Chapter 6
Peter Shaw did not run.
When Vincent summoned him, he came to the library.
That made guilt harder to interpret.
Peter was fifty.
Gray beginning at the sides.
Served Vincent since before Sofia’s death.
Protected Leo at public events.
Had once taken a knife in the shoulder outside a restaurant while pushing Vincent out of reach.
Men were rarely one thing.
Vincent placed Sofia’s music box on the table.
Peter went pale.
“Where did you find that?”
“Silence Room.”
Peter closed his eyes.
“Then you know.”
“I know you opened doors.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Peter looked toward the windows.
“My son.”
Vincent frowned.
Peter had one son.
Andrew.
Twenty-seven.
Living in California.
At least that was what Vincent believed.
“What happened?”
“Matteo found him.”
“When?”
“Eight months ago.”
“Where is he?”
“I don’t know.”
“Alive?”
“Matteo sends proof every month.”
Vincent’s hands tightened.
“You came to me with nothing.”
Peter looked at him.
“Because the first proof was a photograph of Andrew asleep.”
Same tactic.
Children.
Loved ones.
Access.
Silas? No Matteo.
A generational pattern.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because the second photograph was Leo asleep.”
Vincent went still.
Matteo had both vulnerabilities framed in one message.
Peter understood what Vincent might do.
“Instructions?”
“Open the east balcony route.”
“How often?”
“Three times.”
“For Matteo.”
“I never saw who entered.”
“You assumed.”
“Yes.”
“Anything else?”
“Let Dominic into the nursery when Emma was away.”
Vincent’s eyes hardened.
“You threatened Emma’s position.”
Peter looked ashamed.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“She was noticing too much.”
“Did you ever touch Leo?”
“No.”
“Did you frighten him?”
“No.”
“Did you know Dominic did?”
“Not at first.”
“And later?”
Peter’s silence answered.
Vincent walked around the desk.
Peter did not move.
“You watched.”
“Yes.”
“You chose your son.”
“Yes.”
Vincent stopped.
There was no clean answer to that.
Peter had betrayed Leo to protect Andrew.
That did not make it acceptable.
It made it human.
“Where is Matteo?”
“I don’t know.”
“Who contacts you?”
“Voice calls.”
“Same voice?”
“Sometimes.”
“Matteo?”
“Yes.”
“Sometimes not?”
Peter nodded.
“Man or woman?”
“Man.”
“Younger?”
“Yes.”
Vincent’s eyes narrowed.
“Nico?”
“I don’t know.”
Sofia said Nico was alive.
Could be part of this.
Could be hunting Matteo.
Could be using the same routes.
“What did the younger voice want?”
Peter hesitated.
“He told me not to let Matteo take Leo from the estate.”
Vincent stared.
“Helped you?”
“I think.”
“Did you follow?”
“Yes.”
“When Matteo told me to leave the north gate open, the younger man called and said close it.”
“Did you?”
“Yes.”
“What happened?”
“Nothing.”
“Maybe because you stopped something.”
“Yes.”
Vincent leaned against the desk.
Two forces.
Matteo trying to enter.
Another man interfering.
Possibly Nico.
“Anything else?”
Peter nodded.
“Three nights ago.”
Emma saw the older man.
Two missing fingers.
Matteo.
“What happened?”
“I opened the balcony.”
“Why?”
“Matteo said Andrew would die if I didn’t.”
Vincent’s face hardened.
“You watched him enter?”
“No.”
“Then?”
“I waited downstairs.”
“How long?”
“Twelve minutes.”
“What happened after?”
“Matteo came out furious.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did he say?”
Peter looked at Vincent.
“He said, ‘The maid moved it.’”
Emma.
Vincent turned.
“What did Emma move?”
Peter shook his head.
“I don’t know.”
Vincent went directly to Leo’s room.
Emma was changing the bedsheets.
She saw his face.
“What happened?”
“Three nights ago.”
She froze.
“The night you saw Matteo.”
“Yes.”
“What did you move?”
Emma stared at him.
Nothing.
Vincent stepped closer.
“Peter says Matteo came here looking for something.”
Emma’s expression changed.
Fear.
Not guilt.
“What did you move?”
She reached beneath the mattress.
Not Leo’s bed.
A smaller side cot Sofia had once used when Leo was sick.
Emma lifted a narrow wooden slat.
Inside was a small red envelope.
No paper.
A photograph.
Vincent took it.
Sofia.
Alive.
Standing beside Nico Moretti.
Taken six weeks before her death.
Nico was older now.
Late thirties.
Scar along his jaw.
On the back was a single address scratched into the photo.
No city.
Just a road name Vincent knew.
Blackwood Farm.
The abandoned Moretti horse property.
Vincent looked at Emma.
“You’ve had this.”
“Yes.”
“Why hide it?”
“Sofia told me Matteo could never find Nico first.”
May you like
Vincent stared toward the photograph.
“Looks like I’m late.”
