Chapter 3 - The Fiancée Who Knew Too MuchAt 10:17 that night, I walked into Margaret Bell's downtown office to meet the woman I had been expected to marry.
Sloane Barrett was standing beside the windows overlooking Boston Harbor.
She wore an ivory silk dress and diamonds that probably cost more than most families earned in a lifetime.
Her hair was perfectly styled.
Her makeup was immaculate.
But her eyes were red.
On the table beside her sat a small silver gift box.
I recognized it.
She had bought me a watch for our engagement.
For a moment, I felt like the cruelest man in the city.
"Sloane."
She didn't turn.
"Did you know there were seventy-three guests waiting for us tonight?"
I said nothing.
"My father invited three state senators. Your grandmother hired musicians. The chef prepared a seven-course dinner."
She turned toward me.
"And I spent forty minutes standing beneath a chandelier while everyone pretended not to notice that my future husband wasn't coming."
"I'm sorry."
She laughed bitterly.
"You're sorry."
"I should have told you myself."
"Yes. You should have."
I took the ring box from my pocket.
Placed it on the desk.
"I won't insult you by pretending this is something we can fix."
She stared at the ring.
Then she looked up.
"Do you love her?"
I went still.
"Evelyn."
Sloane's expression told me she already knew.
"Do you?"
I thought about the four sleeping boys.
About Evelyn's trembling hands.
About six years of suffering I could never give back.
"Yes."
Sloane closed her eyes.
"Then at least one of us would have been marrying for love."
The words surprised me.
"You're not in love with me either."
"No."
She gave a tired smile.
"I liked you, Dominic. I respected parts of you. I thought we could build something useful together."
"That sounds romantic."
"I never claimed it was."
For the first time that night, we almost smiled.
Then her expression became serious.
"My father doesn't know I'm here."
"Why should that concern me?"
"Because I found something in the merger documents."
She took a thick folder from her purse.
Margaret entered behind us and shut the door.
"I've spoken with the firm's ethics counsel," Margaret said. "Sloane has authorized disclosure of the information she's bringing. She'll retain separate representation for anything involving her father."
Sloane nodded.
"I don't want anyone accused of stealing privileged documents. These are materials I had authority to review as a director."
She opened the folder.
Across the first page was the title:
HARBOR POINT CONSOLIDATED HOLDINGS — FINAL TRANSACTION SUMMARY.
I recognized the structure.
The agreement would merge certain waterfront assets from the Moretti and Barrett business groups into a new corporation.
I had reviewed earlier versions.
The marriage was supposed to accompany the announcement.
Not create the deal legally, but reassure the shareholders that the two families would remain aligned.
Sloane pointed to a paragraph.
"Your uncle amended this section three days ago."
I read it.
The Harbor Point Renewal Trust's records and financial administration would transfer to a Barrett-controlled subsidiary.
Its original archived documents would be reviewed for retention or disposal under the new company's records policy.
"They can't legally destroy records relevant to an investigation," Margaret said.
"No," Sloane agreed. "But they're pretending there's no investigation. And the people making those decisions are the people whose transactions need to be examined."
I looked at her.
"You knew about the missing money?"
"Not until recently."
"When?"
"Three weeks ago."
The same week Miriam Price died.
Sloane continued.
"My father became obsessed with closing the agreement. He stopped discussing the merger with our ordinary advisers and started using a private group of consultants."
"What did you find?"
"Payments to a company called Aster Harbor."
I frowned.
"Aster Harbor?"
"Seventeen transfers over four years. Some from our redevelopment subsidiaries. Others from Moretti-affiliated accounts."
I remembered the note.
Samuel knew where the stars were kept.
I looked at Margaret.
"Aster means star."
She nodded.
Sloane frowned.
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"Maybe something," I said.
I asked her the question I had been avoiding.
"Did your father know about Evelyn and the boys?"
Her face changed.
"Yes."
My jaw tightened.
"How long?"
"I don't know. But there was a photograph in his office two weeks ago."
"What photograph?"
"A woman leaving an elementary school with four boys."
The room went silent.
"Did he tell you who they were?"
"Not directly. He asked whether I believed a man could ever forget his first love."
I felt sick.
Sloane looked at me.
"I thought he was trying to make me jealous."
"And now?"
"Now I think he was measuring how much you could lose before you stopped making sensible business decisions."
I stared at the financial documents.
They had counted on me choosing family power over the woman I loved.
Or love over responsibility.
Either way, they believed the distraction would help them.
"What are you going to do?" I asked.
Sloane looked at the ring.
Then she pushed it back toward me.
"I'm not marrying you."
"I know."
"And I'm not signing my approval of the transaction."
"Sloane—"
"My father built his life around making people afraid to disappoint him."
Her voice trembled.
"I've spent thirty-four years pretending that was the same thing as respect."
I studied her.
For the first time, I saw someone who understood the cage I had been living inside.
"Thank you," I said.
"Don't thank me yet."
She closed the folder.
"If my father's involved in what happened to Evelyn's father, he's not going to stop because I refuse to marry you."
She moved toward the door.
Then she turned.
"Dominic?"
"Yes?"
"Be better to those boys than you were to me."
I couldn't look away.
"I intend to be."
She nodded.
"Then start by telling them the truth before someone else does."
After she left, Margaret returned to the folder containing Miriam's note.
"Aster Harbor," she murmured.
"Think that explains the reference to stars?"
"Possibly. But Samuel may also have meant something personal."
I called Evelyn.
She answered immediately.
"Are the boys okay?" I asked.
"Sleeping. Theo woke once because he wanted to know why we're not at home."
"Did you tell him?"
"That we're sorting something out."
I hesitated.
"Evie, did your father have anything connected to stars?"
Silence.
Then I heard her inhale.
"Yes."
"What?"
"He loved astronomy."
I remembered.
Samuel Hart had been a quiet man who could explain the constellations for hours.
He used to take Evelyn outside on clear nights to show her the sky.
"When I was little," she continued, "he painted glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling of his workshop."
"Where?"
"At my aunt's cottage in Rockport."
My pulse quickened.
"Does she still own it?"
"Yes."
"Is the workshop still there?"
"As far as I know."
I looked at Margaret.
"We might know where the blue book is."
Evelyn went silent.
Then she whispered, "Dominic, my father said something to me the night before he died."
"What?"
"He said that if people ever accused him of stealing, I should remember that the North Star doesn't move."
I closed my eyes.
"Evie."
"I thought he was being sentimental."
"Call your aunt. Tell her not to enter the workshop or touch anything."
"Why?"
"Because I think he was telling you where to look."
The next morning, we drove to Rockport.
Not secretly.
Margaret had contacted the investigator handling Evelyn's threat report and explained the possible connection to Samuel Hart's death. A retired detective working for Margaret accompanied us to document anything we discovered.
The boys remained in Brookline with Evelyn's aunt Beatrice and a carefully vetted caregiver.
I wanted them away from anything connected to the investigation.
Evelyn insisted on coming.
"I knew my father," she said. "If he hid something, I'm the one who'll recognize it."
I couldn't argue.
We reached the cottage shortly after nine.
It sat on a narrow road above the rocky coastline, a faded blue house with white shutters and a small garden that had grown wild.
The air smelled of salt.
Seagulls circled above the harbor.
Evelyn stood beside the car, staring.
"I haven't been here since his funeral."
I looked at her.
"Do you want a minute?"
She shook her head.
"If I take a minute, I might not go inside."
I followed her toward the back of the property.
A narrow path led to a detached workshop.
Evelyn unlocked the door.
Dust floated through the sunlight.
Old tools lined the walls.
A wooden workbench stood beneath a window.
And overhead, painted across the dark blue ceiling, were dozens of tiny white stars.
Evelyn covered her mouth.
"Oh, Dad."
I stepped inside.
She slowly turned.
"He used to bring me out here when I couldn't sleep. He'd turn off the lights and tell me that even when everything changed, the stars would still help me find my way."
I looked up.
There were five large painted stars.
One near each corner.
And one directly above the workbench.
"The North Star," I said.
Evelyn followed my gaze.
"That one."
She pointed above the bench.
"It's brighter than the others."
The retired detective photographed the room.
Then Evelyn stepped closer.
A wooden panel behind the workbench had been painted the same blue as the wall.
The investigator examined it.
There were two small screws.
One looked newer than the other.
With Evelyn's permission, he carefully removed the panel while documenting each step.
Behind it was a shallow compartment.
And inside the compartment sat a metal document case.
Evelyn made a small sound.
I moved beside her.
The investigator lifted it out and photographed its condition before opening it.
Inside was a blue leather-bound ledger.
A sealed envelope.
And an old photograph.
Evelyn reached for the photograph after the investigator showed it to us.
Her hands began shaking.
It showed her father standing beside mine.
Angelo Moretti.
Both men were smiling.
The photograph had been taken years before I met Evelyn.
I stared at it.
"Your father knew my father?"
Evelyn looked equally stunned.
"I had no idea."
On the back, someone had written:
Two men who wanted the same thing.
Below that was a date.
Nine years earlier.
Three months before my father's death.
I stared at the handwriting.
It was Angelo's.
I would have known it anywhere.
Margaret examined the ledger.
It contained account numbers, dates, handwritten references, and repeated transfers to businesses I recognized.
Aster Harbor.
North Pier Administrative Services.
Bellhaven Development.
Moretti Waterfront Holdings.
And Barrett Financial Partners.
Near the middle of the book was a page containing three signatures.
Vittorio Moretti.
Gideon Barrett.
And Angelo Moretti.
My father.
I stared at the date.
Then I read it again.
It was impossible.
My father had died on February twelfth.
The document was dated April twenty-sixth.
Ten weeks after his funeral.
I felt the blood drain from my face.
Evelyn looked over my shoulder.
"What is it?"
I pointed.
"That's my father's signature."
"Yes?"
"He was already dead."
The room became very quiet.
I stared at the page until the numbers blurred.
Someone had used my dead father's name to authorize a financial transfer.
Someone had manipulated the foundation he established.
Someone had murdered Evelyn's father to keep those secrets buried.
And somewhere inside this blue ledger might be the proof.
Evelyn slowly opened the sealed envelope.
Inside was a handwritten letter addressed to her.
She read the first sentence.
Then stopped.
Her expression changed completely.
"Dominic."
I looked at her.
"What?"
She held out the letter.
It began:
My darling Evie,
If you're reading this, I wasn't able to tell you the truth myself.
The money isn't the real secret.
The real secret is what happened to Angelo Moretti.
I stared at my father's name.
Then Evelyn read the next line aloud.
"His death wasn't the beginning of this conspiracy."
Her voice shook.
"It was the first thing they had to cover up."
For nine years, I had believed my father died of a heart attack.
May you like
Now I was standing in a dusty workshop beside the woman I loved, looking at evidence that someone had been stealing from his foundation after his death.
And a letter written by her murdered father was telling me that my own family history might be another lie.
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