Chapter 4 - The Photograph Beneath the Floorboards
Arya had imagined seeing her aunt again a thousand times.
Sometimes Natalie appeared at the door of her apartment, carrying groceries and apologizing for being late.
Sometimes she emerged from a crowd at a train station.
Sometimes Arya dreamed she was still ten years old, waiting on the front steps of a foster home while Natalie came walking up the sidewalk.
But she had never imagined finding her inside the home of a mafia boss.
"You were here?" Arya whispered.
Natalie stood in the doorway with tears running down her face.
"Sweetheart, please—"
"All these years?"
Dante stepped forward.
"Arya, let her—"
"Don't."
He stopped.
Arya looked at Natalie.
"I waited for you."
The older woman's face crumpled.
"I know."
"Every birthday. Every Christmas. I kept telling my foster parents you were coming back."
Natalie covered her mouth.
Arya felt seventeen years of disappointment rising inside her.
"Why didn't you?"
Nobody answered.
Then Natalie whispered, "Because they told me you were dead."
Silence.
Arya stared.
"What?"
Natalie gripped the doorway.
"After your mother disappeared, I tried to take you away from Chicago. Someone intercepted us. I was injured. When I woke up, they told me you'd been killed."
Arya shook her head.
"No."
"They showed me a report."
"Who?"
Natalie looked toward the portrait of Vittorio Moretti.
Arya's stomach turned.
Dante's expression darkened.
"My father."
Natalie nodded.
"He told me there had been an accident. He said Evelyn was responsible."
Arya looked at Dante.
"And you knew she was here?"
"Only for the past three months."
Natalie wiped her eyes.
"I contacted Dante after I learned you might be alive."
Arya laughed bitterly.
"Might be alive? I've been living thirty miles from here."
"I know."
Natalie stepped closer.
"That's why I came. I wanted to find you before anyone else did."
Arya moved backward.
She wanted to embrace her aunt.
She wanted to scream at her.
She wanted to be nine years old again, believing adults could repair everything.
Instead, she turned toward Rebecca.
"I need a minute."
Rebecca nodded.
"Take all the time you need."
Arya walked into the hallway.
She found an empty sitting room and closed the door.
Then she sank onto the floor.
For years, she had believed she was alone because nobody wanted her.
Now she was discovering that people had wanted her.
People had looked for her.
And somebody had worked very hard to keep them apart.
Rebecca later insisted on interviewing Natalie separately.
Dante agreed.
Natalie described the years following Evelyn's disappearance.
She had suffered a severe head injury during an attempted escape from Chicago. After recovering, she lived under another surname in rural Michigan, convinced Arya had died.
Three months earlier, a former Moretti accountant had contacted her with evidence suggesting the child had survived.
She approached Dante because he had publicly begun separating portions of the family business from his father's old organization.
Rebecca listened carefully.
"Why didn't you contact Arya directly?"
Natalie looked down.
"Because the man who contacted me warned that someone else was still searching for her."
"Who?"
"I don't know."
Arya sat across the room, arms folded.
"Then why are you living here?"
"Dante offered protection while the records were examined."
Arya looked toward the window.
She understood fear.
She understood wanting somewhere safe.
What she did not understand was why everyone kept making decisions about her before asking what she wanted.
That afternoon, Natalie brought Arya a small wooden box.
"I kept this after your mother disappeared."
Arya opened it.
Inside was a photograph.
Evelyn Brooks stood in front of a blue house, holding Arya's hand.
The little girl wore a yellow raincoat.
Behind them was a porch with crooked white railings.
Arya smiled through tears.
"Our old house."
Natalie nodded.
"Do you remember it?"
"The kitchen smelled like cinnamon."
"Your mother baked constantly."
Arya touched the photograph.
Then she noticed something beneath it.
A drawing.
It showed the same house, but one floorboard in the kitchen had been marked with a tiny red X.
"What is this?"
Natalie leaned closer.
"I don't know."
Arya turned the paper over.
In her mother's handwriting were five words.
Under the place she dances.
Arya stared.
Then remembered.
Her mother used to dance in the kitchen while making breakfast.
She always stood near the window, directly beside the old radiator.
There was a loose floorboard there.
Arya had once hidden a marble beneath it.
Her heart began hammering.
"I know where this is."
Rebecca looked up.
"Where?"
Arya pointed at the drawing.
"My mother's kitchen."
The following morning, Rebecca verified that the old house still existed.
It stood in a neighborhood near Bridgeport, currently vacant and awaiting renovation.
The owner agreed to a supervised inspection after learning about the historical records.
Arya arrived with Rebecca and a preservation specialist.
Dante waited outside.
He had asked whether he could come.
Arya told him no.
For once, he had accepted the answer without argument.
The house looked smaller than she remembered.
The blue paint had faded.
The porch railing sagged.
Weeds grew between the concrete steps.
But when Arya entered the kitchen, she knew immediately where to look.
Near the radiator.
Beneath the window.
The specialist carefully lifted the loosened board.
Inside was a metal container wrapped in deteriorating plastic.
Arya stopped breathing.
Rebecca documented the discovery.
Then opened it.
Inside were several photographs, a folded letter, and an old miniature audio cassette.
One photograph showed Vittorio Moretti standing beside a warehouse.
Another showed Charles Sterling, the hedge fund manager's father.
And in the third, Evelyn Brooks stood beside a woman Arya had never seen.
On the back was written:
Marina Cross — Witness 14.
Arya looked at Rebecca.
"Who is she?"
Rebecca examined the photograph.
"I don't know yet."
Then the specialist unfolded the letter.
Arya recognized her mother's handwriting.
If anything happens to me, find Marina.
She knows where the money went.
And she knows why Vittorio Moretti wanted us both silenced.
Arya stared at the paper.
Then at the photograph.
May you like
Seventeen years earlier, Evelyn Brooks had left her daughter a trail.
And somewhere at the end of it was a woman whose testimony might finally explain why their family had been destroyed.
