Chapter 2 - THE BLUE NOTEBOOK
My name is Adrian Moretti.
At thirty-six, I controlled a network of businesses stretching from Chicago's freight yards to the private clubs along the river. Some were legitimate. Some had inherited the uglier habits of my father's organization.
Men who had never met me feared me.
Men who had worked for me feared disappointing me.
Yet that morning, standing in my own library with a blue notebook in my hands, I discovered that the people who had been deceiving me did not fear me at all.
They knew something I didn't.
They knew how easily my love for my sister could be turned into a weakness.
The notebook contained forty-three pages.
I read every one.
June had recorded Delaney's activities over eleven months, but the entries became detailed only during the previous six weeks.
September 4. Delaney used her right hand to turn six pages independently. Became distressed when she heard Dr. Graves approaching.
September 8. Delaney attempted to write a sentence. Stopped when the nurse entered.
September 11. She pointed to the photograph of the accident scene and became visibly upset.
The entries continued.
June never claimed to have diagnosed Delaney or replaced her rehabilitation team. She had simply recorded what she observed during ordinary activities: folding towels, choosing clothing, arranging blocks, and communicating through gestures.
There were photographs.
Short video recordings were referenced, though none were stored in the notebook.
Then I found an entry dated three nights earlier.
Delaney wrote: "He was there before the crash."
My mouth went dry.
Below it, June had written:
Asked who. She pointed to the doctor's photograph.
I looked toward the library door.
Graves had been our family physician for sixteen years.
He had treated my mother during her final illness.
He had attended Matteo's—no, I stopped myself. Matteo belonged to another life, another memory. My father's name was Richard Moretti, and the crash had taken him fourteen months earlier.
Graves had supervised the medical response after the accident.
He had been the person who told me Delaney might never speak normally again.
And I had trusted him.
My phone rang.
It was Rafael Bellini, my security chief.
"Boss, we've checked the staff quarters. June Carter is gone."
"Find out when she left."
"Three forty-six. Service entrance."
"Alone?"
A pause.
"That's the problem. The camera stopped recording at three thirty-eight."
I looked down at the notebook.
"Who controls the security system?"
"Your estate administrator. Victor Harlan."
Of course.
Victor handled the household staff, medical invoices, maintenance contracts, and security schedules.
He was also the man who placed the navy medical folder on my library table every Monday.
"Rafael, nobody is to question Delaney without my permission. And I want a complete copy of every security record from the last fourteen months."
"Understood."
"One more thing."
"Yes?"
"Don't tell Graves."
At eight, Dr. Graves requested a meeting.
I found him in the breakfast room drinking coffee.
"Adrian," he began, "we need to discuss last night."
"Do we?"
"Delaney's condition makes her vulnerable to inappropriate stimulation."
I sat opposite him.
"Is that what laughter is now?"
He frowned.
"Don't misunderstand me."
"Then help me understand."
Graves folded his hands.
"Traumatic brain injury recovery is unpredictable. Apparent improvements can be inconsistent."
"Agreed."
He relaxed slightly.
I continued.
"But that doesn't explain why I've never been told she can write."
His fingers stopped moving.
"Write?"
"Her name. Simple sentences."
"Who told you that?"
"Does it matter?"
"It does if an unqualified employee has been creating unrealistic expectations."
I leaned forward.
"Did you know?"
He looked directly at me.
"Not to the extent you're suggesting."
It was a careful answer.
Too careful.
I stood.
"I'm arranging an independent medical review."
Graves set down his cup.
"Adrian, that could destabilize her progress."
"Then the independent specialists can assess that risk."
His expression hardened.
"You don't understand the complexity of her condition."
"That's why I intend to speak with people who don't receive their salaries through Victor Harlan."
For the first time, I saw anger beneath his polished manners.
Then he smiled.
"Of course. Whatever you think best."
As he left, I noticed his right hand.
There was a small scar near his thumb.
A crescent.
I had seen that scar before.
May you like
In a photograph from the night of the crash.
And suddenly, the date in June's notebook began to mean something much worse.
