Chapter 2 - THE DEATH NOTICE
The service corridor behind the ballroom was colder than the banquet hall.
Clara barely noticed.
Her hands had gone numb.
The event manager, Pamela Reed, pushed through the swinging kitchen doors and turned on her the moment they were alone.
"What happened out there?"
Clara stared.
Pamela snapped her fingers.
"Clara."
"I spilled champagne."
"That man called you his wife."
Clara swallowed.
Pamela's anger shifted into curiosity.
"Who is he?"
"I don't know."
That was a lie so obvious even Clara hated it.
Pamela folded her arms.
"Try again."
Clara pressed both hands against the stainless-steel prep table.
"He's dead."
Pamela stared.
"What?"
"My husband died three years ago."
The kitchen noise seemed to recede.
Clara could hear the hiss of steam.
The clatter of plates.
Her own heartbeat.
Pamela lowered her voice.
"You need to explain."
"I can't."
"Then you're done for the night."
Fine.
Clara ripped off her apron.
"I was already going."
Pamela caught her wrist.
"Not through the ballroom."
Clara pulled free.
"Don't touch me."
Pamela released her immediately.
Good.
Clara had become sensitive to hands grabbing her.
That had started long after Matteo died.
Or supposedly died.
She took the employee elevator upstairs.
Her hotel room was small.
Staff accommodation.
One bed.
One chair.
One suitcase beneath the desk.
She locked the door.
Then locked it again.
Only after that did she pull out the suitcase.
The death notice was inside a Bible she no longer read.
Cream paper.
Italian government seal.
Three years old.
MATTEO DE LUCA
Age thirty-four.
Presumed dead following maritime incident off the Ligurian coast.
Body unrecovered.
Clara had memorized every line.
She had also memorized the letter that came with it.
Mrs. De Luca, after extensive search operations, authorities have concluded there is no reasonable expectation of survival.
No reasonable expectation.
She had spent months attacking those words.
Calling consulates.
Insurance offices.
Hospitals.
Police.
Private investigators she couldn't afford.
Eventually she stopped.
Not because she believed Matteo was dead.
Because grief becomes expensive.
Emotionally.
Financially.
Practically.
Rent still comes.
Food still costs money.
Jobs still require clean uniforms and smiling at strangers.
Then someone knocked.
Clara froze.
Not hotel staff.
Three deliberate knocks.
"Clara."
Matteo.
She gripped the death notice.
"No."
"Please."
She backed away from the door.
"What do you want?"
"To explain."
"You've had three years."
Silence.
Then:
"I didn't know you thought I was dead."
Clara laughed.
A terrible sound.
"That's your explanation?"
"No."
"Then go away."
"Clara."
She pressed her palm over her mouth.
He sounded exactly the same.
That was the cruelty.
Death should change a voice.
Memory should soften it.
His did neither.
Then a woman spoke outside.
The blonde.
"Matteo, this is ridiculous."
Clara's grief turned instantly into anger.
"Take your girlfriend and leave."
Silence.
The blonde woman replied:
"I'm his fiancée."
Clara's knees nearly gave out.
Matteo said sharply:
"Vivienne."
"What? She should know."
Clara opened the door.
Not because she wanted them inside.
Because rage had made fear smaller.
Matteo stood three feet away.
Vivienne beside him.
Up close, Clara could see the ring.
Large.
Emerald-cut diamond.
Matteo wore no wedding ring.
Of course.
He stared at the paper in Clara's hand.
His face drained.
"Where did you get that?"
She laughed.
"Your funeral paperwork."
He reached.
She pulled it away.
"Don't touch it."
"Clara, listen to me."
"No. You listen."
Her voice shook.
"I buried an empty coffin."
Matteo went still.
Vivienne looked at him.
"What?"
Clara continued.
"Your mother collapsed at the service. Your brother blamed me because you were traveling for my visa appointment. I sold our apartment because I couldn't afford it alone."
Matteo whispered:
"My mother?"
"She thinks you're dead."
That hit him.
Hard.
"What?"
"You didn't know?"
"No."
Clara stared.
For the first time, his confusion looked real.
"Your family doesn't know you're alive?"
"No."
Vivienne stepped back slightly.
"Matteo."
He ignored her.
"I was told you left."
Clara froze.
"What?"
"After the accident."
"What accident?"
"The boat."
"I know about the boat."
"No."
He shook his head.
"You don't."
Clara stared.
Matteo lowered his voice.
"The boat did not sink by accident."
Vivienne said:
"Stop."
He looked at her.
Too late.
Clara's stomach tightened.
"What happened?"
Matteo closed his eyes.
"Someone tried to kill me."
May you like
And suddenly the death notice in Clara's hand felt less like proof of grief.
It felt like evidence.
