Chapter 3 - THE NOTEBOOK WITH THE MISSING PAGES
I didn't show Vincent the message that night.
That decision troubled me more than I expected. He had helped me at the staircase, acknowledged a dangerous signature, and faced a part of his past he had spent years trying to forget. But the anonymous sender had given a very specific warning, and the photograph of Daniel's notebook was too personal for me to treat lightly. So I waited until Vincent left, then asked the nurse for permission to speak to Detective Torres again.
Torres arrived the following morning with a paper cup of coffee and an expression that suggested she hadn't slept much either.
“Before I show you this,” I said, “I need to know whether you're allowed to keep it from Mr. Moretti until you know who sent it.”
“I'm not his employee,” she replied. “I can't promise permanent secrecy if it becomes evidence in a proceeding. I can promise not to hand over your phone or your statements to him simply because he owns your workplace.”
That was enough.
I showed her the message. She photographed the screen and asked a technician to preserve what could be gathered legally. The sender's number wasn't recognized. The image included the edge of an old green table, a stain shaped like a crescent, and half a woman's hand with a distinctive blue thread bracelet.
Torres enlarged the photograph. “Do you recognize the notebook?”
“Yes. Daniel used it every day at work. He wrote in block capitals when he was worried about somebody else trying to read his handwriting.”
“Did he ever mention a woman called Lucia?”
“Not to me.”
“Then let's not assume the sender knows where she is. They may be trying to learn that from you.”
The thought made my skin prickle.
My obstetrician arrived after the interview. She was satisfied that the contractions had not continued and that there was no immediate sign of labor, but insisted I return if the pain resumed, if the baby moved less than usual, or if I noticed any other concerning symptoms. She also wrote a clear recommendation that I avoid strenuous physical work while recovering. I accepted it without arguing. After the staircase, my pride could sit quietly while my daughter grew.
Mrs. Price collected me in a car that afternoon. We did not return to the mansion. At my request, she drove me to the small apartment I had kept on the southwest side before accepting the live-in job. It smelled faintly of lemon cleaner and closed windows. A cardboard crib box stood against the bedroom wall, unopened. Daniel's old mug remained on the kitchen shelf because I had never found the courage to give it away.
Mrs. Price helped me put groceries away and checked that I had a way to reach the hospital. When she left, I sat at the table and cried so hard I could barely breathe. For days I had performed bravery in front of strangers. Alone, I could finally be the woman who missed her husband.
At sunset, my phone rang.
“Clara?” a woman's voice asked. “My name is Sonia Ibarra. I worked with Daniel on safety inspections.”
I sat straighter. “How did you get my number?”
“He gave it to me in case I ever needed to check that you were all right. I should have called when he died. I didn't because I was scared.”
“Of what?”
“Of Sterling Development. Of people who treated missing inspection records like misplaced invoices.” She drew a breath. “I heard about the suitcase. I saw a photograph of the blue ledger on a news site. If that ledger is real, I can tell you why Daniel was trying to find it.”
I looked toward the window. “Can we meet?”
“Only if you're comfortable. Your detective can come.”
That detail mattered. People setting traps rarely invited police, though I knew better than to call it proof of goodness. We arranged a meeting at a public café beside the city library, with Torres aware and nearby. Mrs. Price insisted on driving me and then pretended to read a gardening magazine at a corner table while listening to everything.
Sonia was fortyish, with silver hoops in her ears and a messenger bag swollen with folders. She looked at me as if seeing Daniel through the spaces between my features.
“He talked about you constantly,” she said. “The baby especially. He drew a comet on every inspection report once you told him her nickname.”
I laughed, then immediately cried.
Sonia waited. When I was ready, she slid a photocopy across the table. It showed an old Westbridge floor plan with red circles marked beside two stairwells.
“Daniel and I were investigating a safety retrofit contract,” she explained. “Sterling Development had been hired to replace alarms and fire doors at the children's center. On paper, they did. In reality, we found invoices for equipment that was never installed.”
“Did Vincent know?”
“That's what Daniel wanted to establish. There were authorizations with Moretti signatures, but the copies didn't agree. He thought the contractor altered the scope of work after the owner approved it.”
I studied the circles. “The fire killed four people.”
“Yes. And it injured children who already depended on medical care. One of the blocked stairwells should have been an evacuation route.”
My stomach tightened for a reason that had nothing to do with pregnancy.
“Why did Daniel keep investigating four years later?”
Sonia looked down. “Because another Sterling contractor was bidding to demolish the remaining Westbridge buildings. They wanted the site cleared before the old records could be requested in a new public inquiry. Daniel believed the same people were controlling both the original documents and the new demolition.”
“Then why didn't he go straight to the police?”
“He tried bringing concerns to the company's safety office. That office was run by Paul Mercer, who reported directly to Edwin Sterling. Daniel was told to stop making accusations without proof. He was gathering originals.”
The name Edwin Sterling made my pulse quicken. Vanessa's father. A man who had shaken my hand at the mansion and asked whether I was enjoying my pregnancy.
Sonia opened her bag again. She took out a small photograph of a green table stained by a crescent-shaped ring.
“Do you recognize this?” she asked.
I stared. “It's in a message I received.”
“Then the person who wrote you probably came through the Eastbank Community Room. Daniel used to meet witnesses there. The table was donated by the local sewing cooperative.”
“Do you know anyone with a blue bracelet?”
Sonia shook her head. “Half the volunteers wear blue thread. The families made them after the fire to remember those who died.”
We were quiet for a moment.
Then she said, “There is something else you need to know. Daniel was not supposed to be on the scaffold the morning he died.”
I gripped my cup. “What?”
“His supervisor changed his assignment after he refused to sign a completion certificate. Daniel told me he was being sent to inspect temporary supports on the third level. Those supports had failed two inspections the previous week.”
“Did you tell the investigators?”
“I did. I gave a statement to the workplace safety agency. They said they would request the records. Then the company produced a different schedule.”
My hands began to shake.
Sonia touched the edge of the table, not me. “I'm sorry. I should have fought harder.”
“You're here now,” I managed.
Detective Torres joined us and listened as Sonia repeated the key details. She arranged to obtain the original agency records and to speak with the supervisor named in the assignment change. She made no promises about homicide charges, which helped me trust her more than I expected. Evidence would have to do the work grief wanted to do immediately.
After the meeting, I walked slowly toward the library steps while Mrs. Price fetched the car. A young couple passed carrying a tiny blue coat. I watched them and thought about how many families had built ordinary futures on top of paperwork someone powerful treated as disposable.
My phone vibrated again.
A new message from the unknown sender appeared:
You found Sonia. Good. Ask her about the woman who signed herself Nora Ellis at Eastbank three months ago. Don't bring the Moretti guards.
I showed it to Torres at once.
She read the name twice. “Nora Ellis. That might be an alias, or it might be a real person. We won't decide before we check.”
Sonia, called back from the café, went still when she heard it.
“I remember her,” she said. “Quiet woman. Dark hair, a scar on one hand. She came to a memorial meeting and asked whether Daniel Bennett's widow was safe.”
“Why would she ask that?”
Sonia swallowed. “Because she knew Daniel.”
Then she added, “And because when I asked whether she'd been at Westbridge during the fire, she began crying.”
May you like
The library clock struck six. I pressed one hand to my stomach and felt my daughter shift beneath it.
Somewhere in the city, a woman who knew my dead husband was waiting for us to discover whether she was telling the truth. And if the anonymous sender's warning meant anything, that woman might know the most dangerous secret in Vincent Moretti's life.
