Chapter 6 - THE CALL SHE COULDN'T ANSWERI wanted to believe Hannah.
That was what frightened me.
Nineteen days ago, she had been a stranger.
A young woman with quiet manners and an ordinary résumé.
Now she was the person my children trusted most.
The person who had saved their lives.
And the person who seemed to know more about Claire's death than anyone else.
"Tell me everything," I said.
We were back in my office.
The children were watching a movie with Rosa.
Hannah stood beside the fireplace.
"After the car forced me off the road, I lost consciousness," she began. "I didn't wake up for three days."
"You told me that."
"Claire called my phone after my accident."
I stared.
"When?"
"Eleven minutes after the last time we spoke."
"And you didn't answer?"
"I couldn't."
"Then what did she say?"
Hannah swallowed.
"She left a voicemail."
My pulse quickened.
"Do you still have it?"
"Yes."
"Play it."
She hesitated.
"Hannah."
"I need to warn you. It's difficult to hear."
"I buried my wife. I think I can survive hearing her voice."
The words came out harsher than I intended.
Hannah didn't argue.
She opened a file on her phone.
Then she pressed play.
Static.
Wind.
A car engine.
And then—
"Hannah?"
Claire.
My Claire.
For a moment, I wasn't in my office anymore.
I was standing in our kitchen years earlier, watching her dance barefoot while she prepared dinner.
I was hearing her laugh when Emma took her first steps.
I was listening to her whisper that she loved me the night Noah was born.
Then her recorded voice continued.
"Hannah, something's wrong. The meeting was canceled. Evelyn says the person I was supposed to meet never arrived."
A pause.
"Someone's following me."
I gripped the edge of my desk.
"Please call me when you get this."
Another pause.
Her breathing grew uneven.
"And if anything happens, tell Vincent—"
A burst of static interrupted the message.
Then Claire spoke again.
"Tell him the children matter more than the company. He has to choose."
The recording ended.
I stood perfectly still.
Hannah lowered her phone.
"I'm sorry."
I couldn't speak.
Eight months.
For eight months, I had replayed our last argument.
For eight months, I had wondered whether she'd been angry with me when she died.
Now I knew that in the final hours of her life, she'd been afraid.
And even then, she'd been thinking about our children.
"Why didn't you give me this?"
Hannah's eyes filled.
"When I woke up, investigators had already told me Claire was dead. I tried to report the voicemail, but I couldn't get anyone in your office to arrange a meeting with you."
"You could have sent it."
"I was afraid whoever intercepted my calls would intercept that, too."
"You could have gone to the police."
"I did report that Claire had called me. I also contacted an attorney. Nothing came of it, and someone began following me after I left the hospital."
I looked away.
There was a difference between not knowing what to do and choosing silence because the people around you had made truth dangerous.
I understood that difference better than most.
Still, part of me wanted to blame her.
Because blaming Hannah would hurt less than accepting what had happened.
"Claire trusted you," I said.
"Yes."
"And you couldn't save her."
Hannah flinched.
I regretted the words instantly.
She looked down.
"No."
Her voice broke.
"I couldn't."
There was no defense in her answer.
No excuse.
Only grief.
I realized then that Hannah had been carrying her own version of the same nightmare.
She had survived.
Claire hadn't.
And surviving hadn't given her peace.
"I'm sorry," I said quietly.
Hannah looked up.
"What?"
"What I said was cruel."
She wiped beneath one eye.
"You're grieving."
"That doesn't excuse it."
For the first time, she seemed uncertain how to respond.
I took a breath.
"Claire hired you to protect our children. You came here even though someone was watching you. You nearly died doing what she asked."
"Vincent—"
"No. Let me finish."
I looked directly at her.
"You didn't abandon her. Whoever killed my wife is responsible for her death."
Hannah closed her eyes.
When she opened them again, tears were running down her cheeks.
She made no sound.
Somehow, that quiet grief hurt more than screaming would have.
I gave her time to compose herself.
Then I asked the question that mattered.
"Who canceled Claire's meeting?"
"Evelyn claimed the contact had canceled. Claire didn't believe her."
"Who was the contact?"
"Claire never told me."
"Then we find out."
Hannah nodded.
"The first person we should speak to is Mara Castillo."
I looked at the photograph on my desk.
The young woman beside Claire.
"Why Mara?"
"Because Claire trusted her. And because Mara may know what happened to her brother."
That afternoon, we arranged a meeting at a small church in Brooklyn.
Gabriel remained at the estate with the children and Rosa.
I wanted Hannah to stay behind.
She refused.
"Mara knows me."
"Someone tried to kill you last night."
"Someone tried to take your children last night. That's exactly why we need answers."
I studied her.
"Do you ever get tired of arguing with me?"
"Only when you make it necessary."
Despite myself, I smiled.
It disappeared when I saw how much pain she was still hiding.
At the church, an elderly pastor led us into a modest office.
A young woman stood beside the window.
She had dark curly hair, a faded denim jacket, and the wary expression of someone who had learned that promises were often dangerous.
"Mara," Hannah said gently.
The young woman's face changed.
"Hannah?"
They embraced.
For several seconds, Mara held on as though afraid Hannah might vanish.
Then she saw me.
Her expression hardened.
"You're Vincent Moretti."
"Yes."
"My brother disappeared because of your company."
I felt Hannah watching me.
There was a time when those words would have brought an immediate threat from my mouth.
Nobody accused me of wrongdoing without consequences.
But I looked at Mara.
She wasn't afraid of losing a business deal.
She wasn't trying to damage my reputation.
She was a nineteen-year-old girl who wanted her brother home.
"I'm here to listen," I said.
Mara folded her arms.
"People like you always say that."
"Then judge me by what I do next."
She stared at me.
Finally, she sat.
She told us about Leo.
He was sixteen.
He loved basketball, old comic books, and fixing bicycles.
He had taken a temporary warehouse job because he wanted to help pay their rent.
The job came through a placement agency that claimed to work with Harbor Light.
Three weeks later, he vanished.
The agency said he had quit.
Its listed office was empty.
His phone stopped working.
"Everyone kept saying he probably ran away," Mara whispered. "But Leo wouldn't leave without telling me."
She reached into her bag.
Then she placed a photograph on the table.
A smiling boy stood beside a bicycle.
His grin was wide.
He looked younger than sixteen.
"Claire believed me," Mara said. "Even when the police couldn't find him, she believed me."
I studied Leo's face.
Then I looked at Mara.
"I'm going to help find your brother."
She gave a bitter laugh.
"Why should I believe you?"
"You shouldn't. Not yet."
That answer seemed to surprise her.
Hannah leaned forward.
"Mara, did Claire leave you anything before she died?"
The girl hesitated.
Then she reached into her jacket.
"A recording."
My heartbeat quickened.
"Of what?"
"Claire talking to me."
Mara placed her phone on the table.
"I never showed it to anyone because she asked me to keep it safe."
She pressed play.
Claire's voice filled the little office.
"Mara, if something happens to me, you need to understand something about Vincent."
I stopped breathing.
"He isn't the man organizing these disappearances."
Mara glanced at me.
The recording continued.
"But his name is being used to protect the people who are."
A pause.
Then Claire said the words that made Hannah slowly turn toward me.
"Vincent isn't their enemy yet."
May you like
Her voice hardened.
"He's their cover."
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