Chapter 8 - THE LAST LIERebecca’s letter contained only four sentences.
Norah,
I thought I could stay.
I was wrong.
Victor has one final insurance policy, and I know where it is.
Please do not follow me.
I love you enough to finish what I should have finished twenty-eight years ago.
I crushed the paper in my fist.
“She learned absolutely nothing from this family.”
Lucian carefully took the letter.
“She thinks she’s protecting you.”
“I know.”
He caught my expression.
“Sorry.”
“No, this time you’re describing her mistake instead of making it.”
“Progress.”
“Tiny progress.”
Marco entered my kitchen.
“We have her vehicle.”
“Where?”
“Airport parking.”
My stomach dropped.
“She flew somewhere?”
“No. Car was abandoned.”
“Cameras?”
“Working on it.”
Ethan was still in intensive care but awake.
Victor was hospitalized under guard.
Richard was awaiting arraignment from a secure medical wing.
The conspiracy was falling apart.
So what insurance policy could still matter?
Detective Torres came over that afternoon with an answer.
“A video archive.”
She put a photograph on the table.
Victor had maintained a private storage facility containing recordings of politicians, judges and business figures.
Blackmail.
Decades of it.
“If Rebecca destroys it,” I said, “isn’t that good?”
“Not if it contains evidence.”
“Why would she destroy evidence?”
Torres looked uncomfortable.
“Because one recording concerns you.”
Lucian became still.
“What kind?”
“We don’t know.”
“Then how do you know it exists?”
“Victor told prosecutors.”
I laughed without humor.
“He talks now?”
“He talks when he thinks it will hurt people.”
Of course.
“What did he say?”
Torres exhaled.
“Victor claims the night Elaine died, you were with her.”
“I was.”
“You told investigators she died from cancer complications.”
“She did.”
“He says there was more.”
My hands went cold.
I remembered that night.
Morphine.
Hospital bed moved into Mom’s bedroom because she wanted to die at home.
Rain against the windows.
Her breathing becoming uneven.
I had fallen asleep holding her hand.
A hospice nurse woke me hours later.
Mom was gone.
“What more?”
“Victor claims Elaine was murdered.”
I stood so quickly my chair scraped.
“No.”
“Norah—”
“No. I was there.”
“Did you leave the room at any point?”
I tried to remember.
Six years.
Grief had blurred everything.
“I went to the kitchen.”
“How long?”
“Five minutes. Maybe ten.”
“Anyone else in the house?”
“The hospice nurse.”
“Name?”
“Margaret Dale.”
Torres looked at Lucian.
He already understood.
“We find her.”
They did.
Margaret Dale had died two years earlier.
But her daughter had kept a box of belongings.
Inside was a journal.
One entry from the night Elaine died:
A man came after midnight. E.H. became distressed. He claimed to be her brother. Asked me to give them privacy. I refused. He showed identification from the state attorney’s office. I stepped into hallway for 7 minutes.
Brother.
Elaine had no known brother.
Victor.
My stomach twisted.
“He killed her.”
Torres spoke carefully.
“We don’t know yet.”
“I do.”
Everything connected.
Victor had found Elaine.
She refused to reveal the ledger.
He killed her while I was ten feet away.
Then allowed cancer to take the blame.
My knees weakened.
Lucian caught me.
For once, I didn’t resist being held.
Rebecca had apparently learned the same truth.
We traced her to an abandoned records warehouse outside Joliet.
Victor’s archive.
Police surrounded it.
But before anyone entered, smoke began pouring from the roof.
“Rebecca,” I whispered.
She was burning the evidence.
Fire crews rushed forward.
Then a woman emerged from a side door coughing.
Rebecca.
I ran toward her despite everyone shouting.
She collapsed against me.
“I told you not to follow.”
“And I inherited my listening skills from you.”
She laughed through tears.
“Probably.”
“Did you burn it?”
“Copies.”
“What?”
“The originals are safe.”
Torres crouched beside us.
“Where?”
Rebecca held up a small key.
“Safe-deposit vault.”
I wanted to scream.
“You set the fire as a distraction?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Victor had men watching the building.”
“Victor is in custody.”
“He has men everywhere.”
A vehicle engine roared.
Marco shouted.
An SUV burst through the far gate.
Gunfire erupted.
Agents returned fire.
Lucian pulled me behind a concrete barrier.
The SUV crashed.
A man stumbled out.
Not one of Victor’s men.
Judge Richard Cole.
He had escaped federal medical custody.
“How?”
Torres shouted.
Nobody knew.
Richard held a shotgun.
Smoke billowed behind him.
Rebecca stood.
“Richard.”
His face changed when he saw her.
For the first time, I saw something almost human.
“Rebecca.”
She stared at the man who had fathered me.
“You should have left us alone.”
“I loved you.”
“No.”
Richard flinched.
“You loved what I made you feel about yourself.”
He raised the shotgun.
Lucian shifted in front of me.
I grabbed his hand.
Beside me.
Not in front.
He understood.
Richard looked at my stomach.
“That child will carry my blood.”
I almost laughed.
Again with blood.
“No.”
“You can deny me, but biology—”
“Biology gave me DNA.”
I stepped closer to the barrier.
“Elaine gave me a childhood. Rebecca gave me life. Lucian gave me a home where I can choose who I become.”
My hand rested over the baby.
“You don’t get to claim this child because some chromosomes happen to match yours.”
Richard’s face twisted.
“You sound like her.”
“Which one?”
He didn’t answer.
Maybe that was the point.
I had been shaped by more than one person.
His blood did not get sole ownership.
Sirens surrounded the property.
Richard looked around.
Trapped.
He raised the shotgun toward Rebecca.
I screamed.
Lucian moved.
Rebecca did too.
She stepped forward.
“Do it.”
Richard froze.
“Rebecca—”
“You’ve controlled everyone with fear for thirty years.”
She opened her arms.
“I’m not afraid of you anymore.”
His hands shook.
“Stop.”
“You need me afraid.”
“Rebecca.”
“Because without fear, what are you?”
The gun lowered slightly.
Torres shouted.
“Drop it!”
Richard looked toward her.
Then back at Rebecca.
His shoulders collapsed.
The shotgun fell.
He dropped to his knees.
No dramatic death.
No final shootout.
A man who spent his life controlling people simply discovered control could disappear.
Federal agents arrested him again.
This time he did not resist.
The video archive eventually produced convictions far beyond Richard and Victor.
Nobody protected the Morettis.
Not even Lucian.
His cousin Salvatore was arrested for bribery.
Two Moretti shipping executives were indicted.
Lucian dismissed three senior managers before federal agents could arrive.
Moretti International stock dropped seventeen percent.
Reporters called it a crisis.
Lucian called it cleaning.
One evening I found him alone in the nursery holding the tiny black shoes I had bought.
“You’re brooding.”
“I’m sitting.”
“You brood sitting down.”
He smiled.
I sat beside him.
“My uncle Antonio appears on nine recordings.”
“Are you okay?”
“Yes.”
I waited.
“No,” he admitted.
Better.
“I spent years believing he was a victim of a corrupt prosecution.”
“He could have been both guilty and treated corruptly.”
“That’s annoyingly reasonable.”
“I specialize.”
He turned the shoes in his hands.
“What if I’m bad at this?”
“At shoes?”
“Being a father.”
I stared at him.
Lucian Moretti feared very few people.
But an unborn child terrified him.
“You’ll make mistakes.”
“That was not reassuring.”
“You’ll get impatient.”
“Worse.”
“You’ll probably buy completely impractical armored strollers.”
“I found one.”
“I knew it.”
“It has run-flat tires.”
“Lucian.”
“And ballistic side panels.”
“Our baby is not invading Normandy.”
“Can we discuss this later?”
“No.”
He finally laughed.
I rested my head against his shoulder.
“You’ll be good because you worry about being good.”
“That can’t be the whole qualification.”
“No.”
I took his hand.
“You’ll be good because when you’re wrong, you’re learning how to admit it.”
He kissed my forehead.
Then his phone rang.
Marco.
Lucian listened.
His expression changed.
“What?”
I sat up.
He ended the call.
“Ethan woke up fully.”
“That’s good.”
“He asked to see you.”
I was silent.
Lucian waited.
“Do you want to?”
I appreciated the question.
Not “You shouldn’t.”
Not “I won’t allow it.”
Do you want to?
“Yes.”
Ethan looked twenty years older.
Machines surrounded his bed.
I stood several feet away.
Lucian waited outside by my request.
Ethan smiled weakly.
“You came.”
“You were shot.”
“I noticed.”
Silence.
“Victor?”
“Alive. Charged.”
“Richard?”
“Also alive. Also charged.”
“My mother?”
“Patricia gave a federal statement.”
He closed his eyes.
“Good.”
I sat.
“I don’t know what happens to you.”
“I do.”
“What?”
“Prison.”
His voice was calm.
“I confessed.”
“To what?”
“Everything.”
My stomach tightened.
“Ethan—”
“Stalking. Assault. The tracker. Philadelphia.”
“You could negotiate.”
“I am. But I’m not escaping consequences.”
I studied him.
That was new.
“I don’t forgive you.”
“I know.”
“I may never.”
“I know.”
“But I hope you become better.”
His eyes filled.
“That’s more than I deserve.”
“Probably.”
He laughed painfully.
Then became serious.
“There’s one thing.”
“What?”
“Victor kept another file.”
I nearly groaned.
“Can this family have one week without another secret file?”
He smiled.
“This one is about Lucian.”
I went still.
“What about him?”
“Victor believed Lucian ordered a murder ten years ago.”
My stomach tightened.
“Did he?”
“I don’t know.”
Ethan looked at the doorway.
“But if you’re building a future with him, you should.”
I left the hospital with one question.
May you like
And for the first time, I did not fear asking Lucian the truth.
I feared what the answer might be.
