Chapter 3 - THE CAR THAT SHOULD NEVER HAVE FAILED
The official story was simple.
Lorenzo's car was struck by a delivery truck during heavy rain.
The impact forced his vehicle through a barrier.
Three rolls.
Driver killed.
Lorenzo critically injured.
Other vehicle abandoned.
Driver never identified.
Except the Moretti sedan was armored.
Reinforced.
Maintained weekly.
Its stability systems were designed specifically to prevent what happened.
Dr. Cole did not care about cars.
Isabella did.
By that afternoon, a forensic mechanic was examining the wreck.
I was wiping down the library when Isabella entered.
“Your surname.”
I looked up.
“Reyes?”
“Yes.”
“Your husband was Mateo Reyes.”
My hand stopped.
“Yes.”
“How did he die?”
The question angered me immediately.
“Why?”
“Answer first.”
“No.”
Isabella blinked.
I put down the cloth.
“My husband's death is not estate information.”
Fair enough.
For one second, she almost smiled.
Then:
“Did Mateo work for Vantage Automotive Systems?”
My stomach tightened.
“How do you know that?”
“Because Vantage maintained Mr. Moretti's vehicles.”
Everything inside me stopped.
Mateo had worked diagnostics for Vantage.
Eleven months earlier, he died in a garage fire in Queens.
Electrical fault.
That was what they told me.
“He never said Moretti.”
“Most subcontractors didn't know whose vehicles they serviced.”
I stared.
“What does my husband have to do with Lorenzo?”
“We don't know.”
Again.
That phrase was becoming dangerous.
Isabella continued:
“A service report attached to Mr. Moretti's vehicle contains Mateo's employee number.”
My mouth went dry.
“What report?”
“Sixteen months ago.”
Before Mateo died.
“Can I see it?”
“No.”
Anger surged.
Then Isabella added:
“Not until counsel determines what can legally be shared.”
I hated that.
It was also responsible.
“What does it say?”
“That an electronic stability module had a serial number that did not match the manufacturer's original record.”
I remembered something.
Mateo sitting at our kitchen table.
Laptop open.
Angry.
“What?”
I'd asked.
“Cheap parts dressed in expensive labels.”
I'd forgotten the sentence.
He worked on hundreds of cars.
Why would I remember?
Then another memory.
Two weeks before the fire.
Mateo had replaced the lock on our apartment door.
No explanation.
He started checking mirrors while driving.
One night I asked:
“Are you in trouble?”
He kissed my forehead.
“No.”
A lie.
I had accepted it because we had a toddler and bills and sometimes marriage depended on accepting answers because you didn't have energy for more questions.
Now my legs felt weak.
“Where is that report?”
Isabella's answer came quietly.
“In a file Mr. Moretti never received.”
That was worse.
“Who received it?”
“His head of security.”
“Who?”
“Dominic Moretti.”
Lorenzo's cousin.
Since the crash, Dominic had effectively run everything.
Businesses.
Security.
Visitors.
Even who entered the medical wing.
My stomach dropped.
“Why didn't Dominic give it to Lorenzo?”
Isabella looked at me.
“That is what we're going to ask.”
She never got the chance.
Dominic arrived at the estate twenty minutes later carrying court papers.
If Lorenzo remained unable to manage his affairs for sixty consecutive days, a board vote could transfer emergency executive authority.
May you like
Today was day fifty-two.
Eight days remained.
