Chapter 3 - The Photograph in the Box
Vincent's father, Salvatore Moretti, had died of a stroke three years earlier. He had never mentioned a circus, a winged symbol, or a girl named Grace. Yet the photograph Marco brought into the library showed Salvatore in a dark overcoat, standing behind twelve-year-old Grace as she balanced on a practice wire.
Beside Salvatore stood Daniel Bennett.
Grace sat down before her knees gave out. “My dad worked for the circus. He fixed engines and built rigs. Why would he know Salvatore Moretti?”
Vincent studied the photograph. “My father didn't keep sentimental pictures.”
On the back, in faded blue ink, someone had written: KEEP THE CHILD OUT OF IT.
Marco set down a velvet jewelry box found with the picture. Inside lay a diamond ring, old-fashioned and too small for Vanessa's hand. Beneath the ring was a second photo. In it, Daniel was smiling beside a woman whose face had been scratched away.
“That isn't my mother,” Grace said. “My mom died when I was little.”
Vincent's eyes narrowed. “You sure?”
“I know my mother's face.”
“I'm asking whether you know who told you she died.”
Her answer vanished. Daniel had told her. After a fire. After they moved three states away. She had never seen a grave.
A sharp crash came from the hall. Marco drew his gun. Vincent stepped in front of Grace, and she hated the instinctive relief that followed.
The door burst open. A young housekeeper stumbled inside, blood running from a cut above her eyebrow. “I'm sorry,” Nora gasped. “They made me take them to the camera room.”
“Who?” Vincent asked.
“Two men. One had a police badge. They took the backup drives.”
Vincent ordered Marco to secure the staff and call a doctor. Grace caught Nora's trembling hand before she left.
“Did they ask for me?”
Nora nodded. “They said the little bird came home.”
The phrase struck Grace like a slap. Daniel had called her Little Bird. No one outside their family knew it.
That night, Vincent offered her a guest room under guard. Grace refused the guard, then accepted it when she found her apartment door open and the living room turned inside out. Her old circus costume had been laid on the couch, neatly folded. Someone had stitched a silver wing to its collar.
A phone she didn't own rang inside the fabric.
May you like
She answered with a shaking hand. A man's voice said, “If you want to know why Leo died, come to Pier 19 alone.”
Then, softer, almost tenderly: “And don't tell Moretti.”
