Chapter 3 - The Letters Isabella Never Delivered|
I read Teresa's note four times before the words truly sank in.
She's been taking my letters.
The paper trembled between my fingers.
I had worked in the Moretti mansion for eight weeks.
During that time, Isabella had been strict, impatient, and occasionally cruel.
But stealing an elderly woman's correspondence?
That was something different.
I folded the note and hid it inside my apron.
Then I tried to remember everything I'd seen.
Teresa often wrote letters in the afternoons.
She had beautiful handwriting, although arthritis made holding a pen painful.
Sometimes she asked me to bring her stationery.
Sometimes she requested stamps.
And almost every week, she asked whether the mail had arrived.
I remembered one afternoon in particular.
Teresa had handed me a large cream-colored envelope.
“Please make sure this goes out today, Emma.”
Before I reached the hallway, Isabella appeared.
“I'll take that.”
I hesitated.
“Mrs. Moretti asked me to mail it.”
“And I'm going into town.”
She took the envelope from my hand.
I hadn't thought much about it at the time.
Now I wished I'd insisted.
At eleven that night, I went upstairs to Teresa's bedroom.
She was sitting beside the window, looking toward the dark garden.
When I knocked, she turned.
“Emma?”
I entered quietly.
“I read your note.”
Her expression changed.
“Close the door, sweetheart.”
I did.
Then I sat beside her.
“Who is Arthur Whitcomb?”
“My attorney.”
I nodded.
“Why were you writing to him?”
Teresa looked down at her hands.
“Because something is wrong with my accounts.”
My stomach tightened.
“What kind of wrong?”
“Money has been disappearing.”
I stared.
She continued.
“Small amounts at first. Then larger ones. Payments to companies I don't recognize.”
“Have you told Luca?”
“Yes.”
“What did he say?”
Teresa's face tightened.
“He said Isabella was helping reorganize some of the family investments.”
I frowned.
“Did you authorize that?”
“No.”
The answer came immediately.
“I asked Arthur to review the records. But he never answered.”
“How many letters did you send?”
“Six.”
Six.
My stomach dropped.
“And none received a reply?”
“Not one.”
I looked toward the door.
“Maybe Isabella intercepted them.”
Teresa nodded.
“That's what I think.”
Then she reached into her bedside drawer.
Inside was a narrow leather folder.
She handed it to me.
“Look.”
I opened it.
Several bank statements were tucked inside.
I didn't understand every number.
But I understood enough.
One transaction was for two hundred thousand dollars.
Another for four hundred and fifty thousand.
A third exceeded a million.
All transferred to a business called Bellini Development Group.
I stared at the name.
“Is that Isabella's family?”
Teresa nodded.
“Her father's company.”
A cold feeling spread through my stomach.
“Mrs. Moretti, you need to show Luca.”
“I tried.”
“What happened?”
She looked away.
“Isabella said I was confusing investment distributions with unauthorized withdrawals.”
“Were you?”
“No.”
Her eyes flashed.
“I managed these accounts for almost twenty years after Giovanni died. I know the difference.”
I believed her.
But believing her wasn't enough.
We needed someone who could prove what was happening.
“Does Arthur have a telephone number?”
Teresa reached for a small address book.
She found the page.
Then stopped.
Someone had crossed out Arthur's number.
A new number had been written beneath it.
Teresa stared.
“I didn't do that.”
I leaned closer.
The handwriting was unfamiliar.
Not Teresa's.
Not mine.
She pointed toward the crossed-out number.
“That was his office.”
“And the new one?”
“I don't know.”
I pulled out my phone.
“May I look him up?”
She nodded.
I searched for the attorney's firm.
Within seconds, I found an official website.
Arthur Whitcomb.
Senior estate attorney.
Downtown Chicago.
I compared the number.
The crossed-out one matched the firm's listed contact number.
The replacement did not.
I swallowed.
“Someone changed your address book.”
Teresa closed her eyes.
“I knew it.”
I looked at her.
“Do you want me to call Arthur tomorrow?”
“Yes.”
“Should we tell Luca first?”
Teresa hesitated.
Then said something that made my heart ache.
“I love my son. But I need to know whether he will believe me.”
I gently squeezed her hand.
“I think tonight changed something.”
She looked at me.
“I hope so.”
Before leaving, I helped her settle into bed.
Then she caught my wrist.
“Emma.”
“Yes?”
“Please don't tell Isabella.”
“I won't.”
She studied my face.
“You have a family, don't you?”
I nodded.
“My father and younger brother.”
“Do they depend on your wages?”
The question surprised me.
“Yes.”
Teresa's expression softened.
“Then promise me you won't take foolish risks.”
I almost smiled.
“I'm only making a phone call.”
She shook her head.
“People who steal money don't always stop at money.”
I promised to be careful.
But when I returned to my room, I found a white envelope lying on my pillow.
There was no stamp.
No return address.
Only my name.
Emma Collins.
Inside was a printed photograph.
My father standing outside the physical therapy clinic he visited twice a week.
On the back were seven words.
Keep serving dinner. Stop asking questions.
I sat down so suddenly the mattress creaked.
Someone had been watching my family.
Someone knew where my father went.
And someone wanted me to understand that my job wasn't the only thing I could lose.
Then my phone rang.
An unknown number.
I almost ignored it.
But something made me answer.
A man's voice spoke.
“Emma Collins?”
I couldn't breathe.
“Yes?”
“My name is Arthur Whitcomb.”
I stood.
“Mr. Whitcomb?”
“Yes. I've been trying to reach Mrs. Moretti for weeks.”
My heart hammered.
“Why?”
He hesitated.
Then said, “Because I discovered someone has been using her signature without her permission.”
I covered my mouth.
And before I could respond, he added something worse.
“Emma, I need you to listen carefully. The document I found doesn't just involve money.”
May you like
A pause.
“It gives Isabella Bellini the power to decide whether Teresa can remain in her own home.”
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