Chapter 4: What a Sister Keeps Hidden
Alessio sent Giada to the sitting room at the end of the east corridor and told Marco to stand outside the door.
Not inside.
Outside.
The distinction mattered to men like him — it was restraint, not imprisonment.
A line he was not yet ready to cross with his own blood.
I understood it.
I didn't agree with it.
He came back to the study and stood in the doorway.
"Tell me what you actually think," he said.
"I think she knew what she was looking for on that drive rack.
I think the tape was a marker she placed herself.
I think she went into the nursery between 1:58 and 2:02, placed the bead in Leo's crib or directly in his mouth, and was back in her room before the monitor sounded."
He said nothing.
"I also think she's done this before," I said.
"Not this specifically.
But something.
The way she answered you — she wasn't surprised by the questions.
She was managing them."
"She's my sister."
"I know."
"She loves Leo."
I looked at him carefully.
"People who love children don't put foreign objects near their airways."
He walked to the window.
The rain had slowed.
The grounds were dark beyond the glass, the gate lights reflecting in long wet lines across the gravel.
"She's been asking about Leo's inheritance," he said quietly.
"Since he was born.
Who controls it if something happens to him.
Whether it reverts."
"And does it?"
He turned.
"To the nearest Romano blood relative." He paused.
"Which is Giada."
The room felt different after that.
Not louder.
Just heavier.
"Has she asked about it recently?" I said.
"Two weeks ago.
On the phone.
I told her it wasn't a conversation I was willing to have." He looked at his hands.
"She arrived unannounced three days later."
I set the evidence bag on the desk again, carefully, between us.
"You need someone independent to look at this bead," I said.
"A forensic lab.
Not someone connected to your organization.
Someone whose findings can't be questioned later."
"Later implies a legal process."
"Yes."
"I don't use legal processes."
"I know what kind of man you are," I said.
"I've known since the moment you put a g\*n to my head and your hand didn't shake.
But Leo is four months old.
And the person who did this is still in your house.
Whatever you normally do — this time it has to hold.
It has to be something that can't be undone or denied or made to disappear."
He looked at me for a long moment.
"Why do you care?" he said.
"You're employed here.
You could have handed Leo to the paramedics and walked out."
"Because I was in that nursery," I said.
"And I don't leave things unfinished."
He almost said something.
Then didn't.
He picked up his phone and made a call I wasn't meant to hear.
He walked to the far side of the room, kept his voice low.
I heard two words clearly: independent and sealed.
When he came back, he said, "Someone will be here by six."
"Good."
"In the meantime, I need to speak to Giada alone."
"That's a mistake."
"She's my sister."
"She's also the person who tried the nursery door handle at two in the morning and didn't say a word." I held his gaze.
"If you go in there alone, she'll say whatever she needs to say to make you doubt yourself.
And part of you will want to believe her.
Because she's your sister."
His jaw moved.
"I'm not asking to be in the room," I said.
"I'm asking you to wait until your independent contact arrives and the bead has been documented.
Give yourself two hours before you sit across from her."
"And if she tries to leave?"
"Marco is outside the door."
He looked toward the corridor.
"She'll know something is wrong if I don't come to her."
"She already knows something is wrong," I said.
"That's why she walked into this room and asked about Leo before she asked what the ambulance was for."
He stopped.
"She didn't ask what happened," I said.
"She asked if he was all right.
She already knew what had happened."
The silence that followed was the longest one yet.
Alessio sat down in the desk chair.
He didn't reach for his phone.
He didn't look at the monitors.
He looked at the sealed evidence bag on the desk, at the small blue bead visible through the plastic, at the faint dark residue along one edge.
"She held him at Christmas," he said.
"She sang to him."
"I know."
"He smiled at her."
"I know."
His hand went flat on the desk.
"Find out what that residue is," he said.
"Whatever it costs.
Find out tonight."
I picked up the bag.
"I'll need access to your kitchen.
And a phone charger — mine is in the nursery."
He nodded once.
I was almost at the door when he spoke again.
"What's your name?" he said.
"Your full name."
I turned.
"Nora Voss."
He repeated it quietly, the way people repeat something they intend to remember.
"Nora Voss." A pause.
"Thank you for my son's life."
I didn't know what to say to that.
So I said nothing, and walked out into the corridor, and pulled the study door closed behind me.
Down the hall, behind the sitting room door, I could hear Giada Romano moving.
Slow, deliberate steps.
Back and forth across the floor.
Pacing.
May you like
Thinking.
Preparing.
