Chapter 6 - THE MUSIC BOX MY MOTHER HID|
The photograph of my destroyed apartment appeared on Daniel's phone at 12:43 a.m.
I recognized my bedroom immediately.
The pale blue curtains Lily had bought me for Christmas were torn from the window.
My dresser lay on its side.
Drawers had been emptied across the floor.
The framed photograph of my parents was broken.
And above my bed, written in thick black letters, were seven words.
YOUR MOTHER SHOULD HAVE BURNED THE BOX.
I pressed my hand against my mouth.
That apartment was the only home Lily and I had ever managed to afford without help.
It wasn't beautiful.
The kitchen faucet leaked.
The heating system made strange noises.
And the upstairs neighbor practiced trumpet at seven every Saturday morning.
But it was ours.
Now someone had walked through it, touched our belongings, and destroyed the little safety we had built.
Matteo stood beside me.
"Claire, I'm sorry."
I shook my head.
"Don't."
He fell silent.
I stared at the photograph.
"Please don't apologize for something you didn't do."
His expression tightened.
"Someone is doing this because of my family."
I looked at him.
"Then help me stop them."
For a moment, he seemed surprised.
Then he nodded.
"I will."
Daniel approached.
"Police are processing the apartment."
"Did they find the music box?" I asked.
He shook his head.
"Not yet."
My heart sank.
Matteo noticed.
"Tell me about it."
I took a breath.
"It belonged to my grandmother."
"What did it look like?"
"Silver."
I closed my eyes.
"About the size of a jewelry box, with a little ballerina inside."
"Anything unusual?"
"The music stopped working after my mother died."
"Where did you keep it?"
"In a storage bin beneath my bed."
Daniel made a note.
Matteo turned toward him.
"Ask the officers to check that location."
Daniel stepped away.
I stared at the broken photograph on the screen.
Then I remembered something else.
"My mother used to tell me never to throw it away."
Matteo looked at me.
"Why?"
"She said it was the only thing my father left that couldn't be replaced."
I swallowed.
"I always thought she meant the memories."
Matteo's expression softened.
"Maybe she meant something more."
A few minutes later, Daniel returned.
His face was serious.
"The officers found the storage bin."
I held my breath.
"And?"
"The music box is gone."
I closed my eyes.
Of course it was.
Whoever had broken into our apartment knew exactly what they wanted.
But then Daniel continued.
"There's something else."
I opened my eyes.
"The officers found a small envelope taped beneath the bed frame."
My pulse quickened.
"What envelope?"
"It has your name on it."
I stared at him.
"Mine?"
He nodded.
"The detective is sending photographs."
Matteo looked at me.
"Would you like to see them?"
I nodded.
Daniel's phone buzzed.
He opened the image.
The envelope was yellowed with age.
Across the front, in my mother's handwriting, were three words.
FOR MY CLAIRE.
I began crying before I could stop myself.
I hadn't seen my mother's handwriting in years.
She used to leave notes inside my lunchbox.
Little reminders to study hard.
To be kind.
To remember that courage wasn't the absence of fear.
And now, somehow, she had left me one final message.
Matteo handed me a clean handkerchief.
I took it without looking up.
"Thank you."
Daniel showed me the next photograph.
Inside the envelope was a letter.
I read it slowly.
"My beautiful Claire, if you are reading this, someone has discovered what your father tried to protect."
My hands began shaking.
"I hoped you would never need to know the truth."
The words blurred.
I wiped my eyes and continued.
"Your father was not a criminal, and he did not die because he was careless."
I stopped.
Matteo waited silently.
"He discovered that money meant for widows and children was being stolen."
My throat tightened.
"He believed the theft was connected to the death of a man named Anthony DeLuca."
Matteo's expression changed.
His father.
I looked at him.
He said nothing.
I continued reading.
"Thomas kept copies of the records because he knew powerful people would try to destroy them."
My heart pounded.
"He trusted Isabella DeLuca, but he feared the people surrounding her."
The next sentence made my blood run cold.
"One of those people was Robert Hale."
I looked up.
Robert stood near the doorway.
His face went white.
Matteo followed my gaze.
"What?"
I held out the phone.
"Read it."
He took it.
His eyes moved across the screen.
Then he looked toward Robert.
"Explain."
Robert swallowed.
"Matteo—"
"Explain why Claire's mother warned her about you."
The attorney stepped backward.
"I didn't know she had written that."
"That's not an answer."
Robert removed his glasses.
For the first time that evening, he looked like a frightened old man.
"Your father discovered irregularities in the Harbor fund."
"We know that."
"He asked me to investigate."
"And?"
Robert's voice trembled.
"I found evidence that Victor Bellini had been transferring money into shell companies."
Matteo stared at him.
"Why didn't you report it?"
"Because Victor threatened my family."
The room went silent.
Robert looked at me.
"My daughter was twelve years old."
I felt a sharp pain in my chest.
"He sent me photographs of her school."
Matteo's expression hardened.
"So you stayed quiet."
Robert nodded.
"I told myself I was protecting her."
"And my father died."
Robert lowered his head.
"Yes."
I stared at him.
"And my father?"
Robert closed his eyes.
"I believe Thomas died because he refused to surrender the records."
The words struck harder than I expected.
For years, I had imagined my father's final moments as an accident.
A broken machine.
A terrible mistake.
Now I pictured him frightened, knowing someone wanted to silence him.
I could barely breathe.
Matteo spoke quietly.
"Robert, did you help Victor?"
The attorney looked up.
"No."
"Did you sign any false documents?"
Robert hesitated.
Matteo's face changed.
"Robert."
"I signed one authorization."
Eleanor gasped.
Robert continued quickly.
"It was supposed to be temporary."
"What authorization?"
"A document allowing Victor to administer certain foundation properties."
Matteo stared at him.
"Properties including the cottages?"
Robert nodded.
"And the west wing?"
"Potentially."
Matteo stepped away.
I had never seen disappointment look so devastating.
Robert reached toward him.
"Matteo, I loved your father."
Matteo turned.
"Then you should have honored him."
Robert lowered his hand.
Nobody spoke.
Finally, Matteo looked at Daniel.
"Contact the authorities."
Robert's face crumpled.
"Matteo—"
"You'll give them everything you know."
He paused.
"And you'll tell them the truth."
Robert nodded slowly.
"I will."
I looked back at my mother's letter.
There was one final paragraph.
I read it aloud.
"Claire, the music box is not the secret."
Everyone turned toward me.
"The secret is what your father taught you to do when the music stopped."
I stared at the words.
My mind raced backward.
To our tiny apartment.
To rainy afternoons.
To my father sitting beside me on the floor.
He would wind the music box.
The ballerina would turn.
Then the melody would slow.
And stop.
I remembered laughing.
"Daddy, it's broken."
He would smile.
"No, sweetheart."
Then he would lift the little ballerina and turn it gently to the left.
The music would begin again.
I looked up.
"The ballerina."
Matteo frowned.
"What?"
"My father taught me how to restart the music."
I swallowed.
"You lift the ballerina and turn it left."
Daniel stepped closer.
"Could that open a compartment?"
"I don't know."
Matteo looked at him.
"Find the box."
Daniel nodded.
Then my phone rang.
Unknown number.
Everyone went still.
Matteo looked at me.
"Don't answer unless you want to."
I stared at the screen.
Then I pressed the button.
"Hello?"
A woman's voice answered.
"Claire Bennett?"
"Yes."
"This is Detective Sarah Whitmore with the Chicago Police Department."
My heart pounded.
"Is something wrong?"
"We're investigating the break-in at your apartment."
"I know."
"We found something we need you to identify."
"What?"
"A small silver jewelry box."
I nearly dropped the phone.
"You found it?"
"Yes."
"Where?"
A pause.
"Inside a vehicle abandoned near your building."
I looked at Matteo.
"Did someone open it?"
"We haven't."
"Please don't."
The detective hesitated.
"Why?"
"Because I think there's something hidden inside."
Silence.
Then she said, "Miss Bennett, would you be willing to come to the station?"
I looked at Matteo.
He nodded.
"Yes."
"We'll arrange a safe meeting."
The call ended.
Twenty minutes later, Matteo and I left the mansion.
Daniel drove.
Two security vehicles followed.
The streets of Chicago were nearly empty.
Rain glistened beneath the streetlights.
I sat in the back seat, staring at my mother's letter.
Matteo sat beside me.
Neither of us spoke for several minutes.
Then he said, "What was your father like?"
I looked up.
The question surprised me.
"He was funny."
Matteo smiled faintly.
"Funny?"
"He made terrible jokes."
I swallowed.
"He sang while cooking breakfast."
"What did he sing?"
"Old country songs."
I laughed through my tears.
"He couldn't carry a tune."
Matteo looked toward the window.
"My father used to whistle."
I turned.
"Really?"
"Every morning."
His expression softened.
"He'd walk through the house whistling the same melody."
"What happened after he died?"
Matteo was quiet for a long moment.
"Nobody whistled anymore."
Something inside me ached.
We were two adults who had spent most of our lives missing fathers.
And somehow, those fathers had been connected by a secret neither of us understood.
When we arrived at the police station, Detective Whitmore was waiting.
She was a tall woman in her forties with tired eyes and a calm voice.
She led us into a private interview room.
On the table sat my mother's music box.
I stopped in the doorway.
The silver surface was scratched.
One corner was dented.
But the little ballerina was still inside.
I approached slowly.
"Hello, old friend," I whispered.
Matteo stood beside me.
Detective Whitmore watched carefully.
"Do you recognize it?"
"Yes."
"Can you explain why someone might have stolen it?"
I looked at the ballerina.
"I think my father hid something inside."
The detective nodded.
"Go ahead."
I lifted the tiny figure.
Turned it left.
Nothing happened.
My heart sank.
Then I remembered.
My father always pressed down first.
I pushed the ballerina gently.
Turned.
A small click sounded.
The bottom of the box opened.
Inside was a narrow metal compartment.
And inside that compartment lay a tiny memory card wrapped in wax paper.
Nobody spoke.
Detective Whitmore put on gloves.
She carefully removed it.
Matteo leaned forward.
"What is that?"
The detective examined the card.
"Digital storage."
I stared at it.
My father had died in 2005.
The card looked newer.
Someone had hidden it long after his death.
My mother.
She must have transferred the records before she died.
Detective Whitmore placed it into an evidence sleeve.
"We'll examine this through the proper forensic process."
I nodded.
Then she looked at me.
"Miss Bennett, there's something else."
My stomach tightened.
"What?"
"The vehicle where we found the music box was registered to a company."
Matteo's expression hardened.
"Which company?"
The detective glanced at her notes.
"Bellini Legal Holdings."
Vanessa's brother.
Adrian.
Matteo slowly leaned back.
Then Detective Whitmore continued.
"And the driver left something behind."
"What?"
"A photograph."
She slid it across the table.
It showed my mother standing outside St. Agnes Children's Home.
Beside her was Isabella DeLuca.
And between them stood a little boy.
He couldn't have been older than eight.
Dark hair.
Serious eyes.
A small scar above his eyebrow.
Matteo stared at the photograph.
Then he whispered, "That's not me."
I looked at him.
"What?"
He pointed toward the boy.
"That's my half brother."
The room went silent.
Matteo's face had gone completely white.
"My mother told me he died when he was a baby."
Detective Whitmore looked at the photograph.
"According to the date, he was eight years old."
Matteo didn't move.
May you like
Then he whispered a name.
"Gabriel."
