The housekeeper's frightened escape left a vacuum in the room, a ringing silence in which her whispered confession still reverberated. The letters… they're safe. These words became my life line-a palpable thread of hope in the claustrophobic darkness of my predicament. She knew. A woman of flesh and blood, not just some ghost from the diary, knew the truth. But her terror rose like a rampart, preventing me from getting the answers I so desperately needed. An approach based on any kind of confrontation would only end badly; she would deny everything, and the shock might even compel her to alert Dante.
My mind, sharpened from constant gymnastics during the past week, got down to work. I could not be the captor demanding answers. I could not be the ghost haunting her. I had to be Alessia, a girl in trouble, asking the only person she thought might understand for help. I had to build a bridge of trust across a thirty-year-old chasm of fear.
A big risk stood before me: leaving the safe haven of my room. Anywhere, I could have walked into Dante. But now there was something new in my heart as I walked the soft stone floor of the villa: purpose. I stepped softly through the maze of furniture draped in white sheets, leaving behind the preserved silence of the great house and making my way to the staff wing. Here, the architecture was less ornate, the air more alive with the gentle scent of garlic and baking bread. This part of the house was where life flowed.
In the kitchen, I found her. Mrs. Castillo faced the other way, at a big basin where she had her hands immersed in the water, and she was not washing anything at all; she was shaking. She was crying.
I forced the door close, and the soft click made her jump. She turned, startled, pale with fear. She looked like an animal trapped in a corner.
"Please," I said in a whisper, holding my hands up, palms toward her, to show her I meant no harm. "Don't be afraid. I'm sorry I startled you."
She kept staring, her chest heaving.
"I won't tell him," I said, stepping a little closer. "What you said... it's safe with me."
The old woman shook her head and muttered something in a mix of Italian and English. "I said nothing. You are mistaken, Signora. The grief... seeing you... my mind plays tricks."
She was trying to retreat again, to rebuild the wall of silence she had kept for thirty years. I couldn't allow it.
"Mrs. Castillo," I said, my tone gentle but firm. "I've read her diary."
Her eyes widened even farther, and her knuckles went white gripping the edge of the sink. It was a huge gamble, admitting I had found the diary, but it was the only play in my hand.
"I know how afraid she was," I said still, inching even closer. "I know she didn't die in an accident. And I know she trusted you more than anyone. You were her only friend in this house." I wove truth from the diary into my assumptions to create a story that I prayed she would believe.
"She... she was a good woman," Mrs. Castillo managed to choke out. "A kind soul in a house of wolves."
"Then help me," I pleaded, my voice breaking with deep emotion. "He—Dante—he thinks I am her ghost. He is trying to erase me and replace me with her memory. But the memory he has is a lie. A lie that has ruined my life and kept her spirit from resting. You said you kept her secret. Help me understand it. Not for him. For her."
With tenderness, I reached out and touched her trembling work-hardened hand. The contact was a spark. Her fearful eyes searched mine, instinctively looking past the ghostly resemblance, seeing, I hoped, the desperate girl beneath.
She was at an impasse; I could read a battle on her face—a lifetime of fear against a promise made to a dearly loved mistress. There was strong loyalty and long-standing fear of the Moretti men.
"If he finds out, he will kill us both," she whispered, her voice harsh.
"He would destroy me if he doesn't," I whispered back. "Please. Help me give her peace. Help me find my own."
The request hung limply between us. Her gaze flickered around the kitchen beyond sight of her master. One last look between them, and she made up her mind. An eerie resolve set like steel upon her gaze.
She wouldn't say the location out loud for the sake of safety. She leaned closer to me, whispering with an almost inaudible voice against my ear. "The key to her writing desk. The locked drawer. He could never find it."
My heart leapt. "Where is it?" I breathed.
Mrs. Castillo drew back, her eyes shining with something strange and sad. "She kept it safe. Where she kept her hope." She squeezed my hand; a pact of silence united the two of us. "Find the first light of morning, Signora. The Madonna will show you the way."
Before I could open my mouth and question her, she snatched her hand away, turning back to the sink and re-assuming her pose with steely resolve. The conversation was over. I had my first hint: A riddle. And so I glided out of the kitchen, knowing I had at least gained a weak and terrified ally in my quest for the truth.