Chapter 2 - The Blood Behind the Locked Door
Vincent woke sixteen hours later beneath white hospital lights.
His first thought was irritation.
His second was Adeline.
That concerned him more.
He opened his eyes.
Dr. Lena Morales stood beside a monitor.
“You’re difficult to kill.”
“I’ve heard.”
“You lost almost two liters of blood.”
“I assume you put some back.”
She stared.
“You are the reason doctors develop drinking problems.”
Vincent looked toward the door.
“Marcus?”
“Outside.”
“Camille?”
Lena’s eyes narrowed.
“Interesting order.”
“What?”
“You asked for the maid before your sister.”
Vincent said nothing.
Lena left.
Marcus entered thirty seconds later.
His dark suit was wrinkled.
He looked like he had not slept.
“Isabella?”
“Missing.”
“Uncle Rafael?”
“In Houston.”
“Verified?”
“Private hospital.”
Vincent frowned.
“What?”
“Cardiac procedure. We confirmed with surgeon, video footage, hospital security, flight history.”
“So the cufflink was planted.”
“Probably.”
“Or stolen.”
“Yes.”
Vincent stared at the ceiling.
“And Isabella?”
“Her car was found at Louis Armstrong Airport.”
“Passenger footage?”
“No sign she boarded.”
“Phone?”
“Inside the vehicle.”
“She wanted us to think she flew.”
“Or whoever moved her did.”
Vincent turned his head.
“Camille.”
Marcus paused.
“What about her?”
“Where is she?”
“At the estate.”
“Under guard?”
“Protected.”
“That isn’t what I asked.”
Marcus sighed.
“Yes.”
“Good.”
“You think she knows something.”
“I know she knows something.”
Marcus folded his arms.
“She’s worked here eight months.”
“Exactly.”
“And?”
“Why did she teach her daughter how to use our emergency line?”
“Because she works in a wealthy man’s house with armed guards?”
“No.”
Vincent shook his head.
“She specifically taught a child under three how to press a private security emergency button.”
Marcus considered.
“You think she expected danger.”
“I think Camille Ruiz—”
“Boudreaux.”
Vincent looked at him.
“Her name is Camille Boudreaux.”
“I know.”
“Then why did you call her Ruiz yesterday?”
Vincent remembered.
He had not.
Adeline’s surname in payroll records was Boudreaux.
Why had Marcus said Ruiz?
Marcus went still.
“That was another employee.”
Vincent stared.
“Which employee?”
Marcus’s face changed.
Too late.
Vincent knew.
“Pull Camille’s file.”
Marcus left.
Returned five minutes later.
“Her legal name is Camille Marie Boudreaux.”
“Previous surname?”
“Ruiz.”
Vincent said nothing.
“Marriage?”
“Yes.”
“Husband?”
“Mateo Ruiz.”
The name meant something.
Not immediately.
Then memory.
Dock Nine.
Seven years earlier.
A warehouse accountant.
Witness in a federal investigation.
Killed before testimony.
Vincent sat up too quickly.
Pain tore through his side.
Lena yelled from the hall.
“Don’t.”
Vincent ignored her.
“Mateo Ruiz worked for my father.”
“Yes.”
“He died before I took over.”
“Technically six months before.”
“Cause?”
“Home invasion.”
Vincent remembered the funeral.
His father had sent money to the widow.
He had not attended.
At the time, Vincent had been in New York negotiating control after the elder Castellano suffered a stroke.
“Camille was his wife.”
“Yes.”
“And Adeline?”
“Not his.”
“Obviously.”
The timeline didn't fit.
“Who’s her father?”
“No father listed.”
Vincent leaned back carefully.
Camille had entered his household under her maiden name eight months earlier.
Her husband had died seven years ago.
Why hide the marriage?
Marcus continued.
“There’s more.”
“Of course.”
“Mateo Ruiz was investigating Rafael.”
Vincent’s gaze hardened.
“For what?”
“Dock contracts. Money movement. Offshore freight.”
“Illegal?”
“Looks that way.”
“And before he could testify, he died.”
“Yes.”
“Did Rafael order it?”
“No proof.”
“Who investigated?”
Marcus hesitated.
“Your father.”
Vincent laughed once.
Wrong man.
The elder Castellano had protected family above truth.
If Rafael were involved, Vincent’s father might have buried the entire matter.
“Camille knows.”
“Maybe.”
“She knows.”
Vincent looked toward the window.
“You said Isabella still missing.”
“Yes.”
“Did she know Camille’s identity?”
“We’re checking.”
“Find out.”
Marcus began to leave.
“Wait.”
He turned.
“Bring Camille.”
“Here?”
“Yes.”
“Vincent, security—”
“I’m lying in a private hospital floor owned through three Castellano entities with eight armed men outside.”
Marcus smiled slightly.
“Fair.”
Camille arrived an hour later.
Adeline stayed at the estate with Clara.
Vincent noticed immediately.
“Where’s Addie?”
Camille stared.
“With people I trust.”
The answer carried a message.
Not you.
Vincent deserved it.
“Sit.”
“No.”
He almost smiled.
Most people sat when Vincent Castellano said sit.
Camille remained standing.
“Why didn’t you tell me you were Mateo Ruiz’s widow?”
Her face went still.
“Because I needed employment.”
“That answer worked yesterday.”
“It’s still true.”
“Try another.”
She crossed her arms.
“Because your family got my husband killed.”
Silence.
There it was.
No euphemism.
No caution.
Vincent studied her.
“You believe Rafael ordered it.”
“I believe someone did.”
“Why work in my home?”
“To survive.”
“No.”
Camille’s jaw tightened.
Vincent continued.
“You could clean fifty houses in Louisiana. You chose mine.”
“I applied through an agency.”
“You requested residential placement.”
She said nothing.
“You wanted access.”
“To what?”
“My house.”
Her eyes flashed.
“You think I stabbed you?”
“No.”
That surprised her.
“Why not?”
“Because whoever stabbed me came close enough that I did not immediately defend myself.”
Camille’s expression shifted.
“You knew them.”
“Yes.”
“Isabella?”
“I don’t know.”
Camille looked away.
“Adeline said red shoes.”
“She saw a woman.”
“Your sister wears red shoes.”
“So do thousands of women.”
Camille laughed bitterly.
“You interrogated me yesterday over it.”
“I was bleeding.”
“Apparently blood makes you dramatic.”
He almost smiled again.
Then his face hardened.
“Why did you teach Addie the red button?”
Camille became quiet.
Finally:
“Because I grew up around emergencies.”
“Meaning?”
“My father was a paramedic.”
“That all?”
“No.”
She looked through the window.
“After Mateo died, I became afraid of being somewhere with Adeline and nobody knowing how to call for help.”
Vincent frowned.
“Adeline wasn't born.”
“No.”
“Then why—”
Camille closed her eyes.
“Mia.”
“What?”
“My first daughter.”
Vincent went still.
Camille’s voice became quieter.
“She was four.”
He did not interrupt.
“Two years after Mateo died, someone broke into our apartment.”
Vincent felt something cold enter his chest.
“They were looking for papers.”
“What papers?”
“I didn’t know.”
“Your daughter?”
Camille looked at him.
“She hid in a closet.”
Vincent waited.
“She had asthma.”
He understood before Camille finished.
“She panicked.”
“Yes.”
“No inhaler?”
“In another room.”
Vincent said nothing.
“She died before the ambulance arrived.”
The hospital room became impossibly quiet.
Now the emergency button made sense.
Camille had already lost one child while help was too far away.
She would never let that happen again.
Vincent lowered his voice.
“I’m sorry.”
Her face tightened.
“Your family sent flowers.”
He took the accusation.
“Did the intruders find anything?”
“No.”
“What were they looking for?”
“I still don’t know.”
“You must have wondered.”
“Every day.”
Vincent leaned back.
“Why come here?”
Camille finally answered honestly.
“Because three months before I applied, someone mailed me a photograph.”
She reached into her bag.
Placed it on his bed.
Mateo Ruiz standing beside Vincent’s father.
Rafael behind them.
And a fourth person.
Isabella.
Much younger.
Maybe twenty-one.
On the back:
ASK WHAT MATEO FOUND BEFORE THEY KILLED HIM.
Vincent stared.
“Who sent this?”
“No return address.”
“And you came here.”
“Yes.”
“To investigate my family.”
“Yes.”
“You brought Adeline into this house.”
Camille flinched.
“That part was never supposed to happen.”
“What?”
“My childcare arrangement collapsed after two weeks. Then your housekeeper offered to let her stay in the staff nursery.”
“You could’ve left.”
“I should have.”
Her eyes filled.
“I know that now.”
Vincent looked at the photograph.
His sister.
His uncle.
His father.
A dead employee.
All connected before he took control.
“Did Isabella know who you were?”
“Yes.”
That was new.
“How?”
“She found me in the laundry room four months ago.”
“What did she say?”
Camille swallowed.
“She told me to leave.”
“Threat?”
“No.”
“What?”
“A warning.”
Vincent stared.
“She said, ‘If you love your daughter, take her somewhere no Castellano knows your name.’”
His pulse changed.
Maybe Isabella wasn’t running because she attacked him.
Maybe she was running because she knew who did.
Then Camille added:
“There’s something else.”
Vincent waited.
“Last night before Adeline went to sleep, she said the red-shoe lady gave her something.”
“What?”
Camille reached into her purse.
A small brass key.
“Addie had it inside her stuffed alligator.”
Vincent looked at it.
A tag was attached.
No address.
Only three numbers.
317.
Marcus came in when summoned.
He recognized it immediately.
“Deposit box.”
“Where?”
“Castellano Private Trust.”
Vincent looked at Camille.
May you like
Isabella had not left behind a confession.
She had left a key.
