I couldn't sleep.
Three days had passed since I found my mother's letter, and every night I lay awake staring at the ceiling, her words echoing in my mind. There are things about our family that I can no longer live with. What things? What had my parents done?
The documents I smuggled out of the estate were spread across my bed, the calendar, the clippings, the financial records, the letter. I read them so many times I memorized every word, every notation, every cryptic margin note. But no matter how many times I studied them, I couldn't piece together what they meant.
My mother had been unto something, something that involved my father. Something dangerous enough that she was afraid.
And then she died.
Or disappeared.
The thought had been growing in my mind like a dark seed. The more I learned, the less sense her death made. My mother had been planning something in those final weeks meeting with lawyers, transferring money offshore, asking about new identities. Those weren't the actions of someone planning to confront a problem. They were the actions of someone planning to run.
But run from what? From whom?
I pushed myself out of bed and walked to the window. Outside, the city glittered in the predawn darkness. Somewhere out there were answers. I just had to find them.
And I had to do it alone.
I couldn't go to the police; they'll alert Damien immediately, and whatever control I still had over this situation would evaporate.
No. This was on me.
I glanced at my phone on the nightstand. 5:47 AM. Too early to make calls, but not too early to plan my next move.
My mother's personal assistant. Margaret Samuel. She had worked for us for years, managing my mother's schedule, running errands, handling the thousand small details that made up Isabella Castellano's carefully curated life. And then, right after my mother died, she quit without explanation.
At the time, I assumed it was grief. Now I wondered if it was something else.
It took me two days to find her.
Margaret wasn't on social media, and her phone number had changed. But I finally tracked her down through a former household staff member who remembered she moved to Brooklyn and opened a small bookshop in Park Slope.
I called the shop that afternoon, my palms sweating as the phone rang.
"Samuel's Books." Her voice was exactly as I remembered: warm, efficient, with a slight accent.
"Margaret? It's Elena. Elena Castellano."
Silence. Then: "Elena. I... I wasn't expecting to hear from you."
"I know. I'm sorry to bother you. But I need to talk to you about my mother."
Another long pause. "I don't think that's a good idea."
"Please." I hated the desperation in my voice, but I couldn't hide it. "Just coffee. Thirty minutes. There are things I need to understand."
"Elena"
"She left me a letter, Margaret. From right before she died. It said she couldn't live with something anymore. That there were things about our family..." My voice cracked. "I need to know what she meant."
I heard her exhale, long and shaky. "When?"
"Whenever you can. Tomorrow? Today?"
"There's a café on Fifth Avenue, near the bookshop. Colson. Do you know it?"
"I'll find it."
"Tomorrow morning. Eight o'clock. And Elena?" Her voice dropped. "Come alone."
The café was small and quiet, tucked between a yoga studio and a vintage clothing shop. I arrived early, ordered a coffee, and sat at a corner table where I could watch the door.
Margaret arrived exactly at eight. She looked older than I remembered her hair was shorter, streaked with gray, and there were new lines around her eyes. She wore jeans and a simple sweater, a far cry from the tailored suits she wore while working for my mother.
She spotted me and hesitated, her hand on the door. For a moment I thought she might leave. But then she squared her shoulders and walked over.
"Elena." She didn't sit down immediately. "You look well."
"So do you." I gestured to the empty chair. "Thank you for meeting me."
She sat, but perched on the edge of the seat, as if ready to bolt. "I have thirty minutes before I need to open the shop."
"I understand." I pulled the letter from my purse and slid it across the table. "This is what I found. There were other things too: appointment calendars, financial records, newspaper clippings about environmental violations. Margaret, what was she involved in?"
Margaret stared at the letter without touching it. Her hands trembled slightly as she folded them in her lap.
"I don't know," she said finally. "Not specifically. But I knew something was wrong."
"Tell me."
She glanced around the café, as if checking for eavesdroppers. Then she leaned forward, her voice dropping. "It started about six months before she died. Maybe longer. She changed. She was always so calm, so organized, but suddenly she was... anxious. Secretive. She makes phone calls in her study with the door locked. She leaves the house for hours without telling me where she was going."
"Did she say anything about what she was afraid of?"
"Not directly. But once, I overheard her on the phone. She was in the library, and I walked in to tell her about a schedule change. She didn't hear me at first, and I heard her say, 'I can't keep quiet about this anymore. Too many people have been hurt.'" Margaret's eyes met mine. "When she saw me, she hung up immediately. She looked terrified."
"Did you ask her about it?"
"I tried. She said it was nothing, just stress. But it wasn't nothing, Elena. I worked for your mother for ten years. I knew when something was wrong."
"The calendar mentioned meetings with lawyers. Do you know who they were?"
Margaret nodded slowly. "She met with several law firms in those final months. Environmental law firms, mostly. She asked me to research liability cases, toxic waste, corporate cover-ups, that sort of thing. I thought it was odd because your mother wasn't involved in the family business. That was your father's domain."
"Did she say why she was researching it?"
"No. But she asked me not to mention it to anyone. Not your father, not the household staff. No one." Margaret's voice dropped even lower. "And then, the week before she died, she asked me something strange."
"What?"
"She asked me how someone would go about creating a new identity. Getting new documents, disappearing without a trace." Margaret's eyes glistened. "I thought she was asking hypothetically, maybe for research or something. But now... I think she was planning to run
"Run from what?"
"I don't know. She wouldn't tell me." Margaret finally reached out and touched the letter, her fingers tracing the edge. "The day before the accident, she gave me an envelope. She said if anything happened to her, I should keep it safe. She made me promise not to open it unless" She stopped, swallowing hard.
"Unless what?"
"Unless you came asking questions."
My heart hammered in my chest. "Do you still have it?"
"No. After she died, I panicked. I thought about what she said, about being afraid, and I convinced myself the accident wasn't an accident. I burned the envelope without opening it." Tears spilled down her cheeks. "I was terrified. I quit my job, moved to Brooklyn, and tried to forget. I'm so sorry, Elena. I should have been braver."
I reached across the table and took her hand. "It's okay. You were scared."
"I still am." She squeezed my hand, then pulled away. "That's not all. Six months ago, a private investigator came to my store. He was asking questions about your mother about her final days, who she met with, whether I knew anything unusual."
My blood ran cold. "Who was he working for?"
"He wouldn't say. But he was professional, expensive-looking. Not some cheap PI. Someone with serious resources hired him." She reached into her purse and pulled out a worn business card. "He left this. I didn't tell him anything, but... I kept it. Just in case."
I took the card. The text was simple, embossed in black: Michael Chen Investigations, followed by a Manhattan address and phone number.
"Someone's been looking for her," Margaret whispered. "All these years later, someone is still looking."
I stared at the card, my mind racing. Who would hire a PI to investigate my mother's death after all this time? Damien? He had the resources. But why would he care about Isabella unless...
"Elena." Margaret's voice snapped me back to the present. "Be careful. Your mother was afraid of something, and whatever it was, it was powerful enough to make her consider leaving everything behind. If you start digging into this"
"I have to," I said. "I need to know the truth."
I left the café with Margaret's words.
Back at the apartment, I spread the documents out again, adding the card to my growing collection of clues. My mother had been investigating something environmental and corporate. She had been afraid enough to plan an escape. And now, someone was still looking for answers.
I needed help. Professional help. But I couldn't risk hiring someone who might report back to Damien or anyone connected to my father's world.
I spent the rest of the afternoon researching private investigators in New York. I needed someone independent.
It took me three hours and a dozen rejected candidates before I found Sarah Rodriguez.
Her website was simple but professional. Former NYPD detective, now running her own firm specializing in cold cases and background investigations. No flashy promises, no corporate client list. Just straightforward, honest work.
I called the number on her website.
"Rodriguez Investigations." The voice was brisk, professional.
"Ms. Rodriguez? My name is Elena Castellano. I need to hire you for a private investigation."
A pause. "Castellano. Vincent Castellano's daughter?"
My stomach sank. "Yes. Is that a problem?"
"That depends. What kind of investigation are we talking about?"
I took a breath. "I need you to find out who hired a PI named Michael Chen six months ago to investigate my mother's death. And I need you to dig deeper into the circumstances around her car accident eight years ago. I have reason to believe it wasn't an accident."
Another pause, longer this time. "That's a tall order. And given your family's... situation, it could be complicated."
"I know. But I'm willing to pay whatever it takes. And I need someone who isn't connected to my family's business interests. Someone who won't report back to anyone but me."
"Why are you doing this now? It's been eight years."
"Because I just found evidence that suggests my mother was planning to disappear. That she was investigating something dangerous. And someone is still looking for answers." I gripped the phone tighter. "Please. I need to know the truth."
Sarah was quiet for a long moment. Then: "All right. I'll take the case. But I need to be clear about something. If I find evidence of criminal activity, I'm obligated to report it. I won't be part of a cover-up."
"I don't want a cover-up. I want the truth, whatever it is."
"Okay. Let's meet. Tomorrow. And Ms. Castellano? Come alone. No bodyguards, no boyfriends, no one from your family."
"I understand."
"Good. See you tomorrow."
The line went dead.
I set the phone down and stared at the documents spread across my bed. This was really happening. I was hiring a private investigator to dig into my mother's death, to uncover whatever secrets my parents had been hiding.
And I was doing it all behind Damien's back.
A knock on the door made me jump. I quickly gathered the documents and shoved them into a drawer before calling out, "Who is it?"
"It's me."
Damien.
He stood in the hallway, still in his suit from work, his tie loosened. His dark eyes scanned my face with that unnerving intensity I had grown used to.
"You weren't answering your phone," he said.
"I was taking a nap. I had a headache." The lie came easily, which should have bothered me more than it did.
"Are you feeling better?"
"A little."
He studied me for another moment, then stepped past me into the apartment without waiting for an invitation.
"You've been distant lately," he said, turning back to face me.
"I've had a lot on my mind."
"The estate visit." It wasn't a question.
"Yes."
"Did you find what you were looking for?"
The question felt loaded, I kept my expression neutral. "Just some memories. Photos, like I said."
"Nothing else?"
"What else would there be?"
Damien moved closer, close enough that I could smell his cologne. He reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind my ear, his touch gentle but somehow threatening.
"I don't know, Elena. You tell me."
My heart hammered against my ribs, but I held his gaze. "I don't know what you're implying."
"I'm not implying anything. I'm just... concerned. You seem like you're carrying something heavy. Something you're not telling me."
"I'm fine," I said aloud. "Just processing everything that's happened. My father's arrest, the trial, losing the estate. It's a lot."
"I know it is." His hand moved to cup my cheek. "That's why I'm here. To support you. To help you through this. But I can only do that if you're honest with me."
"I am being honest," I lied.
He studied my face for a long moment, his thumb brushing across my cheekbone. Then he leaned in and kissed me soft, gentle, but with an undercurrent of possession that made my skin crawl.
When he pulled back, his eyes were dark and unreadable.
"Good," he said.
He kissed me, then stepped back.
He moved toward the door, then paused and turned back. "Elena?"
"Yes?"
"If you ever need any information, resources, help with something you'll come to me, won't you?"
The words should have been comforting. Instead, they felt like a warning.
"I know," I said. "Thank you."
He smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes.
Then he left.
I pushed away from the door and went back to the bedroom. I pulled the documents from the drawer and stared at them, at my mother's handwriting, at the cryptic clues that were supposed to lead me to the truth.
I put the documents away and climbed into bed, but I knew I wouldn't sleep.
Because this is too heavy for me, but we'll start making progress after visiting the detective tomorrow, I believe.