Chapter 6 - THE MAID THEY TRIED TO TURN INTO A CRIMINAL|
I spent the Friday after Thanksgiving sitting in a Chicago police interview room, staring at a photograph of a bank account I had never opened.
The room smelled of burnt coffee and disinfectant.
There was a small metal table, three uncomfortable chairs, and a clock that seemed to move more slowly every time I looked at it.
Detective Brooks sat opposite me.
Between us lay a printed transaction record.
Two hundred and fifty thousand dollars.
Transferred from Lakefront Capital Holdings.
Received by an account registered under my name.
"Miss Bennett," she said, "have you ever done business with this company?"
"No."
"Do you know anyone employed there?"
"No."
"Have you received money from Matteo Moretti?"
"Never."
She studied my face.
"Then why would someone send that amount to an account carrying your name?"
I swallowed.
"Because somebody wants you to believe I helped them."
She didn't respond immediately.
I understood her silence.
From the outside, everything looked terrible.
An elderly man's family was fighting over valuable property.
A housemaid had become involved.
A historic building had been set on fire.
And now a large payment appeared to connect that housemaid to the people trying to buy the building.
It was an elegant lie.
That was what frightened me most.
The people responsible hadn't simply framed me with one piece of evidence.
They had built a story in which every suspicious detail pointed toward me.
After a while, the door opened.
A woman wearing a navy-blue pantsuit entered with a leather briefcase.
Her dark hair was pulled into a neat ponytail.
"I'm Maya Chen," she said.
"Your attorney."
I stared at her.
"I can't afford an attorney."
"I know."
"Then why are you here?"
"Someone contacted my office about a woman being blamed for protecting an elderly person."
I looked toward the doorway.
Luca stood outside.
Maya noticed.
"Mr. Moretti offered to cover the initial legal expenses," she explained.
"But I represent you, Claire."
She placed her briefcase on the table.
"Not him, and not his family."
I felt an unexpected surge of relief.
After five years of being employed by the Morettis, having someone whose responsibility was entirely to me felt almost unfamiliar.
Maya examined the documents.
Then she asked Detective Brooks about the account's opening records.
The detective explained that the initial information came from a fraud report and that the bank's complete verification records were still being obtained.
Maya turned to me.
"Claire, who has copies of your identification?"
"My employer."
"Who handles payroll?"
"The household office."
"Who controls that office?"
I hesitated.
"Vivienne took over the records after she married Luca."
Maya's expression sharpened.
"When?"
"About four months ago."
She wrote something down.
Then she asked a question I hadn't considered.
"Has anyone recently requested a copy of your driver's license?"
I thought back.
Three weeks earlier, Vivienne had announced a new payroll system.
Every employee was ordered to submit identification documents again.
She claimed it was for insurance compliance.
I remembered standing outside her office while her assistant scanned my license.
I remembered the strange way Vivienne smiled when I asked why my old records weren't sufficient.
"My employer has everything someone would need," I whispered.
Maya closed her notebook.
"That gives us a starting point."
Later that afternoon, Detective Brooks confirmed that I was not being charged.
The investigation remained open.
I was free to leave.
But when I stepped into the hallway, I found Luca standing beside a window.
His expensive black coat was still stained with soot.
He looked as though he hadn't slept.
"How's your father?" I asked.
"Stable."
"Thank God."
"He keeps asking for you."
I managed a small smile.
Then Luca looked toward the interview-room door.
"They have a bank account with your name on it."
I nodded.
"I know."
"And somebody used your employee records."
"Yes."
He rubbed his forehead.
"Claire, I need to understand something."
My stomach tightened.
"What?"
"Did you tell anyone outside the family about the records in Rosa's Table?"
I stared at him.
The question hurt more than I expected.
"Are you asking whether I helped burn down your mother's restaurant?"
"No."
"Then what are you asking?"
He looked exhausted.
"I'm trying to find out who knew where we were going."
My voice shook.
"I went there because your father was afraid."
"I know."
"I nearly died trying to get him out."
"I know that too."
"Then don't look at me like I'm another problem you have to solve."
Luca fell silent.
I stepped around him.
But before I reached the exit, he spoke.
"Claire."
I stopped.
"I shouldn't have questioned you like that."
I didn't turn.
For five years, I had watched people treat Luca Moretti as though his money and power made every decision right.
I wasn't going to do the same.
"You can investigate me," I said quietly.
"You can question everything I say."
I finally faced him.
"But I won't spend the rest of my life begging powerful people to believe I'm decent."
His expression changed.
Then he nodded.
"You're right."
There was no argument.
No attempt to defend himself.
Just those two words.
When I returned to Maya's office that evening, she was examining the guardianship papers.
She had obtained a complete copy of the petition through counsel assisting Frank.
"Claire," she said, "there's something here you need to see."
She turned the document toward me.
Near the back was a sworn statement.
It claimed Frank frequently became confused, forgot where he lived, and behaved unpredictably.
The statement identified the witness as a longtime household employee.
I read the name.
Then I read it again.
CLAIRE BENNETT.
Beneath it was a signature resembling mine.
My hands began shaking.
"I never wrote this."
Maya studied the page.
"I believe you."
I looked at the statement in horror.
They hadn't just used my identity to frame me for arson.
They had used it to help convince a court that Frank Moretti was losing his mind.
And the document carried one more detail that made me feel sick.
May you like
It was dated three weeks before Thanksgiving.
Vivienne had been planning this long before she ordered me to remove Frank's chair.
