again.”
He went completely still.
Claire continued.
“But you don’t get to turn Lily into a prisoner either.”
His jaw tightened.
“What do you suggest?”
“Find out who searched the room.”
“I will.”
“Without terrifying her.”
His gaze shifted toward Lily.
She was placing the rabbit in a toy chair.
Vincent looked at Claire again.
“Stay in the main house tonight.”
It sounded like an order.
Claire opened her mouth.
He corrected himself.
“Please.”
That one word changed everything.
She nodded.
“One night.”
“Good.”
“And Lily sleeps with me.”
“Obviously.”
“No guards inside the room.”
“Outside.”
“Fine.”
Vincent looked toward the pink cake still wrapped in the kitchen refrigerator.
His birthday had ended twelve hours ago.
For three years, he thought June fifteenth was the day his family died.
Now he understood something worse.
May you like
The night had never ended.
Somebody had simply been waiting for the evidence to come home.
