Chapter 4 - The Doctor Who Never Wanted Vincent to Hear Again|
For a moment, I thought I had misunderstood my father.
Vincent had been paying someone to keep himself deaf?
It sounded impossible.
Then I remembered the nightly medication.
The mysterious device.
The blood on Vincent's pillow.
And Dr. Bellamy's insistence that nothing could ever improve my husband's hearing.
I looked at Vincent.
His expression was unreadable.
My father mistook his silence for weakness.
"Funny, isn't it?" he continued. "All that money, all that power, and he couldn't even figure out what was happening inside his own head."
Vincent took one step forward.
My father immediately backed away.
"Don't touch me."
Vincent removed his phone.
Explain.
My father squinted at the screen.
Then he laughed.
"Can't you even threaten a man without typing?"
I slapped him.
The sound echoed through the conservatory.
My father stumbled backward, stunned.
I was stunned too.
For twenty-three years, I had endured his insults, his drunken rages, and his endless demands for money.
I had never raised a hand against him.
Until that moment.
"Don't ever laugh at him for being deaf," I said.
My father touched his cheek.
"You little—"
Vincent moved between us.
My father stopped speaking.
For the first time, I saw what truly frightened people about Vincent Moretti.
He didn't shout.
He didn't need to.
He simply stared until the other person remembered how small he was.
Then Vincent typed.
Who paid you?
My father looked away.
"Nobody."
Vincent held up the photograph from the monitor.
The one showing my father and Lorenzo.
Color drained from his face.
"You don't understand."
"Then explain it," I demanded.
My father's hands trembled.
"Lorenzo said this marriage was good for everybody."
"What did he want from me?"
"Just for you to keep Vincent company. Help him. Make him trust you."
A sick feeling spread through my stomach.
"And then?"
My father swallowed.
"He said there was something in Vincent's room you were supposed to find."
Vincent's expression sharpened.
"What something?" I asked.
"A black case. He said you'd know it when you saw it."
I remembered the locked cabinet beside Vincent's fireplace.
The one he never let the housekeepers touch.
My father continued.
"Lorenzo said if you found it, you were supposed to leave it where he could collect it."
"Why?"
"I didn't ask."
"You sold me to a stranger without asking why?"
His jaw tightened.
"I had debts!"
"You had a daughter."
He looked away.
And in that small movement, I understood that he would never give me the answer I wanted.
He had never loved me enough to choose me over his gambling.
Perhaps he never would.
Vincent touched my arm.
When I turned toward him, he signed a gesture I had begun recognizing.
Enough.
My father noticed.
"Wait. I can help you."
I looked back.
"Then tell us about Dr. Bellamy."
He hesitated.
Then he spoke.
"Lorenzo said Bellamy made sure Vincent never remembered the night his mother died."
The conservatory seemed to tilt.
Vincent's face went white.
His mother had died when he was twelve.
A car accident, according to the family story.
Vincent had been inside the vehicle.
He survived with severe hearing loss.
He remembered very little.
That was what he'd told me on our fourth night.
I looked at him.
His breathing had changed.
"Dad," I whispered, "what really happened?"
My father shook his head.
"I don't know everything."
"Tell me what you do know."
He wiped sweat from his forehead.
"Bellamy was paid to keep certain memories from coming back. Lorenzo said the treatments helped keep Vincent confused whenever he remembered too much."
Vincent gripped the edge of the fountain.
His knuckles turned white.
I rushed toward him.
He looked at me, frightened.
Not angry.
Frightened.
Then he typed with shaking hands.
I remember a woman screaming.
I held my breath.
A car door. Rain. My mother's hands over my ears.
His eyes filled.
And a man telling me to stay quiet.
Suddenly, a sharp crack shattered the conservatory window.
Glass scattered across the marble.
I screamed and ducked.
Vincent pulled me behind the fountain.
My father dropped to the floor, covering his head.
A second crack followed.
Someone was shooting from outside.
Vincent pressed the emergency button on my watch.
Within seconds, the lights went out.
The conservatory plunged into darkness.
I could hear heavy footsteps somewhere beyond the doors.
Then a man's voice shouted.
"Mr. Moretti! Security!"
Vincent recognized the vibration from his own alert device and pulled me toward a narrow side exit.
We slipped into the hallway.
Behind us, my father screamed.
"Don't leave me!"
I stopped.
Despite everything he had done, I couldn't bear the thought of him dying.
Vincent saw my expression.
He hesitated.
Then he signaled to one of his guards.
The guard ran back toward the conservatory.
Vincent took my hand and led me away.
Only when we reached the secure room did he let go.
His phone vibrated.
A message from his security chief.
Your father is alive. The shooter escaped. We found a cartridge casing and a damaged camera. Police have been contacted.
I collapsed into a chair.
Vincent knelt in front of me.
He touched my cheek, making sure I was looking at him.
Then he typed.
I'm sorry. I brought danger into your life.
I shook my head.
"You didn't create my father's choices."
Vincent looked away.
I took the phone.
We need a doctor who isn't Bellamy.
He nodded.
Then he opened a drawer.
Inside was a faded envelope.
He placed it in my hands.
A handwritten name appeared on the front.
Dr. Evelyn Hart — Pediatric Audiology, 2011.
May you like
Beneath it, someone had written a warning in red ink.
DO NOT LET ARTHUR KNOW.
Related Stories
