Chapter 4 - Beneath the Heart of the Inn
I had spent twenty years believing the blue rocking horse was nothing more than a childhood toy.
Now I was kneeling beside it while Vincent Moretti examined a hidden compartment in its wooden belly.
Grandpa had built the horse himself.
Its blue paint had faded.
One ear was chipped.
And beneath the saddle, carved so carefully that nobody would notice unless they knew where to look, was a tiny heart.
Vincent pressed his thumb against the carving.
A soft click sounded.
The wooden panel opened.
Inside sat a brass key.
For a moment, nobody spoke.
Then Tess whispered, "Okay. Your grandfather was officially more interesting than mine."
Grandma gave her a look.
"He was your grandfather too."
"I know. I'm processing."
I picked up the key.
It was old and heavy, with an unusual circular handle.
A tiny number had been engraved near the top.
17.
Vincent examined it.
"Do you recognize it?"
I shook my head.
"Could be a storage locker."
Grandma frowned.
"Robert never rented storage."
"Maybe a safety deposit box," Tess suggested.
Vincent looked at me.
"What does 'beneath the heart' mean?"
I stared at the carved message.
"Maybe Grandpa meant the heart on the horse."
"Or something else."
He looked toward the windows.
Outside, the inn's wooden sign hung above the front entrance.
BENNETT'S HEARTLAND INN.
A red heart was painted beneath the words.
My eyes widened.
"The sign."
Vincent followed my gaze.
I stood.
"Grandpa always called this place the heart of the family."
We hurried downstairs.
Marco was already waiting outside.
Vincent explained.
Within minutes, two men had brought a ladder beneath the old sign.
Grandma watched anxiously from the porch.
"Don't break it. Robert painted that himself."
One of the men carefully loosened the sign.
Behind it, hidden inside a narrow cavity in the wooden beam, sat a small metal plate.
The plate had a keyhole.
My heart pounded.
Vincent looked at me.
"Your grandfather wanted you to find this."
I inserted the brass key.
It fit perfectly.
The lock turned.
A small compartment opened.
Inside was a leather pouch.
I lifted it out.
My hands trembled.
"What's inside?"
Vincent waited.
I opened the pouch.
There was a tiny silver bracelet.
A photograph.
And a cassette tape.
The bracelet had one word engraved on it.
ELENA.
Vincent went completely still.
I handed it to him.
He stared at the tiny piece of silver.
His fingers tightened around it.
"I remember this," he whispered.
I swallowed.
"Are you sure?"
He nodded.
"My father had it made before she was born. There were two identical bracelets."
"Two?"
"One for the baby. One for my mother to keep."
He turned the bracelet over.
On the back was a small inscription.
V.M. & I.M.
Vincent and Isabella Moretti.
His parents.
I looked at the photograph.
It showed a woman holding a little girl.
The woman wore a hospital uniform.
Her face was partially hidden.
But the little girl's features were clear.
Dark hair.
Large gray eyes.
A tiny smile.
She looked about three years old.
I frowned.
"Vincent."
He looked up.
"The hospital said Elena died when she was three days old."
"Yes."
"Then who's this?"
He stared at the photograph.
The color drained from his face.
The girl wore the same bracelet.
For several seconds, he didn't breathe.
Then he whispered, "Elena."
I felt goosebumps rise along my arms.
If the photograph was genuine, Vincent's sister had lived years beyond her supposed death.
I turned it over.
A date had been written on the back.
April 12, 2003.
Twenty-three years earlier.
Three years after Elena's birth.
Vincent touched the handwriting.
"She's alive."
I hesitated.
"She was alive then."
His jaw tightened.
"That's more than we've ever known."
Grandma began crying quietly.
I looked at the cassette.
"How do we play this?"
Tess raised a hand.
"Believe it or not, Grandma still has a cassette player."
Grandma sniffed.
"Because unlike you children, I don't throw away perfectly good things."
We gathered around the dining table.
Vincent placed the tape inside the old player.
A hiss filled the room.
Then a man's voice emerged.
My grandfather.
My breath caught.
"Ruth, if you're hearing this, it means I didn't get the chance to tell you everything."
Grandma covered her mouth.
Grandpa's voice sounded exactly as I remembered.
Warm.
Steady.
A little rough from years of working outdoors.
"I know I promised I'd leave the past alone. I tried. God knows I tried."
A pause.
Then the sound of paper rustling.
"But I found the girl."
Vincent leaned forward.
"Elena Moretti is alive. She was never buried at St. Catherine's Hospital. The death certificate was a lie."
Grandma began sobbing.
I reached for her hand.
Grandpa continued.
"The Whitcomb brothers were involved. Samuel handled the records. Charles handled the money. But they weren't working alone."
The tape crackled.
"Someone powerful wanted the Moretti family to believe Elena was dead. I don't know why yet. What I do know is that the girl was taken to a private institution outside Lexington."
Vincent's expression hardened.
"Which institution?"
Grandpa's voice lowered.
"I found her name in the records. But before I could bring her home, someone moved her."
A long pause followed.
Then Grandpa said something that made Vincent go rigid.
"Her new name is Grace."
I looked at him.
"Grace?"
He didn't answer.
The tape continued.
"Grace Holloway. That's the name they gave her. Last known location: Bellweather Children's Home, Kentucky."
The recording crackled again.
"Robert Bennett," another voice suddenly said.
I froze.
It wasn't Grandpa.
The voice was cold.
Controlled.
"You're getting too close."
A sharp sound followed.
Then Grandpa's voice.
"Stay away from my family."
The unknown man laughed.
"You should have stayed out of Moretti business."
The tape ended.
Silence filled the dining room.
Vincent stood.
"Marco."
The bodyguard appeared.
"Find Bellweather Children's Home. Every record. Every former employee. Everything."
Marco nodded.
Vincent looked at the tape.
"Can we identify the second voice?"
"We'll have it analyzed."
I felt sick.
Grandpa had known his life was in danger.
He'd hidden the evidence because he was trying to protect us.
And then someone had killed him.
I looked at Vincent.
"We have to find her."
His eyes met mine.
"I will."
"No."
He frowned.
"What?"
"We."
"Daisy—"
"I'm not staying here while you investigate."
"Someone is trying to kill you."
"Someone already killed my grandfather."
His expression softened.
"I understand."
"No, you don't."
I stepped closer.
"Grandpa died because he was trying to bring your sister home. You don't get to tell me I can't help finish what he started."
For a long moment, Vincent stared at me.
Then he sighed.
"You really are impossible."
"Grandma says it's hereditary."
From the doorway, Grandma called, "And I stand by that."
Vincent almost smiled.
Then his phone rang.
Marco answered his own phone at the same moment.
Both men's expressions changed.
Vincent listened silently.
Then he looked at me.
"Bellweather Children's Home closed eighteen years ago."
My heart sank.
"Then how do we find Grace?"
He continued listening.
A pause.
His eyes narrowed.
"What?"
He ended the call.
"Someone accessed the Bellweather archives three days ago."
"Who?"
He looked at me.
"Charles Whitcomb."
My stomach twisted.
"Why?"
Vincent's voice was cold.
"Because he knows we're getting close."
I looked at the old photograph.
The little girl's gray eyes seemed to follow me.
"Do you think he knows where she is?"
Vincent nodded slowly.
"I think he's known for years."
Before I could respond, Marco rushed inside.
"Boss, there's something else."
Vincent turned.
"What?"
Marco held up a tablet.
"Bellweather transferred Grace Holloway to a foster family in Pennsylvania in 2008. She changed her legal name when she turned eighteen."
I stepped forward.
"What's her name now?"
Marco looked uncomfortable.
Vincent noticed.
"Marco."
The bodyguard swallowed.
"Her name is Dr. Amelia Carter."
I frowned.
That name meant nothing to me.
But Vincent looked as though someone had struck him.
"What?" I whispered.
He stared at the tablet.
May you like
Then he spoke slowly.
"Amelia Carter is the doctor who treated my father before he died."
