Chapter 2: The Letter My Wife Left Behind
I had stared down men holding rifles.
I had walked into buildings knowing someone inside wanted me dead.
I had made decisions that kept me awake at night.
But nothing prepared me for seeing my dead wife's handwriting.
My fingers hovered above the paper.
Grace watched me carefully.
The girls stayed behind her.
Three small shadows.
Three children who had finally found their voices only to reveal something impossible.
“Where did you find this?””
I looked at Sophie.
She shook her head.
Not refusing.
Trying.
Trying to explain.
Grace crouched beside her.
“Sophie, show him.””
The little girl looked at me.
Then slowly walked across the kitchen.
Every step seemed painful.
She stopped beside the old wooden chair near the hallway.
The chair belonged to Isabelle.
She always sat there when she waited for me to come home.
She would drink tea.
Read books.
Pretend she wasn't worried about the dangerous world her husband lived in.
She had once told me something I ignored.
“Dominic, the scariest thing about your life isn't the enemies outside our door.””
I had smiled.
“What is it then?””
She had looked toward our children.
“It's the people who already have a key.””
At the time, I thought she was being dramatic.
Now I wasn't sure.
Sophie pointed under the chair.
I reached down.
There was nothing.
My eyes narrowed.
Then I felt the loose edge of the wooden panel.
I pulled.
A hidden compartment opened.
Inside was a small envelope.
My name was written on it.
Dominic.
Only Dominic.
Not husband.
Not love.
Just my name.
My heart tightened.
Grace whispered, “I didn't know that was there.””
I believed her.
That bothered me.
Because if Grace didn't know...
Who did?
I opened the envelope.
Inside was a photograph.
Not a letter.
A photograph.
My family.
Taken two days before Isabelle died.
I remembered that day.
Olivia had spilled juice on her dress.
Sophie refused to wear shoes.
Nora cried because her stuffed rabbit was missing.
Isabelle had laughed so hard she cried.
I had been annoyed because I had a meeting.
Now I would have traded everything I owned for another five minutes in that kitchen.
I flipped the photo over.
A sentence was written on the back.
*Look at the person who isn't smiling.*
My eyes moved across the picture.
Everyone was smiling.
Except one person.
Standing behind us.
One of my men.
Marcus Vale.
My oldest friend.
The man who had been beside me since I was twenty-two.
The man who carried my father's coffin.
The man who held Isabelle's hand at the hospital after she was shot.
I stared at the photograph.
“No.””
Grace looked at me.
“Who is he?””
“Someone who couldn't have done this.””
“You sound like you want that to be true.””
I looked at her sharply.
She didn't back down.
Again.
That woman was either incredibly brave or incredibly foolish.
“Be careful.””
“Of what?””
“Of asking questions you don't understand.””
Grace looked toward my daughters.
“I think your daughters understood them fourteen months ago.””
That sentence stopped me.
Because she was right.
Children didn't need evidence.
They noticed things adults ignored.
They noticed who avoided eye contact.
Who acted differently.
Who cried too late.
Who hugged too tightly.
I grabbed my phone.
Marcus answered on the second ring.
“Dominic.””
His voice was calm.
Too calm.
“Where are you?””
A pause.
“I was going to ask you the same thing.””
My eyes narrowed.
“What does that mean?””
Another pause.
Then he said:
“Because I just received a message saying you found Isabelle's letter.””
The room went silent.
I looked at Grace.
She looked back at me.
Neither of us moved.
“How did you know about the letter?””
Marcus sighed.
“Dominic…”
“No.””
My voice became dangerous.
“Answer the question.””
A long silence.
Then:
“Because I helped Isabelle hide it.””
My grip tightened around the phone.
“You helped my wife hide a letter from me?””
“She was afraid.””
“Of who?””
The answer came quietly.
“Of you.””
The words felt like a knife.
I looked at my daughters.
Nora was holding Grace's hand.
Olivia was watching me.
They weren't afraid of Marcus.
They were afraid of something else.
Something I had missed.
“Why would my wife be afraid of me?””
Marcus didn't answer immediately.
Then he said:
“Because she discovered what happened the morning she died.””
“What happened?””
“You need to leave that house.””
My eyes moved toward the front door.
“Why?””
“Because if someone killed Isabelle to protect a secret…”
His voice lowered.
“…they won't let three children who remember it stay alive.””
The call ended.
I stood frozen.
Then I heard something behind me.
A small voice.
Barely audible.
But real.
Olivia.
My oldest daughter.
“Daddy?””
I turned around so quickly the chair behind me fell.
Her eyes filled with tears.
She looked terrified.
“What did you say?””
Her lips shook.
“I remember.””
My entire world narrowed.
Fourteen months.
Fourteen months of silence.
And now my daughter was speaking.
“What do you remember?””
She looked toward the staircase.
Not at me.
At the upstairs hallway.
At the place where Isabelle's office had been.
Then she whispered:
“Mommy was fighting with someone.””
I took one step forward.
“Who?””
Olivia grabbed Grace's hand.
Her voice became smaller.
“He called Mommy…”
She stopped.
Like the name itself hurt.
“Who did he call her?””
Olivia looked at me.
May you like
And said:
“Mrs. Romano.””
