Chapter 3 - THE WOMAN IN ROOM NINE
Detective Lydia Shaw arrived at Tessa's apartment wearing a brown wool coat and carrying the kind of notebook that looked too small to hold other people's disasters.
She was in her early forties, with a tired face and a voice that made questions sound like opportunities rather than traps. She examined the envelope, the visitor log, and the lock on Tessa's door. Then she sat across from us at the kitchen table.
“Did you tell anyone you were staying here?” she asked.
“My parents. The hospital. Mr. Caruso,” I said. “And Tessa's sister, I think.”
Tessa nodded. “She dropped off groceries yesterday.”
“That's not a short list,” Shaw replied. “But it isn't an impossible one, either.”
“Do you think the sender is dangerous?” I asked.
“I think the sender knows something and wants you involved. Those are two different facts. We shouldn't confuse them.”
She carefully bagged the visitor log. “We'll check where this paper came from and whether the transfer entry matches any original records. Meanwhile, don't open unexpected packages, don't meet strangers, and don't investigate alone.”
The firmness in her voice left little room for argument.
After she left, Tessa made grilled cheese sandwiches that neither of us wanted. We ate them anyway because we'd forgotten breakfast. Rain tapped against the windows. An elevated train rattled past, carrying ordinary people to ordinary destinations, and I felt an unreasonable envy.
At eleven, Enzo called.
“Shaw told my attorney she has the log,” he said. “Thank you for letting her handle it.”
“I didn't know what else to do.”
“You could have tried to solve it yourself. I'm glad you didn't.”
He sounded exhausted. I asked whether he had slept.
“Some,” he lied.
“Did you find the woman in room nine?”
“Possibly. The transfer record was from a private rehabilitation facility once operated by Briar Hollow. Room Nine was assigned to a patient named Margaret Ellis. She died last winter.”
My heart sank.
“But,” he continued, “she had a daughter. A physical therapist named Mara Ellis. She left the facility abruptly two years ago. The administration says it was a personal decision.”
“Mara. M.”
“Maybe.”
“Could she have sent the envelope?”
“Shaw is trying to find her. So is my attorney. We won't approach her without considering her safety.”
I imagined a stranger sitting at a desk somewhere, deciding whether to trust a housemaid she had never met. Why me? Why send evidence to someone with bruises still visible across her face?
That question troubled me throughout the afternoon.
At four, my father called from his workshop. He had opened the little repair business years before I was born, fixing furniture and refinishing antiques in a storefront near Bridgeport. After a supplier went bankrupt, he'd borrowed to keep the shop running. A lender's fees had swallowed the rest. Now the landlord wanted the rent he owed.
“Ruby, your mother says you're supposed to be resting,” he said.
“I am resting.”
“Resting doesn't usually sound like you're washing dishes.”
I put down the sponge. “You caught me.”
He was quiet for a moment. “The landlord called. He's giving me another month.”
“That doesn't sound like him.”
“He said somebody settled the overdue amount.”
My chest tightened. “Who?”
“He wouldn't say.”
I knew before I asked. Enzo had probably arranged it. He could move money with a phone call, while my father spent entire days repairing tables to pay for groceries. Part of me was grateful. Another part was angry that kindness from a powerful man could make me feel small.
I called Enzo immediately.
“Did you pay my father's rent?”
A pause. “I offered to cover the arrears while your family deals with a credible threat.”
“Without asking?”
“I thought it would help.”
“It does. But it also makes it harder for me to say no if you ask me for something later.”
The line went very quiet.
“You're right,” he said. “I should have asked. I'll have my attorney provide the details. Your father can accept it as emergency assistance, refuse it, or arrange repayment. Whatever he chooses won't affect your wages or safety.”
I stood by the kitchen sink, surprised by his quick acknowledgment.
“Thank you,” I said. “For understanding.”
“Thank you for telling me I was wrong.”
We hung up. Tessa, who had heard only my side, looked at me with raised eyebrows.
“You just lectured Enzo Caruso about boundaries.”
“I think I did.”
“Good. Somebody should.”
The next evening, Detective Shaw asked us to come to a small conference room at the police station. Enzo was there with his attorney, Claire Bennett, a composed woman whose immaculate suit contrasted with my borrowed sweater. Mara Ellis sat at the far end of the table.
She was short, with tightly braided dark hair and nervous hands. When I entered, she stood so abruptly her chair scraped against the floor.
“Ruby Flynn?” she asked.
“Yes.”
Mara stared at my bruised face. Tears filled her eyes.
“I'm sorry,” she whispered.
“For what?”
“I saw your picture on the news. They said you were the employee who found the fake invitation. I knew you had already risked something. I thought you'd believe me.”
“Were you the one who sent the log?” Shaw asked.
Mara nodded. “I put it in her mailbox myself.”
Tessa exhaled in relief. We hadn't liked the idea of someone watching us, but a frightened woman delivering evidence was better than a stranger tracking us to cause harm.
Enzo took a careful step forward. “You knew my brother?”
Mara pressed her lips together. “I treated him.”
His eyes darkened.
“When?”
“Starting the day after the bombing. I didn't know his name at first. They called him Patient Nine. He'd suffered burns, a concussion, and nerve injuries. He could barely move his right hand. When he woke, he kept asking for someone named Enzo.”
Enzo closed his eyes.
“We were told not to answer questions,” Mara continued. “A physician named Dr. Felix Rourke supervised his care. Mr. Dominic Caruso visited twice during the first month. He said the family was protecting Patient Nine from a dangerous organization.”
Enzo opened his eyes. “My uncle came to see him?”
“Yes.”
“And nobody informed me?”
“I didn't know you were his brother. Not until much later.”
Mara pulled a folded piece of paper from her bag. She passed it to Shaw rather than directly to Enzo.
“I kept notes because the medical chart stopped making sense. There were medicines ordered without supporting diagnoses. Visitors who weren't recorded. One day I found Patient Nine crying after a visit. He said a man had told him his brother was responsible for the explosion.”
My stomach tightened. Lies were everywhere in this story, each one designed to turn brothers against each other.
“What did Matteo believe?” Enzo asked.
“He didn't know. He had memory gaps. He was frightened. He asked me to take a letter to you, but Dr. Rourke confiscated it before I could leave.”
“Why didn't you report this?” Claire asked gently.
“I tried. My supervisor said the patient was under a private protective arrangement. I was threatened with losing my license. Then my mother got sick, and I needed the job. I told myself he would eventually be released.”
She paused, ashamed. “He wasn't.”
Enzo's jaw worked. “Where is he now?”
“I don't know. Six weeks ago, he was moved. After that, I was terminated. I've been staying with relatives and trying to decide what to do.”
“Do you have any photograph or record that could help find him?” Shaw asked.
Mara nodded. “The facility kept physical therapy videos. I copied one before they shut down the unit. It isn't proof of where he is now, but it proves who was there.”
Shaw connected a laptop to the room's monitor. The video was grainy and unremarkable at first: a rehabilitation gym, foam blocks, parallel bars, a window with a stained-glass bird.
Then a young man stepped into frame, supported by Mara.
Even with his weight loss and limp, the resemblance to Enzo was unmistakable.
Matteo looked directly into the camera. “Can I say something?” he asked.
Mara's recorded voice answered, “Go ahead.”
“If Enzo ever sees this, tell him I didn't blame him. Not for the car. Not for anything.”
The room fell absolutely silent.
Enzo braced both hands against the table. The man everyone feared could barely remain standing.
Matteo continued, the words slow but clear. “I just want to go home.”
The video ended.
I turned away to give Enzo the privacy of not being watched. He remained motionless until Claire placed a hand on his arm.
“Thank you, Mara,” he said at last. His voice was rough. “You gave me two things tonight. Proof he's alive, and proof he still knows who I am.”
Mara wiped her face. “I wish I'd done it sooner.”
Detective Shaw asked more questions about dates and people. Near the end, Mara remembered something that changed the direction of the investigation.
“The night before Matteo was transferred, there was a woman outside his room,” she said. “Blonde. Expensive coat. I thought she was a family member.”
“Did she give a name?” Shaw asked.
“She signed in as Serena Caruso.”
Enzo stared at her. “We weren't married.”
“I know that now.”
Mara hesitated. “And Matteo knew her. When she went inside, he shouted at her to get out. I heard him say, 'You promised you wouldn't let Dominic take me.'”
The blood seemed to leave Enzo's face.
Serena hadn't just arranged dinner invitations.
May you like
She had visited his living brother and hidden that fact while planning their wedding.
And according to Matteo, she had made him a promise she had already broken.
