Chapter 5 - The Little Girl’s Secret
Down in the staff quarters, far away from the polished marble and crystal chandeliers of the main estate, the atmosphere was warm and quiet.
Grace Carter sat on the edge of her narrow cot, gently dabbing a warm cloth against Emily’s cheek to wipe away a smudge of soot from the broken vase downstairs.
“Are we in trouble, Mom?” Emily asked quietly, clutching her favorite stuffed rabbit in both arms. Her oversized blue sweater with the repaired elbow still looked a little too big for her small frame.
“No, sweetheart, we’re not in trouble,” Grace reassured her, though her own hands were still trembling slightly. “You did the right thing. If you hadn't found that phone... God knows what Mr. Moretti would have signed tonight.”
A soft, polite knock sounded on the wooden door of their room.
Grace froze. She looked toward the entrance, her heart hammering against her ribs. In the Moretti household, a knock from the master of the house usually meant life-altering news.
“Stay here,” Grace whispered to Emily, standing up and smoothing down her apron.
She walked across the small room and pulled the door open.
Vincent Moretti stood in the hallway. Without his suit jacket, wearing only a crisp white shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his forearms, he looked less like a syndicate boss and more like an exhausted man carrying the weight of a mountain.
“Mr. Moretti,” Grace said immediately, dipping her head. “I’m so sorry about the disruption tonight. If you want us to pack our bags and leave the estate, we understand completely—my sister in Yonkers has a spare room, we can be gone by morning—”
“Stop talking, Grace,” Vincent interrupted gently. He looked past her housekeeper, his dark eyes spotting eight-year-old Emily sitting on the edge of the cot.
He stepped into the room, uninvited, and crouched down until he was at eye level with the little girl.
Emily didn't cower. She looked up at him with those bright, intelligent eyes that reminded him so painfully of someone he had lost three years ago.
“Emily,” Vincent said, his voice surprisingly soft. “You mentioned earlier that you found that phone in Mom’s sewing box. But you didn't tell me how it got there in the first place.”
Emily glanced nervously at her mother before looking back up at Vincent. She reached under her pillow and pulled out a small, faded turquoise ribbon.
“I didn't steal it, Mr. Moretti,” Emily said earnestly. “Two weeks ago, when I was walking home from the bus stop near the old boathouse by the river, a lady dropped it.”
Vincent’s breath caught in his throat. He reached out, his large fingers gently taking the turquoise ribbon from her small palm. He recognized it instantly. It was the ribbon Sofia used to tie her hair back when she went for long walks along the Hudson.
“The boathouse?” Vincent asked, his voice tightening. “Which boathouse, Emily?”
“The old stone one,” the little girl explained, pointing toward the window that looked out over the northern boundary of the estate. “The one with the rusted iron lock that everyone says is haunted. The lady looked really tired, Mr. Moretti. She was wearing a heavy wool coat, and her hands were all scratched up, like she’d been climbing through the woods. She didn't talk much, but she gave me the phone, and she whispered something.”
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Vincent leaned in closer, his heart pounding a frantic rhythm against his ribs. “What did she say?”
“She told me to give it to the nice lady who polishes the silver—because she knew your mom was kind,” Emily said. “And she said... 'Tell Vincent the white roses are dying, and the ice is finally breaking.'”
