A small gesture.
Enough to keep me from moving forward.
I looked down at her hand.
Then at her.
“Let him explain,” she said.
Anthony looked relieved.
I wasn’t.
“What happened to Isabella?” I asked.
Anthony drew a long breath.
“Your father sent her away.”
“Where?”
“I wasn’t told.”
“Why?”
“To keep her safe.”
“From Vincent?”
“Yes.”
“Did Gabriel agree?”
“At first.”
“And later?”
“Later, he wanted her back.”
Maria whispered, “That’s why he returned.”
Anthony nodded.
“Three years ago?”
“Yes.”
Everything began falling into place.
Not perfectly.
But enough.
Gabriel had spent years away from the world he had once known.
Then something changed.
He came back.
Vincent found him.
Gabriel d!ed.
And Maria eventually followed the clues all the way into my home.
“Was Isabella in New York three years ago?” I asked.
“I don’t know.”
“Who would know?”
Anthony shook his head.
“Your father.”
“He’s dead.”
“I know.”
“Anyone else?”
Anthony hesitated.
There it was again.
That tiny fraction of a second.
The difference between not knowing and not wanting to answer.
“Who?”
“I shouldn’t say.”
I laughed.
The sound surprised even me.
“You came to my house after midnight to tell me my late father hid a relative, my former lieutenant may have been searching for her father, and my housekeeper’s husband once protected me from a betrayal I never knew existed.”
I leaned closer.
“We are far beyond shouldn’t.”
Anthony stared at me.
Then he said, “Your mother.”
I didn’t move.
Maria’s hand slipped away from my arm.
“What?”
Anthony looked miserable.
“Your mother knew.”
Something inside me seemed to crack.
“My mother d!ed when I was six.”
“No.”
The word was quiet.
Almost gentle.
That somehow made it worse.
I stared at him.
“What did you say?”
Anthony’s eyes glistened.
“I’m sorry, Daniel.”
“My mother died when I was six.”
“That’s what your father told you.”
I could hear my own heartbeat.
Nothing else.
Not Maria.
Not the rain.
Not the clock hanging on the wall.
My mother’s funeral was returned to me.
Black shoes.
Wet grass.
My father’s hand resting on my shoulder.
Never let anyone see what can hurt you.
A closed casket.
I had never seen her body. I was six. I had asked why.
My father told me there had been an accident.
