Chapter 2 - A Patient Who Could Hear Everything
Beth Mercer did not raise her voice. That was what made her frightening. “The tablet is an as-needed sedative,” she told Dominic. “Your father's agitation has been impossible. I was protecting the staff.”
“Then show me the prescription,” Norah said.
“It's in the upstairs chart.”
“Let's get it.”
Beth looked toward Dominic, apparently expecting him to remove this inconvenient employee. He surprised both women. “Bring down every medication record. Now.”
Salvatore's chair scraped when he tried to turn away from Beth. Norah positioned the communication board within reach. “Do you want her to take you upstairs?” His finger landed squarely on NO.
Dominic rubbed his forehead. “Frank, stay with her until we sort this out.” Beth's mouth opened. “That isn't a request.”
Norah held the unidentified tablet in its labeled container and contacted the prescribing practice through the number in the chart. An on-call physician arranged an urgent review; Salvatore's neurologist, Dr. Meera Shah, arrived forty-five minutes later. The medication administration record showed a scheduled blood-pressure treatment and adjusted pain relief. It contained no current order for the extra sedative. Dr. Shah would not declare it poisoning on sight, but she documented the discrepancy, directed that the medication be withheld pending verification, and ordered clinical monitoring and a pharmacy reconciliation.
Dominic watched her examination. Salvatore selected the correct pictures from a communication board, followed written commands, and identified which side of his body hurt. When Dr. Shah said his language impairment was severe but his comprehension appeared substantially preserved, Dominic turned toward the window.
“I've been talking about him like he isn't here.”
Norah glanced at Salvatore. “You can talk to him now.”
The old man deliberately turned his face away from his son.
At midnight, the physician left with instructions to arrange a speech-language evaluation and follow up on medication records. Beth remained in the estate office with Frank stationed outside. Norah wanted to go home, but the anonymous photograph made the idea of her basement apartment feel like walking into a trap.
Dominic offered a guest suite. “You can leave in the morning when we've checked the security situation.”
“You'll tell my agency I'm staying because there was a threat,” she said. “And I'm calling my aunt.”
“Do whatever you need.”
“Not whatever. Whatever I choose.”
That earned her a tired, almost surprised look. “Fair enough.”
Her aunt Mae answered on the third ring from an apartment in Yonkers, her voice fuzzy with sleep. Norah kept her explanation brief: a problem at work, a threatening message, a temporary change of address. Mae listened in silence and then said, “Moretti? Honey, did you say Moretti?”
“Yes. Why?”
Her aunt was quiet long enough that Norah checked the connection. “Your grandmother knew a woman named Sofia Moretti. I don't know the whole story. Grandma told us never to take work from that family.”
Norah sat up. “Why didn't you tell me?”
“I didn't know where you'd taken that job until you said the name. Call me tomorrow when you're alone. And don't brush this off.”
After the call, Norah found Dominic in the kitchen, standing in front of an untouched cup of coffee. He had exchanged his jacket for a dark sweater. For the first time he looked less like a portrait of authority and more like a man who hadn't slept in a week.
“My grandmother knew your mother,” she said.
He stared at her. “What was her name?”
“Elena Romano. She married a Gallagher.”
Dominic set down the cup. “Elena used to bring my mother lemon cookies. After she died, my father banned the woman from the property.”
“Why?”
“I was fifteen. Nobody answered questions.”
Norah told him about Mae's warning. He didn't suggest that the coincidence made Norah a spy, although she could see the suspicion pass through his face. Instead, he opened a drawer and took out a faded photograph: Sofia Moretti holding a paper bag in a sunlit kitchen. A round-faced woman stood beside her, smiling at the camera. Norah knew the face instantly. Her grandmother.
“She never showed me that picture,” Norah whispered.
“My mother kept it. I found it after the funeral.” He held the photograph by its edges, careful not to smudge it. “For years I thought the warehouse fire was my fault. She went there to pick up a ledger I'd forgotten to bring home. That's what my father told me.”
“Your father says it wasn't an accident.”
“He says Matteo Vieri caused it.” Dominic's voice hardened around the name. “Matteo was my father's closest friend. He's been managing our finances since before I was born.”
“What do you think?”
“I don't know what to think. I spent half my life trusting the wrong people. Apparently I may have spent the other half hating my father for the wrong reasons.”
Norah shook her head. “There could still be plenty of good reasons to be angry at him.”
Dominic gave a humorless laugh. “That's the first comforting thing anybody's said tonight.”
At breakfast Salvatore accepted food from Norah, then insisted on holding the spoon himself. He spilled a little oatmeal. Nobody commented. When he finished, Norah moved the board toward him.
“Did my grandmother know about Pier 9?”
YES.
“Did she know your wife?”
YES. He looked at Norah with an intensity that made her lean closer.
“Did she try to help?”
YES.
He dragged his finger over the alphabet, stopping on E, then V. His hand shook uncontrollably. Norah offered him a break, but he knocked the board against her knee. Eventually the letters formed a name: EVELYN.
“Who is Evelyn?” Dominic asked.
Salvatore pointed to a photograph on the bedside table. It showed Sofia with three dockworkers beside a bright red tugboat. One was a teenage boy in a baseball cap. On the back, in looping handwriting, somebody had written: Peter Bell, nineteen. First real job.
Dominic remembered the name immediately. Peter had been declared dead in the fire.
Norah's phone lit up again. The unknown sender wrote: HE WAS MY BROTHER. DON'T LET THEM CALL HIM A THIEF AGAIN.
A second message followed. YOUR GRANDMOTHER TRIED TO HELP US. MEET ME WITHOUT MATTEO.
Norah showed Dominic, then took a screenshot and preserved the messages. “This woman knows where I live. I'm not meeting her alone.”
“Neither am I,” Dominic said. “We'll ask her to speak through a lawyer.”
From his wheelchair, Salvatore began tapping the armrest. Three times. A pause. Nine times. Not an outburst this time. An urgent signal.
Norah gave him the board. He selected one word with immense effort.
TODAY.
May you like
The bedroom door opened. Frank stood there, his powerful shoulders filling the frame. “Dominic. Matteo just arrived. He says there's a problem with the accounts. He wants to speak to your father.”
Salvatore's spoon clattered to the floor.
