Chapter 3 - A House With Too Many Secrets
Arya slept for ninety-three minutes.
She knew because the hotel clock read 3:18 when she finally closed her eyes and 4:51 when she woke from a nightmare.
In the dream, her mother stood behind a glass window.
She was smiling.
Calling Arya's name.
But whenever Arya reached for the door, the glass turned black.
Then she heard a man laughing.
And woke with her heart pounding.
She sat on the edge of the mattress, clutching the note.
Your mother didn't die.
She wanted to believe it.
More than anything.
She also knew that desperate people were easy to manipulate.
Her foster-care years had taught her that promises could be dangerous.
Adults promised homes.
Stability.
Love.
Then paperwork changed, money disappeared, or somebody decided there wasn't enough room.
Arya had stopped believing extraordinary things simply because she needed them to be true.
At seven-thirty, she called the only person she trusted.
Miriam Hayes.
Miriam had been her high-school guidance counselor.
Now sixty-two and retired, she lived in a small bungalow near Hyde Park with three cats and a garden full of roses.
When Arya was sixteen, Miriam had helped her apply for a scholarship.
When Arya aged out of foster care, Miriam had stored her belongings for six months.
And when Arya couldn't afford groceries, Miriam occasionally appeared with what she called accidental extra cooking.
"Arya?" Miriam answered.
"I need help."
The older woman's voice sharpened.
"Where are you?"
Arya told her.
Thirty minutes later, Miriam arrived wearing a purple coat and an expression that could have frightened a district attorney.
She hugged Arya.
Then listened to the entire story.
The restaurant.
Sterling.
Dante Moretti.
The car.
Evelyn Brooks.
The note.
Miriam remained silent until Arya finished.
Then she said, "You're not going to that address alone."
Arya looked down.
"I know."
"And you're not letting a mafia boss decide your next move."
"I know that too."
Miriam studied her.
"But you want answers."
Arya nodded.
Tears filled her eyes.
"I spent seventeen years thinking my mother left me because she died."
Miriam squeezed her hand.
"If she's alive, we'll find out carefully. If someone is lying, we'll find that out too."
Arya swallowed.
"How?"
"First, we talk to a lawyer."
The attorney was named Rebecca Ellis.
She specialized in civil rights, missing-person cases, and financial wrongdoing.
Miriam knew her through a nonprofit legal clinic.
Rebecca listened without interrupting.
When Arya finished, she set down her pen.
"Do you have your mother's death certificate?"
"A copy."
"Any estate documents?"
"Only what the foster agency gave me."
"Do you know who arranged the funeral?"
"My aunt, I think."
"Her name?"
"Natalie Brooks."
"Where is she now?"
Arya shook her head.
"She disappeared when I was ten."
Rebecca looked thoughtful.
"We'll begin with official records. Meanwhile, don't meet whoever sent that note without independent verification and a safety plan."
Arya nodded.
Then hesitated.
"What about Dante?"
Rebecca's expression remained neutral.
"What do you want from him?"
"The documents he says belonged to my mother."
"Then we can request them."
"And if he refuses?"
"That tells us something too."
Arya took a breath.
For the first time since leaving the restaurant, she felt she had a plan that didn't depend on a criminal's goodwill.
At ten that morning, Rebecca called Dante Moretti's attorney.
His name was Samuel Vance.
He answered from an office in the Loop.
Rebecca explained that she represented Arya Brooks and requested access to any documents relating to Evelyn Brooks that Dante had offered.
Samuel was silent for a moment.
Then said, "Mr. Moretti anticipated your call."
Rebecca frowned.
"Did he?"
"He has prepared copies for review."
"Where?"
"At his residence."
Rebecca paused.
"Why not your office?"
"Some items are original family records that Mr. Moretti doesn't want moved without proper inventory."
Rebecca considered.
"Then we'll come with a document specialist. Ms. Brooks will decide whether she attends."
Samuel agreed.
Arya listened from across the table.
When Rebecca hung up, Arya asked, "Do I have to go?"
"No."
Arya looked at the note.
Then at Miriam.
"I want to."
Miriam sighed.
"Of course you do."
Dante Moretti's house stood behind iron gates in a wooded neighborhood north of Chicago.
It was not the modern glass fortress Arya had imagined.
The building was old.
Red brick.
Tall windows.
Ivy climbing partway up the walls.
There was a fountain in the courtyard and a stone statue of a woman holding a book.
Arya stared at the statue.
Something about it felt familiar.
Then she remembered a small silver pendant her mother used to wear.
A woman holding a book.
She had always thought it represented a saint.
Dante waited in the front hall.
He wore dark trousers and a white shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows.
No suit jacket.
No tie.
He looked almost ordinary.
Almost.
His eyes moved toward Arya.
"Thank you for coming."
She crossed her arms.
"I'm here for my mother's records."
He nodded.
"Of course."
Rebecca stepped forward.
"We'll need to document what you provide."
Dante looked at her.
"Agreed."
Arya found his cooperation suspicious.
But she followed them into a library.
The room was enormous.
Bookshelves rose toward a painted ceiling.
A fireplace stood beneath a portrait of an older man with dark hair and cold eyes.
Dante noticed Arya looking.
"My father."
She turned.
"Vittorio Moretti?"
He nodded.
"He's dead?"
"Six years."
Arya looked at the portrait again.
The man seemed stern.
Unforgiving.
The kind of person who could make a promise about a little girl and then forget she existed.
"Did he kill my mother?" she asked.
The room went silent.
Dante didn't look away.
"I don't know."
Arya stared.
"That's your answer?"
"Yes."
"Then why should I trust anything you tell me?"
"You shouldn't trust it without evidence."
He gestured toward the table.
"That's why I brought the records."
Rebecca opened the first folder.
Inside were photographs.
Financial statements.
Old correspondence.
And a single handwritten letter.
Arya recognized the handwriting immediately.
Her mother's.
She reached for it.
Rebecca gently stopped her.
"Let me document it first."
Arya nodded.
Then watched as Rebecca photographed the envelope.
On the front, Evelyn Brooks had written:
For Arya, if the truth ever finds her.
Arya began crying before the letter was opened.
Inside was only one page.
My beautiful girl,
If you are reading this, then someone has finally broken the silence.
I need you to know that I did not leave because I stopped loving you.
I left because the people I trusted became dangerous.
There are things about the Moretti family you must never believe simply because they tell you.
And there is one thing you must remember.
The safest place isn't always the place with the strongest walls.
Sometimes it's the place where you're allowed to leave.
Love, Mom.
Arya pressed her hand against her mouth.
Dante stood near the window.
He did not approach.
Rebecca examined the paper.
"Do you know when this was written?"
Dante nodded.
"Approximately seventeen years ago."
"And how did your father obtain it?"
"I found it among his papers after he died."
Arya looked up.
"Why didn't you give it to me?"
Dante's jaw tightened.
"I didn't know where you were."
"You're Dante Moretti. You can find almost anyone."
He accepted the accusation.
"I should have tried harder."
Arya stared at him.
For years, she had imagined finding someone who could answer what happened to her mother.
Now she was discovering that answers came tangled with other people's failures.
After lunch, Dante showed them a small upstairs room.
He said it had belonged to his mother, Lucia.
The room contained old photographs and family albums.
One picture showed a birthday party.
Children gathered around a cake.
In the background stood Evelyn Brooks.
She was smiling.
Holding a little girl.
Arya.
Beside them stood a dark-haired boy of about fifteen.
Dante.
Arya stared.
"You knew me."
He nodded.
"Yes."
"You were there?"
"At your sixth birthday."
She looked again.
Dante was holding a small stuffed rabbit.
She remembered that rabbit.
White.
One crooked ear.
Her mother had told her it came from a family friend.
Arya turned toward him.
"Why didn't you tell me?"
Dante looked down.
"Because I wanted you to hear your mother's story before hearing mine."
Her chest tightened.
"What story?"
He hesitated.
Then spoke quietly.
"Your mother wasn't just our bookkeeper."
Arya stared.
"What was she?"
Dante looked at the photograph.
"She was the person who discovered my father had been stealing from the families he claimed to protect."
Arya felt cold.
"And when she threatened to expose him..."
Dante's expression changed.
"My father ordered her taken."
The room seemed to disappear.
Arya gripped the edge of the table.
"Taken where?"
Dante looked toward the closed door.
"That's the part I've never been able to prove."
Then a voice spoke from the hallway.
"I can tell you."
Everyone turned.
A woman stood in the doorway.
She was older, thin, and dressed in a pale gray sweater.
Her hair was streaked with white.
But Arya recognized her instantly.
Not her face.
Her voice.
A voice from childhood.
A voice that used to sing lullabies.
The woman looked at Arya and began crying.
"Hello, sweetheart."
Arya couldn't breathe.
"Aunt Natalie?"
May you like
The woman nodded.
And Arya realized the aunt she'd believed had disappeared seventeen years ago had been living inside Dante Moretti's house.
