Chapter 8 - THE FIRE IN THE ORCHARD
I had been frightened of the mansion since the night Alessia struck me. Yet when Dominic said someone was inside it moving money, I felt something worse than fear: the certainty that the place had never belonged to the people who kept it running. Whoever had access to the right screens could reach through the walls and take the estate apart, one account and one signature at a time.
Matteo stayed outside the courthouse for a moment, speaking to Priya and Brooks. I waited with Celia near the steps. Reporters raised their cameras when they saw me. Celia quietly steered us toward a side exit.
“You don't have to answer,” she said.
“I know. But I keep feeling that silence is the reason all this happened.”
“Silence under threat isn't consent,” she replied. “Choose when to speak. That's different.”
The words helped more than I expected.
At the apartment, I watched the afternoon light move across the courtyard while updates arrived through Celia. Matteo had ordered an immediate freeze on high-risk transfers from his lawful companies and brought in external cybersecurity specialists. Police and forensic accountants were reviewing access logs. Dominic's guards had secured the mansion, but they weren't permitted to interfere with evidence collection.
By evening investigators identified the device used to access the treasury system: a tablet assigned to Victor Bellamy's office. It had been left inside the mansion's east study. The attempted transfer did not clear the bank's verification process. The account that would have received it matched one named in the Ashcroft Harbor paperwork.
“Was Victor there?” I asked Celia.
“No one has confirmed that. The mansion cameras show a person entering the study in a staff uniform, but their face was hidden from view.”
I closed my eyes. Someone had put on the clothes I'd worn for a living and used them as camouflage. It seemed a small detail compared with twenty-eight million dollars, yet it felt personal.
Later, Matteo called. “The staff have been sent home with pay for the next few days,” he said. “The police are reviewing access permissions. Marisol is safe with her sons.”
“Don't assume every employee with a key was part of it,” I told him.
“I won't.”
“And please don't tell the newspapers the mansion has been cleared of disloyal people.”
“Why would I?”
“Because people with power like to make frightened workers prove they deserve a job.”
He was quiet. “I'll remember that.”
I told him about a conversation I had once overheard between Victor and Alessia. They'd stood beside the east staircase, arguing over the date of a charity dinner. Victor had said, “We cannot move the old house until the reserve account is covered.” Alessia had replied, “My father won't wait for another quarter.” At the time I thought they meant construction costs.
“Did anyone else hear it?” Matteo asked.
“A florist was waiting nearby. Her name is June. I can give Brooks the company she works for.”
“Thank you.”
I hung up before he could say I was brave again. I was beginning to understand that bravery was less important than being specific.
On Tuesday morning I went to a follow-up appointment for my ankle. The swelling had eased, but the doctor wanted another week with limited weight-bearing and physical therapy after that. I looked at the X-ray and thought about all the ordinary ways a life could change: one fall, one unpaid bill, one choice to open a door.
Afterward, my brother drove me past the neighborhood where the Moretti estate stood. We didn't approach the gate. I only wanted to see the trees from the public road. Beyond the rooftops, the old orchard was a ragged line against the gray sky.
“Mom would've liked that house,” Ben said.
“Mom would've made the porch her personal kingdom.”
“She would've told Matteo to paint it yellow.”
I laughed. Our mother had been gone six years, and there were days her absence still caught me off guard. For a moment I understood Matteo differently. The house on the hill was not merely his inheritance. It was a place where a voice he loved had once called him in for supper.
That evening, Rosa invited us to join an online meeting organized by Miriam and the local neighborhood association. I expected a handful of older residents arguing about parking. Instead forty people appeared on the screen: teachers, retired nurses, parents with children on their laps and teenagers translating for grandparents. They had heard rumors the orchard was being sold and wanted to know whether the small community kitchen Isabella had dreamed of might ever open.
A woman named Mrs. Bell told us how Isabella once kept the porch light on during a winter power outage so neighbors would know they could come for blankets. A former teacher remembered Giuseppe funding repairs to the playground without putting his name on a plaque. The stories were ordinary, which made them more powerful.
Matteo joined late and listened without interrupting. When the group asked about the legal fight, he said the property could not be sold while the current order remained in effect, but there were still contested claims to resolve.
“And if you win?” Miriam asked.
He looked toward Rosa. “Then I want to talk with the community before making decisions. I spent too many years assuming I knew what this place meant.”
An older man in a baseball cap raised his hand. “Your mother's place was never meant to make one man look generous,” he said. “She wanted it to be useful.”
Matteo nodded. “Then let's make it useful.”
After the call ended, I sat at the kitchen counter for a long time. There were tears in my eyes, but they didn't come from fear. For the first time since the engagement dinner, I could picture an ending that wasn't only about stopping Alessia. It might be about something being built.
At eleven forty-two that night, the building's emergency alert woke me. I sat upright, heart racing. The message concerned a fire reported near the Moretti orchard. My first thought was the house. My second was Miriam.
I called Celia, who was already awake. She had heard from Brooks: an outbuilding beside the orchard was burning. The fire department was on scene. No injuries had been reported. Investigators were treating the circumstances as suspicious because someone had cut the exterior security light before the flames appeared.
“Was Miriam inside?” I asked.
“She called 911 from the main house. She's safe.”
I pressed a hand to my chest. Outside the apartment window, the street was empty except for a delivery van at the corner. I kept seeing the little white house in my mind and the photographs of Isabella on its walls.
Matteo called at midnight. His voice sounded rough. “The firefighters stopped it before it reached the house.”
“Thank God.”
“The shed contained gardening tools and old benches. There's damage to the fence.”
“Who did it?”
“We don't know. The police are investigating. I'm not going to tell you something I can't prove.”
I thought about that answer, how different it was from the confident promises I'd heard from wealthy guests in the dining room.
“Are you at the house?” I asked.
“Across the road. The officers asked us to stay outside the scene.”
“Does Rosa know?”
“Yes. She's worried about the apple trees.”
Despite everything, I smiled. “Tell her I don't think the trees are easily frightened.”
The next morning Detective Brooks called with another development. Victor Bellamy had presented himself at a police station with his attorney. He had not been in the mansion during the treasury-system intrusion, but investigators were examining evidence that he'd shared his access credentials months earlier. He had agreed to a formal interview about payments from Venturi-associated companies.
“Is he going to tell the truth?” I asked.
“We'll test whatever he says against the records.”
She paused. “There's something else you should know. A nearby traffic camera captured a van leaving the orchard just before the fire. It was rented through a company used by Northline Recovery.”
“The same contractor that brought the demolition truck?”
“Yes. But the rental was booked by an individual, not the company. We're tracing that person now.”
A few hours later, Priya arranged a secure meeting with Matteo, Rosa, Celia and me. She said Victor's attorney had offered documents in exchange for consideration by prosecutors. The materials included a series of payment instructions, a private spreadsheet and a recording of a conference call. Priya had not yet received the originals, but the investigators had confirmed one detail.
On the call Alessandro Venturi discussed a contingency plan if the property transfer was blocked. The plan involved making the old house appear unsafe, then claiming that preserving it would endanger the neighbors.
Rosa stared at the screen. “He would burn a home to call himself its rescuer.”
Matteo looked toward the window, where rain was beginning again. “He may have tried.”
At that moment Priya's phone vibrated. She checked the message, then looked up sharply.
“The fire investigators have located the driver who rented the van,” she said.
“Who?” Matteo asked.
“An associate of Alessandro's. He is asking for immunity before he explains who paid him.”
May you like
No one spoke. Then Rosa reached for the brass key lying beside her on the table and closed her hand around it.
For the first time, the people who had tried to erase her were beginning to tell on one another.
