Chapter 11
Dante was downstairs.
Marco was in the security office.
Katarina had left an hour earlier after spending most of the afternoon complaining that married life had made her brother “disgustingly tolerable.”
I walked into our bedroom carrying a cup of tea.
Then stopped.
A white envelope rested on Dante’s pillow.
My name was written across the front.
ISABELLA.
No last name.
I put down the tea.
Every instinct I had told me not to touch it.
I called Dante.
He answered immediately.
“What happened?”
Not hello.
Never hello when I called from inside the house.
“Come upstairs.”
Silence.
Then his voice changed.
“Isabella?”
“I’m fine.”
He was in the bedroom twelve seconds later.
Marco arrived perhaps ten seconds after him.
Dante saw the envelope.
Everything about him went still.
“Did you touch it?”
“No.”
Marco put on gloves.
He opened it carefully.
Inside was one photograph.
He placed it on the dresser.
For a moment, nobody spoke.
The photograph had been taken on our wedding day.
It showed Dante and me outside the chapel.
His hand rested against my lower back.
I was laughing at something Katarina had said.
Dante was looking at me.
Someone had drawn a red circle around my face.
On the back were six words.
THE WRONG THIEF PAID THE PRICE.
Dante read them twice.
Then looked at Marco.
“Lock the estate.”
“It’s already happening.”
“Everyone?”
“Everyone.”
I stared at the photograph.
“The wrong thief.”
Dante turned toward me.
“Don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“Start investigating.”
Despite everything, I almost smiled.
“You married me knowing exactly what I do when someone gives me a mystery.”
“I married you hoping marriage might improve your survival instincts.”
“It didn’t.”
“I noticed.”
Marco cleared his throat.
“I hate interrupting whatever this is, but there’s another problem.”
Dante looked at him.
“What?”
“No cameras caught anyone entering this floor.”
My smile disappeared.
Dante’s did too.
“That’s impossible.”
“Yes.”
“Then check again.”
“I did.”
Dante looked toward the hallway.
“Who has access?”
Marco hesitated.
“Six people.”
“Names.”
“You. Isabella. Me. Katarina. Sophia.”
“And?”
Marco’s eyes hardened.
“Lucia.”
I frowned.
“Who is Lucia?”
Dante did not answer immediately.
That frightened me more than the photograph.
“Dante?”
He looked at me.
“My mother.”
---
Lucia Moretti had been dead for eleven years.
At least, that was what I had always been told.
She had died in Italy after a long illness.
Dante rarely spoke about her.