Chapter 6 - WHAT THE LAW CAN HEAR
I used to think the hardest part of telling the truth was deciding to open my mouth.
I was wrong.
The hardest part was repeating it after people had been paid to make me sound like a liar.
On Monday morning, a courier delivered a notice to the apartment. Isabella Romano had filed a civil complaint alleging that I had intentionally destroyed irreplaceable property, invaded her privacy, and conspired with others to damage her reputation. Attached were still photographs of me holding the axe above Alessandro's mother's wedding portrait. There was no photograph of the wound on my back, no photograph of the memory card, and no mention of David Collins.
I read the first page twice before my hands began to shake.
“She's going to take everything I have,” I said.
Lucia, my mother, was standing by the sink making tea. She put down the kettle and sat beside me. Her small hands were rough from years of restaurant work.
“She can write words on paper,” she said. “That doesn't make them true.”
“They have lawyers. I have a daughter and a rented couch.”
“And a detective who knows about the card. And a doctor who knows about your injuries. And people who saw what happened.”
She took the notice, folded it neatly, and put it on the table. “We're not going to answer a threat before you've spoken to your own lawyer.”
I found a legal-aid clinic that offered representation to witnesses facing retaliatory civil suits. Alessandro offered to pay the fees, but I chose an attorney independent of his business. Her name was Talia Singh. She had a quick smile and a habit of circling important sentences in green ink.
“We'll respond to the complaint,” Talia said during our first call. “But first I want you to know that being sued is not the same as being found responsible. If the claim is designed to punish your cooperation with investigators, that matters.”
“Will I lose the job?”
“That's a separate issue. You've been told your leave is paid. We'll get it in writing.”
I looked at my mother's folded hands and exhaled for what felt like the first time all morning.
Talia asked me to write down every conversation I could remember with Isabella, and to keep the doctor's discharge instructions beside it. She said I should never answer threats directly, however tempting it felt to defend myself online. Then she explained what the legal-aid clinic could and could not do. She offered no guarantee that the case would end quickly. I trusted her more because of that. For months people had spoken to me as though their confidence could change facts. It was a relief to hear someone describe a hard road without pretending there were shortcuts.
Meanwhile, Helena Price sought emergency court protection against the altered proxy filed in Alessandro's name. A hearing was scheduled before the Port Ellery vote. Alessandro wanted to attend in person. His advisers urged him to appear by video from the estate, but he refused.
“I'm not going to let them argue I can't make my own choices while I'm hidden in another room,” he told me.
“Then don't,” I said. “Take the ramp, bring the documents, and make them listen.”
The courthouse was nothing like the Moretti ballroom. The walls were beige. The chairs were uncomfortable. The air smelled of damp coats and old coffee. Nobody cared how much anyone's suit cost. The clerk called names, people stood when instructed, and the judge spoke with the impatience of someone who had heard too many dramatic introductions.
Vincent attended with three lawyers. Isabella sat beside him wearing gray rather than bridal white. She avoided looking at me. When she did glance over, her eyes passed directly to my mother, who was waiting near the rear exit with Lily's folded drawing in her handbag.
I wanted to stand between them, though there was no physical threat. Lucia noticed and squeezed my hand.
The opposing attorney argued that Alessandro's recent trauma, emotional distress, and reliance on mobility assistance made independent financial decisions questionable. I felt anger climb into my throat. I had watched Alessandro direct a complex investigation while managing pain and exhaustion. The notion that his wheelchair erased his judgment was both cruel and absurd.
Helena stood calmly. “Medical support and decision-making capacity are not interchangeable. We have the original limited proxy, the disputed filing, and competent medical evaluations confirming that Mr. Moretti can understand and direct his affairs.”
The judge asked Alessandro whether he wanted to speak. He moved his wheelchair closer to the microphone.
“I signed a temporary document while hospitalized,” he said. “I needed help with appointments, not a substitute mind. I was not shown the additional voting provisions. I oppose the transfer and request time for the disputed pages to be examined.”
He said it without rage. That seemed to matter.
Vincent's lawyer questioned whether Alessandro was being influenced by disgruntled household employees. He mentioned the ruined portrait and described me as unstable. Talia stood to remind the court that I wasn't a party to the proxy dispute and that allegations in a separate complaint remained unproved. The judge agreed and directed the parties back to the documents at issue.
The hearing lasted nearly two hours. The judge issued temporary relief preventing the disputed proxy from being used to cast Port Ellery votes while authenticity and authority were reviewed. It was not a verdict on the accident or the marriage. It was a narrow ruling. But when Alessandro rolled away from the bench, I saw his shoulders drop for the first time in days.
Outside, reporters crowded around us. Cameras flashed. Someone shouted, “Mr. Moretti, do you believe your wife tried to kill you?”
Alessandro looked directly into the lens. “I believe serious evidence deserves an honest investigation. I won't decide a criminal case at a microphone.”
Then he added, “My employee was injured after trying to bring information to me. She deserves privacy and care, not harassment.”
He didn't say my name. I was grateful.
We were almost through the courthouse doors when Isabella stepped out of a side corridor.
“Rosa,” she said.
I stopped. Talia moved closer, but Isabella didn't touch me. Her face was pale, and without the diamonds and lipstick she looked less like a villain from a newspaper and more like a person losing control of every lie she'd told.
“You could have come to me,” she said. “I would have fixed this.”
“You were the person I came to,” I replied. “You pushed me into a cabinet.”
She glanced at my mother, then back at me. “You don't understand what Vincent is capable of.”
“Then tell the detective.”
“It's not that simple.”
“Nothing is simple for people who have to live with your decisions.”
Talia gently touched my arm. “We need to go.”
I walked away before Isabella could answer. My legs were shaking, but not from the injury this time. I realized she'd almost persuaded me to comfort her, to pretend the harm was a misunderstanding because she sounded frightened. I could recognize someone's fear without surrendering my own truth.
That evening, Marco called with news. Police had located Dominic Fenn's former partner, a mechanic named Elias Voss. Voss was willing to speak with investigators but feared Vincent's men would target his teenage son. Valdez arranged a safe, formal interview. She asked whether I would be willing to identify the scarred man from the garage clip if shown a lawful photographic lineup. I agreed, but only after she explained the procedure.
When she presented the images, I recognized the scarred man from the footage: Elias Voss. I didn't know him personally. I told her that honestly.
“He may confirm the payment,” Valdez said afterward. “But identifying him in the garage doesn't establish what he did to the car. We still need mechanical evidence.”
Later that night, I received a call from Alessandro.
“Stefano wants to come by,” he said. “He's bringing a repair specialist who examined photographs from the tow yard. They're going to explain the findings to investigators tomorrow.”
“Are you nervous?”
“Yes.”
“Me too.”
“I thought you'd tell me not to be.”
“I don't lie about fear anymore.”
He was silent, then laughed quietly. “Good.”
We talked for a few minutes about Lily's stickers and the weather. He asked whether the stitches had begun to itch. I said that they had, terribly. He told me an old scar along his ribs did the same thing when the temperature changed.
“People don't warn you about the boring part of recovery,” he said. “The itching. The appointments. The hours when nothing dramatic happens and you're still uncomfortable.”
“They should put that in the brochures.”
After the call, I watched Lily arrange toy dishes on the rug. She set three plates for herself, me, and her elephant. When I asked where Teresa's plate was, she thought seriously and fetched a fourth.
For a moment the world felt normal.
Then a message arrived from Detective Valdez. Dominic Fenn had been detained for questioning after a traffic stop. Police had found a keycard for a secure storage facility in his pocket.
The facility's lease was paid by North Quay Advisory. Records showed someone had entered it on the afternoon David disappeared.
Valdez said they were preparing a lawful search, and she would notify me if any threat to Lily's safety changed.
May you like
I set down the phone. Across the room, my daughter was pouring pretend tea for a stuffed elephant. It struck me that while adults fought over control, money, and reputation, a child simply wanted everyone at her table to have a place.
I hoped the coming investigation would make room for the people who had never been invited into the powerful rooms at all.
