Chapter 2 - THE DAUGHTER NOBODY KNEW ABOUT
Alessandro Romano had a daughter.
That was the first thing I learned after he left Rosie's Diner.
The second was that nobody outside his closest circle was supposed to know she existed.
Her name was Sofia.
She was eight years old.
And she had disappeared from the Romano estate less than an hour before Alessandro threw the coffee cup.
I learned those details because Victor Russo returned to the diner at eleven fifteen.
By then, Dana had gone home.
Rosa was counting the register.
And I was scraping dried coffee from the wall.
Victor stood in the doorway.
“Emily Carter?”
I looked up.
“If you're here about the cup, it's already been paid for.”
He didn't smile.
“Mr. Romano needs your help.”
I stared.
“With what?”
“His daughter.”
I set down the sponge.
“I don't understand.”
Victor stepped closer.
“Sofia has a medical condition. She needs medication at regular intervals.”
My stomach tightened.
“Then call the police.”
“We have.”
“Call her doctors.”
“We have.”
“Then why are you here?”
Victor hesitated.
“Because Sofia left a note.”
He handed me a photograph.
A piece of lined notebook paper.
Written in a child's uneven handwriting were six words.
I'M GOING TO FIND THE BLUE LADY.
I stared.
“The blue lady?”
Victor nodded.
“Does that mean anything to you?”
I shook my head.
Then I remembered something.
Three weeks earlier, a little girl had come into Rosie's with a woman wearing a blue raincoat.
The child had ordered pancakes.
The woman had ordered tea.
They sat in booth four.
The girl barely spoke.
But she had stared at my name tag.
Then asked:
“Are you Emily?”
I had smiled.
“Yes, sweetheart.”
She looked relieved.
“Mommy said Emily helps people.”
I assumed she meant someone else.
Now I wasn't so sure.
I looked at Victor.
“Does Sofia have dark curls and a little scar above her eyebrow?”
His expression changed.
“Yes.”
My stomach dropped.
“She was here.”
“When?”
“Three weeks ago.”
Victor stared.
“Who brought her?”
“A woman. Mid-thirties. Blue raincoat. Brown hair.”
His face went pale.
“Did she give a name?”
I thought hard.
Then remembered the receipt.
The woman had paid with a card.
I had written the name on the order slip because the register printer was broken.
“Maybe.”
Victor stepped closer.
“Emily.”
I looked at him.
“Let me check.”
I went behind the counter and opened the old receipt box.
Rosa kept everything.
Tax records.
Supplier invoices.
Handwritten orders.
Coupons that had expired during the Obama administration.
After several minutes, I found it.
Booth four.
Two pancakes.
One tea.
A slice of apple pie.
And a name.
Nora Whitcomb.
Victor looked at the receipt.
May you like
Then whispered:
“That's impossible.”
