Chapter 7 - 7
I watched Camila fall six times.
Six times, I saw her disappear from the screen.
Six times, I searched the blurred background for something that might tell us where my mother was being held.
A window.
A sign.
A reflection.
Anything.
On the seventh viewing, Sarah gently took the tablet away.
“Emily, the investigators have the original file. They'll examine it frame by frame.”
I pressed my palms against my eyes.
“Camila knew.”
Sarah didn't answer.
“She knew something was wrong before I came here.”
Massimo sat beside me.
“Maybe she was trying to protect you.”
“Then why didn't she tell me?”
“Because someone may have been threatening her too.”
I wanted to believe that.
But I couldn't forget Camila's message.
I didn't know they would choose you.
Choose me.
Not hire me.
Choose me.
Sarah's phone rang.
She stepped into the hallway.
I looked at Massimo.
“There's something we're missing.”
He nodded.
“My brother.”
“Which one?”
His expression darkened.
“That's the problem.”
Adrian had vanished from the estate after Gabriel appeared.
Gabriel hadn't been seen since the power outage.
And Luca, the guard who supposedly controlled the security system, had given conflicting explanations about the missing footage.
Three men.
Three possible connections.
And my mother somewhere in the middle.
I stood.
“I want to see the west wing.”
Massimo looked up sharply.
“No.”
“Rosa said that's where everything started.”
“She also told you not to go there.”
“Which means there's something there.”
“Emily—”
“I'm not going alone.”
He studied me.
Then sighed.
“You really are impossible.”
“I'm beginning to think that's why you hired me.”
He almost smiled.
We waited until Sarah returned.
When I explained what I wanted, she immediately objected.
“If there's potential evidence in that part of the house, the police should inspect it.”
“They already walked through the hallway,” Massimo said.
“Then we request a more thorough search. We don't go disturbing things ourselves.”
I hated how reasonable she sounded.
But she was right.
Sarah contacted the detective assigned to the kidnapping, Marcus Bennett, and explained Rosa's statement.
He agreed to return with an evidence technician.
Two hours later, we stood outside the west wing.
The double doors were made of dark oak.
Massimo stared at them.
“What's in there?” I asked.
“My mother's rooms.”
I looked at him.
“You kept them untouched?”
“Mostly.”
“Why?”
He swallowed.
“Because after she died, I couldn't bring myself to change anything.”
Detective Bennett opened the doors.
The air inside smelled faintly of dust and old perfume.
A long corridor led toward a private sitting room.
Family portraits lined the walls.
At the far end stood a grand staircase.
I stopped.
“Is that where she fell?”
Massimo nodded.
His hands tightened around the wheels of his chair.
“I found her at the bottom.”
I looked at him.
“How old were you?”
“Twenty-nine.”
“And Gabriel?”
“Twenty-nine.”
“Adrian?”
“Thirty-four.”
I stared at the staircase.
Something about the layout bothered me.
The steps curved sharply near the bottom.
A decorative iron railing bordered the landing.
And directly above it hung a large portrait of Isabella Pascale.
She was smiling.
But there was something haunting about her eyes.
Detective Bennett examined the area.
“Has anyone renovated this staircase?”
Massimo shook his head.
“Not since my mother died.”
The detective nodded.
“Let's keep moving.”
We entered Isabella's private sitting room.
The furniture was covered in white sheets.
A piano stood near the windows.
Beside it was a writing desk.
I noticed a framed photograph on the desk.
Isabella stood beside a man.
My father.
My breath caught.
“Massimo.”
He turned.
I pointed.
“That's Daniel.”
He stared at the photograph.
Then slowly shook his head.
“I've never seen this.”
Detective Bennett approached.
“Don't touch it.”
He photographed the frame before carefully examining it.
On the back was a handwritten date.
September 12.
Five days before Isabella's death.
Beneath the date were three words.
The truth survives.
My throat tightened.
The detective looked at me.
“Miss Fitzgerald, can you identify the man?”
I nodded.
“That's my father.”
He studied the photograph.
“Then we need to find out why he was meeting Isabella Pascale.”
Massimo looked toward the staircase.
“Maybe she was helping him.”
“Or maybe,” I whispered, “he was helping her.”
A faint clicking sound interrupted us.
I turned.
The detective had opened the writing desk.
Inside was an old cassette recorder.
He examined it carefully.
“Looks like someone stored this here.”
Massimo leaned forward.
“My mother used to record letters.”
“Letters?” I asked.
“She hated writing long messages by hand. She recorded them and had her assistant type them.”
Detective Bennett placed the recorder in an evidence bag.
“We'll see whether there's anything on it.”
I felt a flicker of hope.
For the first time, we had something tangible.
Something that might explain why my father had died.
As we left the room, Massimo suddenly stopped.
His face twisted.
“What's wrong?” I asked.
He gripped the armrest.
“My leg.”
I knelt beside him.
“Pain?”
He nodded.
“Burning.”
“Where?”
He pointed toward his left thigh.
I asked him to describe the sensation, checked whether he had any new weakness or other symptoms, and urged him not to force movement.
His breathing grew shallow.
“Is this bad?”
“New symptoms need medical evaluation. Let's get you back to your room and contact your physician.”
He nodded.
But when I helped reposition his foot, he suddenly grabbed my wrist.
“Emily.”
“What?”
His eyes widened.
“I can feel your hand.”
I froze.
“Where?”
“My ankle.”
I looked down.
My fingers were resting lightly against the outside of his ankle.
“Are you sure?”
He nodded.
I moved my hand away.
Then, with his permission, I repeated the touch while he looked in the opposite direction.
His answers weren't consistent.
But twice, he correctly identified where I touched him.
It was enough to justify a careful reassessment.
Massimo looked at me.
“Does this mean I'm getting better?”
“It may be a change. We need to confirm it.”
He laughed softly.
“You never give me the answer I want.”
“I give you the answer I can defend.”
His expression softened.
Then he said, “That's why I trust you.”
My heart tightened.
Before I could respond, Detective Bennett's phone rang.
He listened for several seconds.
Then his face changed.
“What do you mean, she's gone?”
He looked at me.
My stomach dropped.
“Detective?”
He lowered the phone.
“Miss Fitzgerald, we found the building where your mother was being held.”
I stepped forward.
“Is she there?”
He hesitated.
“No.”
My knees weakened.
“Where is she?”
“We don't know.”
He glanced toward Massimo.
“But we found something else.”
“What?”
The detective swallowed.
“A body.”
I covered my mouth.
“Whose?”
May you like
He looked directly at Massimo.
“Your brother Adrian.”
