Chapter 3 - THE WOMAN WHO KNEW TOO MUCH
Beatrice returned to Mulberry Street under the watch of two discreet security officers.
She hated it.
Her shop was small.
Ordinary.
The kind of place where people brought torn pockets, school uniforms, and wedding dresses that no longer fit.
She had worked hard to make it feel safe.
Now a black SUV waited across the street.
Inside, she found the school uniform still beneath her sewing machine.
The mother had left three messages.
Beatrice called her immediately.
“I'm sorry. Something unexpected happened.”
The woman sounded relieved.
“I was worried.”
“I'll have it ready tomorrow.”
After hanging up, Beatrice sat at the machine.
For a moment, she stared at the unfinished hem.
She wanted her old life back.
Then she remembered the gun against her head.
The copper mesh.
The embroidered circles.
And her father's disappearance.
She opened Matteo's old cutting table.
Inside the bottom drawer was a false panel.
She had discovered it two weeks earlier but assumed it was part of the furniture.
Now she examined it carefully.
A small brass screw held it in place.
She removed it.
The panel opened.
Inside lay a leather notebook.
A photograph.
And a sealed envelope.
The photograph showed Matteo standing beside Samuel Whitcomb.
Her father.
Both men were younger.
Smiling.
Behind them stood a third man.
Dominic Russo.
Beatrice stared.
The photograph was dated eleven years earlier.
A year before the harbor explosion.
She opened the notebook.
The first pages contained tailoring measurements.
Then the handwriting changed.
Names.
Dates.
Delivery schedules.
And repeated references to three letters.
C.M.R.
Celeste Moretti Russo.
Dominic's late wife.
Beatrice felt her stomach tighten.
She opened the envelope.
Inside was a note written in Matteo's handwriting.
Bea,
If you are reading this, I am no longer able to explain what I found.
Do not trust the people who tell you your father died in the harbor.
Do not trust the people who say Dominic Russo's illness is natural.
And above all, do not let anyone destroy the blue ledger.
It is hidden where a tailor always looks first.
M.
Beatrice read the final sentence again.
Where a tailor always looks first.
She looked around the shop.
The cutting table.
The measuring tapes.
The fabric rolls.
Then her eyes moved toward the dress form.
Matteo's oldest mannequin.
A wooden torso covered in faded blue linen.
She approached.
Ran her fingers along the seam.
At the back, beneath the fabric, she felt a hard rectangular shape.
Her heart began pounding.
She took out her shears.
Cut carefully.
And found a small blue notebook.
Before she could open it, the bell above the door rang.
Beatrice turned.
A woman stood in the entrance.
Tall.
Elegant.
Wearing a cream coat.
She smiled.
“Beatrice Whitcomb?”
Beatrice's stomach dropped.
“Yes?”
The woman stepped inside.
“My name is Helena Mercer.”
Beatrice froze.
Mercer.
The doctor's surname.
Helena smiled.
“My husband tells me you've been asking dangerous questions.”
May you like
Beatrice tightened her grip on the notebook.
And the woman quietly locked the shop door.
