Chapter 18
I looked up.
Mateo continued.
“The SUV was found abandoned about six miles from the crash site.”
My old instincts returned.
“Who was driving?”
“A nineteen-year-old college student.”
I frowned.
“What?”
“Vehicle belonged to his father. He panicked after losing control in the rain.”
“No connection to Moretti?”
“None.”
“To Raffaele?”
“None.”
“To Evelyn?”
“No.”
“So this wasn’t planned.”
“It doesn’t appear to be.”
I looked back at my father’s letter.
For two days, I had been preparing for an enemy.
It had been easier that way.
An enemy would have given me something simple.
Someone to blame.
Someone outside the family.
Someone outside myself.
Instead, Clara had nearly died because of an ordinary accident while doing something extraordinary that I should have been doing years earlier.
Finding out who my family had failed.
Mateo sat on the edge of a box.
“What are you going to do about Raffaele?”
The question once would have had a very different answer.
I surprised both of us.
“Talk to him.”
Mateo raised an eyebrow.
“Talk?”
“Apparently it’s something people do.”
“Should I alert the newspapers?”
Despite everything, I laughed.
It was the first time in days.
Raffaele came to the hospital that evening.
He was sixty-eight, broad-shouldered, silver-haired, and still dressed as though someone might photograph him at any moment.
He hugged me.
“How is Clara?”
“Awake.”
“Thank God.”
His concern appeared genuine.
That complicated things.
I took him to an empty conference room.
The Harbor Ridge ledger was waiting on the table.
Raffaele stopped when he saw it.
He did not ask where it came from.
He simply removed his coat and sat down.
“So,” he said.
“So.”
For several seconds, we looked at each other.
When I was younger, Raffaele had seemed enormous.
My father was reserved.
Raffaele told stories.
My father saved money.
Raffaele bought me watches.
My father criticized my grades.
After my father died, Raffaele stepped into every empty space.
I had mistaken availability for honesty.
“Clara found Evelyn Mercer,” I said.
His face changed.
Only slightly.
“I see.”
“You intercepted her letters.”
“Yes.”
No denial.
That angered me more than denial might have.
“Why?”
“Because your father spent his final years drowning in guilt over a business project that went wrong.”
“That is not what happened.”
“It’s partly what happened.”
“You created Harbor Ridge.”
He leaned back.
“Yes.”
“Used Daniel Mercer’s name.”
“I did not personally forge documents.”