The city is still sleeping when I slip out of the penthouse at five-thirty in the morning. Damien left before dawn again for a conference call with Tokyo. I heard him moving around the bedroom at four AM, the quiet rustle of expensive fabric, the soft click of his briefcase, the almost-silent closing of the door. He thinks I was asleep. I've gotten good at pretending. What am I doing? Visiting my mother's grave because my father had a slip of the tongue and Damien went pale when I mentioned her name? It sounds insane even in my own head. But something is wrong. I can feel it in my bones, in the way both men reacted when Isabella's name came up. In a careful way they've avoided talking about her. My mother died eight years ago in a car accident. I was away at college, and I came home to find my father destroyed and a closed casket at the funeral. They said the crash was too severe, that I shouldn't see her like that. That I should remember her as she was. I never questioned it. Why would I? People die in car accidents every day. But now...Now I'm standing on a Manhattan street corner at dawn, waiting for an Uber because I can't risk using Damien's car service. Can't risk anyone reporting back to him where I've gone. The driver is mercifully silent during the forty-minute drive to the Cemetery. I watch the city wake up through the window, delivery trucks making their rounds and early commuters heading to the subway. Now I'm sneaking around like a criminal in my own life. The cemetery gates are open at sunrise for early visitors. The Uber drops me at the entrance, and I'm alone with acres of graves and the sound of birds waking in the trees. I know where my mother's grave is. I've been here every year on the anniversary of her death, standing beside my father as he laid flowers and cried. The only time I ever saw Vincent Castellano truly vulnerable was here, in front of Isabella's headstone. Was it all performance? Was he crying for her or for himself? The morning dew soaks through my shoes as I walk the familiar path. I see my mother's grave from fifty feet away, and my steps falter. There are flowers. Fresh flowers. My heart pounds as I move closer. Red roses, at least two dozen, arranged in an expensive crystal vase. They're perfect, no wilting, no brown edges. They were placed here recently. Very recently. I drop to my knees in front of the headstone, not caring that the wet grass is soaking through my dress. ISABELLA MARIE CASTELLANO
Beloved Wife and Mother
1975 - 2017 The dates swim in front of my eyes. Something's wrong with them, but I can't immediately place what. My hands shake as I reach for the flowers, I was looking for a sign, proof or something to back my suspicion. That's when I see it. Tucked under the vase, protected from the dew by the crystal base, is a small white card. My fingers are numb as I pull it free. The handwriting is elegant, feminine and achingly familiar. "For my darling girl. The truth will find you when you're ready to see it. - I.M."I.M. Isabella Marie. The card slips from my nerveless fingers. I stare at it lying there on the grass, those carefully formed letters, that signature that looks exactly like my mother's handwriting. My mother's handwriting. "Beautiful, aren't they? "I nearly scream. I spin around to find an elderly man in groundskeeper's coveralls, a rake in his weathered hands. He's looking at the roses with appreciation. "The flowers," he clarifies, seeing my expression. "The lady who brings them has excellent taste. "My mouth is dry. "What lady?" "The one who visits every week." He leans on his rake, happy for the conversation. "Has been for years now. Always early morning, like you. Always brings those fancy roses. Red ones." "What..." "What does she look like?" "Elegant. That's the word. Real elegant. Dark hair, though she wears it differently each time, sometimes up, sometimes down, once with a hat. Expensive clothes. Moves like a dancer, you know? Graceful." "How old?" "It's hard to say that with women like that." He considers. "Forties, maybe? Could be older. Could be younger. Good genes, good plastic surgeon, who knows anymore? "My mother would be fifty if she were alive. Fifty, elegant and graceful, just like she always was." The funny thing..." The groundskeeper leans in conspiratorially. "She looks just like the lady buried here. Could be her sister, maybe her daughter." He looks at me more carefully. "You family?" "I'm her daughter." "Isabella was my mother." "Oh." His weathered face softens with sympathy. "I'm sorry for your loss, miss. It must've been hard, losing her so young." "Yes." I force myself to stand, my legs shaky. "It was. Still is." "Well, it's nice that someone else is keeping up the flowers. Family friend, maybe? The lady who comes, I mean." "Maybe." I look down at the headstone again, and suddenly I see what was bothering me about the dates. My mother's accident was November 3rd, 2017. I remember because it was three days after Halloween. I just returned to college after the holiday weekend. But the death date on the headstone says October 28th, 2017.Six days earlier. My vision blurs. How did I never notice? How did I stand here year after year and never see that the date was wrong? But I know how. Because I was young, grieving and I trusted my father when he said closed casket, quick funeral, don't ask questions. Because I was too destroyed to notice details. Because I never imagined my own father would lie to me about something like this. "Miss? You okay? You look pale." "I'm fine." I'm not fine. I'm the opposite of fine. "Thank you for your help." "You want me to walk you back to the gate? You look a little" "I'm fine," I repeat more firmly. "I just need a moment alone with my mother. "He nods, understanding, and shuffles away with his rake. I wait until he's out of sight, then pull out my phone with trembling hands. I photograph everything. The headstone with its wrong date. The roses in their expensive vase. The card with its cryptic message. The entire grave site from multiple angles. Evidence. I need evidence because I can barely trust my own eyes right now. I pick up the card again, reading it one more time. "For my darling girl. The truth will find you when you're ready to see it. - I.M." She called me that. "My darling girl." It was her special name for me, the one she used when it was just the two of us, when my father wasn't around to hear. Nobody else knows that. Nobody else would use those exact words. I slip the card into my purse, then stand there staring at the grave that might not contain my mother's body, at the flowers left by a woman who looks exactly like the deceased and at the date that's wrong by six days, just enough time to fake a death and disappear. If Isabella is alive...If my mother faked her death and has been alive for eight years while I grieved...If she's been watching me this whole time, watching me sign away three years of my life to save a father who might have driven her away...The rage hits me so hard I can't breathe. I thought I understood abandonment when my father sold me to save himself. But this...If my mother is alive and never came back for me, that's a betrayal that cuts deeper than what my father has done. I take one last photograph, then turn and walk away from the grave. My Uber is waiting at the gate. I asked him to stay, offering extra money. The drive back to Manhattan passes in a blur. My mind is racing, fitting pieces together. My mother died eight years ago. What happened eight years ago that was so terrible she had to disappear? Did she try to warn Vincent, like he mentioned in the prison? "She said there would be consequences for what we had done. "We. Not me. We. What did my parents do together that made Isabella flee? What was she running from? And why did Damien go pale when I mentioned her name? What does he know about my mother's disappearance? The penthouse is still quiet when I slip back inside at seven-thirty. Damien's conference call must still be going. I have time. I download the photos from my phone to my laptop, then delete them from my phone. Paranoid? Maybe. But I can't risk Damien finding them. Can't risk him knowing what I've discovered. He knows Isabella might be alive. I would bet everything I have left on it. The question is: what else does he know? I open my laptop and start a new encrypted document. At the top, I type: WHAT I KNOW. Then I start listing: My mother's grave has the wrong death date six days off Someone who looks exactly like her has been leaving flowers weekly for years. The handwriting on the card matches my mother's. My father nearly said "Your mother isn't..." before stopping himself Damien went pale when I mentioned her and won't explain why Isabella supposedly died in a solo car crash with no witnesses, body cremated quickly. My father said Isabella tried to warn him before she died about "consequences" Both men are terrified of me learning the truth about her I stare at the list, my hands shaking. My mother is alive. I'm almost certain of it now. But where? Why did she leave? And most importantly why has she been watching me suffer through all of this without coming back? I hear the study door open down the hall. Damien's conference call must be over. I quickly close the laptop and slip it under my mattress. Then I strip off my damp clothes and head for the shower, washing away the cemetery dew and morning cold. By the time Damien knocks on the door ten minutes later, I'm wrapped in a towel with wet hair, looking like I just woke up. "Elena? Are you awake?" "Just got out of the shower," I called back. "I'm making coffee. Do you want some?" The domesticity of the question is jarring. This man who owns me, who destroyed my family, who's been keeping secrets about my mother... offering to make me coffee like we're a normal couple. "I'll be out in a minute." I stare at myself in the mirror as I dry my hair. The woman looking back at me has shadows under her eyes and a hardness around her mouth that wasn't there three months ago. She looks like someone who's learning to keep secrets. She looks like someone who's learning to lie. She looks like someone who's ready to burn down the whole world to find the truth. I need to find my mother's belongings. My father mentioned she left things at the estate, an office that was sealed after her death. He probably kept it as some kind of shrine to his guilt. But getting to the Castellano estate means getting permission from Damien. Means lying about why I want to go. Means being convincing enough that he doesn't suspect I'm investigating. I can do this. I've been training for this my whole life performing, pretending, being the perfect daughter. I just need to be the perfect companion a little while longer. Long enough to find my mother. Long enough to figure out whose side I'm on in this war that's been raging around me without my knowledge. I dress carefully in soft cashmere and pearl earrings, the costume of innocence. Then I walk out to join Damien for coffee, my face arranged in pleasant lines that hide the fury burning underneath. "Good morning," I say, accepting the cup he offers. "Morning." He studies my face. "You look tired. Didn't sleep well?" "Bad dreams." The lie comes easily now. "I kept thinking about my father." Damien's expression softens fractionally. "That must be difficult." "It is." I take a sip of coffee, perfectly prepared the way I like it. He's learned my preferences over three months of captivity. "Actually, I was thinking... I would like to visit the estate. Get some of my mother's things. I don't have anything of hers here, and..."I let my voice trail off, adding just a hint of vulnerability. Damien sets down his cup. "The estate?" "I know it's technically yours now, but some of my mother's belongings are still there. Personal items. I just want... I need something of hers. Is that okay? "He's quiet for a long moment, and I can see the calculation behind his eyes. Weighing my request against some internal metric I can't read. Finally: "I'll arrange it. When do you want to go?" "Today?" I make it sound spontaneous, emotional. "If that's not too much trouble." "Today's fine." He pulls out his phone. "I'll have the car ready at ten. I'll come with you. "Of course he will. He's not going to let me go alone, not when he's this suspicious of my sudden interest in my mother. But that's okay. I can work with this. "Thank you," I say softly, and lean up to kiss his cheek. He catches my wrist gently as I pull back. "Elena." "Yes?" "Whatever you're looking for... be sure you really want to find it." The warning is clear. He knows I'm searching for something. He just doesn't know what or maybe he does, and he's warning me for reasons I don't understand yet. "I just want to remember my mother," I lie, looking up at him with innocent eyes. "That's all." He holds my gaze for a moment longer, then releases my wrist. "We leave at ten." I nod and take my coffee to the window, staring out at the city below. Somewhere out there, my mother is alive. Watching. And I'm going to find her.
The golden chains are still locked around my wrists, but I'm learning to pick the locks. And soon, very soon, I'm going to break free. One way or another.