Chapter 3: The Man Behind the Door
I had spent my entire life learning how to read people.
A nervous glance.
A shaking hand.
A forced smile.
A lie hidden behind a truth.
But nothing prepared me for reading my six-year-old daughter's face.
Because Olivia wasn't lying.
She was remembering.
I walked upstairs slowly.
Grace followed.
The girls stayed behind us.
“Mr. Romano.””
I stopped.
I turned.
Grace looked serious.
“If this person is still in your house…”
“I know.””
“No.””
Her voice sharpened.
“You don't.””
I looked at her.
She stepped closer.
“You know how to find enemies. You know how to scare people. You know how to make people talk.””
She glanced at my daughters.
“But do you know how to protect them from someone they trust?””
I had no answer.
That was the worst part.
The hallway was dark.
The same hallway Isabelle walked every morning.
The same hallway where she kissed our daughters goodbye.
The same hallway where she had probably known she was going to die.
I opened her office door.
Nothing had changed.
Her books were still arranged perfectly.
Her perfume bottle was still beside the mirror.
A half-finished notebook sat on her desk.
I walked toward it.
The first page contained grocery lists.
Doctor appointments.
Children's schedules.
Normal things.
Then I reached the middle.
The handwriting changed.
The letters became sharper.
More rushed.
*I was wrong about Dominic.*
I froze.
Grace looked over my shoulder.
I continued reading.
*He is not the danger. He is the shield. But shields can be turned against the people they protect.*
My stomach tightened.
I turned the page.
*Someone inside Dominic's organization is using his name to move things he doesn't know about.*
Another page.
*If anything happens to me, the girls remember. They always remember.*
My fingers trembled.
Because I had spent fourteen months believing trauma had stolen my daughters' voices.
Maybe it had protected them instead.
I heard a sound behind us.
A floorboard.
I turned.
Nothing.
But I knew this house.
Every sound.
Every hallway.
Every hidden corner.
Someone had been there.
I moved quickly.
“Stay here.””
Grace grabbed my arm.
“No.””
I looked at her hand.
Then at her face.
“You should be afraid of me right now.””
She shook her head.
“I am.””
That surprised me.
“But not because of you.””
She looked toward the hallway.
“Because I think you are finally afraid of the right person.””
I left the office.
My hand went under my coat.
The mansion was quiet.
Too quiet.
I walked toward the stairs.
Then my phone buzzed.
Unknown number.
One message.
A photo.
My blood froze.
It was a picture of my daughters sleeping.
Taken that night.
Inside my house.
Under the photo were six words.
*You were never their protector.*
Another message appeared.
*You were the reason she died.*
I stared at the screen.
Then another photo arrived.
This one was older.
A picture of Isabelle standing outside the preschool.
With someone beside her.
Someone I knew.
Someone I trusted.
My phone slipped slightly in my hand.
Because the person standing next to my wife in that photo…
was not Marcus.
It was me.
May you like
But the date was impossible.
The picture was taken three days after Isabelle's death.
