Chapter 7 - THE GIRL IN THE YELLOW CARDIGAN
Philippe hadn't entered Sofia's bedroom in nineteen years.
He told Haven that on the drive to the Ferraro estate.
She had agreed to return for one reason.
To see the room.
Not Bianca.
Not Trevor.
Not the guests who had laughed.
The room.
Detective Vega had already arranged for investigators to document anything relevant before the family moved or altered it.
Philippe had ordered the household staff to preserve the entire east wing.
Bianca was furious.
Haven could see it from the moment they arrived.
She stood at the staircase in a cream suit.
Her mouth moved rapidly.
Philippe stopped.
Then signed to Haven:
She says this is an invasion of her privacy.
Haven looked at Bianca.
Sofia's bedroom is not her privacy.
Philippe translated.
Bianca's expression hardened.
“You have no right to be here.”
Haven raised her hands.
I was invited. This time honestly.
Philippe translated.
For a second, Bianca seemed unable to speak.
Then Trevor appeared.
He wore a navy suit and the same perfect smile.
“Haven. What a surprise.”
She didn't answer.
He stepped closer.
“I hope you've recovered from Saturday.”
Haven looked directly at him.
Then signed:
I remember your face when you saw the bracelet.
Philippe translated.
Trevor's smile faltered.
You weren't surprised.
Philippe translated again.
Trevor glanced at Bianca.
A small movement.
Enough.
Haven continued.
You knew it was in my purse.
Trevor laughed.
“That's absurd.”
Then tell Detective Vega.
His smile disappeared.
Philippe watched the exchange without interrupting.
Haven appreciated that.
She didn't need him to speak for her when she had already chosen her words.
They climbed the east staircase.
At the end of a long corridor stood a white door.
Philippe stopped before it.
His hands moved slowly.
I haven't opened this since the funeral.
Haven studied him.
You don't have to.
He looked at her.
Yes. I do.
He turned the key.
The room smelled faintly of cedar.
Pale blue walls.
White curtains.
Bookshelves.
A desk beneath the window.
Everything had been preserved.
Too perfectly.
As though the family had turned Sofia into a display rather than allowing her to remain a person.
Haven walked toward the desk.
A photograph stood beside a lamp.
Sofia smiling.
Philippe beside her.
Both signing something toward the camera.
Haven studied their hands.
Then smiled.
She was teasing you.
Philippe looked surprised.
How do you know?
Her expression.
He looked at the photograph.
Then laughed softly.
She was calling me stubborn.
Haven raised an eyebrow.
Was she wrong?
Unfortunately not.
For a moment, grief became something gentler.
Then Haven noticed a notebook beneath the desk.
It was filled with drawings.
Flowers.
Houses.
Animals.
And a repeated symbol.
A small bird inside a circle.
She turned the pages.
The bird appeared again and again.
Sometimes beside a staircase.
Sometimes beside a window.
Sometimes beside a woman's silhouette.
Haven showed Philippe.
Do you recognize this?
He frowned.
No.
She studied the last drawing.
Sofia had drawn a woman wearing pearls.
Beside her stood a man with a scar above his eyebrow.
Gabriel Moretti.
The woman held a key.
The man held a suitcase.
At the bottom, Sofia had written:
THEY THINK I DON'T UNDERSTAND.
Haven's chest tightened.
Philippe read it.
His face went pale.
She knew something.
Haven nodded.
And she was afraid.
Then she noticed the next page had been torn out.
Only a narrow strip remained.
She held it toward the light.
There were faint impressions from the missing page.
Not enough to read.
But enough to recognize one word.
DOCKS.
Philippe stared.
His expression changed.
Haven signed:
What?
He hesitated.
Then answered.
My father controlled a shipping terminal in Red Hook.
What happened there?
Philippe looked toward the door.
Sofia used to visit with Bianca.
Haven felt cold.
Why?
Bianca said she was teaching Sofia about the family business.
Haven looked at the drawing again.
A bird inside a circle.
A woman with pearls.
A man with a scar.
The docks.
Then she understood something terrible.
Sofia hadn't been drawing imaginary stories.
She had been recording what she saw.
In the only way she trusted.
May you like
Pictures.
And Evelyn Hart had understood them.
