Part 4

“She said she never saw anything.”

“I know.”

“What are you going to do?”

Dominic’s eyes lifted.

Five years ago, I would have expected rage.

Instead, his voice was controlled.

“Ask her.”

“Will she tell you?”

“I don’t know.”

I folded the old letter again.

Dominic studied it.

“There’s another problem.”

“What?”

“The letterhead.”

I looked at him.

“What about it?”

“The crest changed after my father died.”

I knew that.

Dominic’s father had died six months before our separation.

The company had redesigned everything afterward.

“This paper uses the newer crest,” he said.

“So?”

“So Samuel Russo retired before the new crest existed.”

My mouth went dry.

He tapped the page.

“Whoever made this letter had access to Moretti stationery after Samuel had already left.”

I slowly understood.

It had not been an old document accidentally sent later.

Someone had created it deliberately.

Dominic looked toward the staircase where our children were laughing.

Then his eyes returned to mine.

“There’s one more thing.”

“What?”

“My office recovered the building security archive from the day your courier arrived.”

“You still have footage from five years ago?”

“Not all of it.”

His expression darkened with thought.

“But that week was preserved because of an unrelated insurance investigation.”

My heart began to pound.

“Did they see Isabella?”

Dominic hesitated.

“No.”

The answer startled me.

“Then who signed?”

He slid his phone across the table.

A grainy still image filled the screen.

A woman stood inside the Moretti Holdings mailroom holding a cream-colored envelope.

She wore a dark coat.

Her face was turned partially away.

It was not Isabella.

I stared at the image.

I knew that coat.

I knew the graceful posture.

I knew the pearl clip in the woman’s hair.

My hands went cold.

“That’s impossible.”

Dominic watched me.

“You know her?”

I could barely speak.

The woman holding the letter I had written to Dominic five years earlier was someone I had trusted almost as much as family.

Someone who had sat beside me during the worst days of my divorce.

Someone who had helped me disappear from Manhattan.

“Yes.”

I looked at him.

“That’s my sister.”

My sister Claire lived three hours north of the city in a village where everyone knew when the bakery changed its window display.

She taught music at an elementary school.

She grew tomatoes badly and roses beautifully.

She mailed handwritten birthday cards.

She cried during animated movies.

She had also apparently been inside Dominic’s office on the day my letter disappeared.

I called her four times before noon.

She did not answer.

By one o’clock, fear had replaced confusion.

At two, Claire finally called back.

“Natalie?”

“Where are you?”

“At school.”

Her voice sounded normal.

Children sang scales somewhere behind her.

“I need to see you.”

There was a pause.

“What happened?”

“Do you remember going to Moretti Holdings five years ago?”

Silence.

Not surprise.

Silence.

My stomach tightened.

“Claire?”

“I remember.”

The room seemed to tilt.

“Why?”

She whispered something to another teacher, then moved somewhere quieter.

“Natalie, this isn’t a phone conversation.”

“Apparently it should have been a conversation five years ago.”

“I know.”

The words hurt more because she did not defend herself.

“Come tonight,” she said.

“Please.”

I arrived shortly after six.

Dominic came with me.

I had not wanted him to.

He had not insisted.

He merely said that whatever happened involved him too, and for once, his calmness made arguing more difficult.

Claire opened the door before we knocked.

Her face changed when she saw Dominic.

“You brought him.”

“Yes.”

Dominic remained on the porch.

“If you want me to wait outside, I will.”

Claire looked at him for a long time.

“No.”

She stepped aside.

“I think you’ve both waited outside long enough.”

Her house smelled like cinnamon and old books.

I had spent holidays there with the twins.

Lucy had learned to play three notes on Claire’s piano.

Eli had broken a ceramic bird and cried harder than Claire did.

Now every familiar object felt altered.

Claire led us into the kitchen.

Three cups of tea waited on the table.

“You knew we were coming together,” I said.

“I guessed.”

She sat.

I remained standing.

“Why were you at his office?”

Claire wrapped both hands around her cup.

“Because Isabella called me.”

Dominic and I exchanged a glance.

“When?” I asked.

“The afternoon before.”

“How did she have your number?”

“She said she found it in your emergency contact information.”

Dominic’s expression tightened.

“What did she want?”

Claire looked toward me.

“She said you were unstable.”

I almost laughed.

“That was convenient.”

“She said you’d been sending Dominic letters.”

“I had.”

“I know.”

“Then why did you go?”

Claire’s eyes filled with tears.

“Because she told me Dominic had already seen the first two.”

My anger faltered.

Claire continued.

“She said he was furious.”

Dominic leaned forward.

“I never saw them.”

“I know that now.”

“She told me,” Claire said, “that if another letter arrived, he intended to send lawyers to challenge you.”

“For what?”

“For the babies.”

My chest tightened.

“She said he believed you were using the pregnancy to force your way back into his life.”

Dominic closed his eyes.

Claire looked at him.

“I believed her because of what everyone was saying.”

He nodded once.

He did not defend himself.

Perhaps he understood that the rumors surrounding our divorce had made Isabella’s story plausible.

Claire turned toward me.

“You were barely sleeping.”

“You should have asked me.”

“I should have.”

“You should have trusted me.”

“I know.”

“Then what happened?”

“She asked me to intercept the courier.”

Dominic’s head lifted sharply.

“How?”

“She gave me an employee badge.”

“Whose?”

“Isabella’s.”

That explained the delivery record.

Claire had signed using Isabella’s identification.

“She told me she wanted to prevent a legal fight,” Claire continued.

“She said if Dominic never received the letter, things might calm down.”

I stared at her.

“You took my letter.”

“Yes.”

“What did you do with it?”

Claire’s eyes lowered.

“I gave it to Isabella.”

I stood so quickly my chair scraped against the floor.

“Natalie,” Dominic said quietly.

I moved to the window.

I was not angry because Claire had deceived me.

I was angry because she had loved me.

Love was supposed to make people brave enough to tell the truth.

Instead, fear had made her decide what truth I was allowed to know.

“I thought I was protecting you,” she whispered.

“That sentence has ruined more lives than almost any other.”

Claire flinched.

I regretted the sharpness immediately.

Not the meaning.

Only the sharpness.

Dominic looked between us.

“What about the response letter?”

Claire went pale.

“I didn’t know about that until later.”

“How much later?” I asked.

“Two weeks.”

I turned from the window.

“You were there when I opened it.”

“I know.”

“You held me while I cried.”

“I know.”

“You told me I was better off.”

Claire began crying silently.

“I thought it was real.”

“Why?”

“Because Isabella called me again.”

Dominic leaned back.

“What did she say?”

“She said you had finally made a decision.”

He looked disgusted.

“With what authority?”

“She said Samuel Russo had handled it.”

“My father was ill by then.”

Another voice spoke from the doorway.

“Yes.”

All three of us turned.

An elderly man stood in the hallway.