Chapter 2 - The Papers Vincent Kept Sending Me
The first packet arrived on a Monday.
The second came Wednesday.
The third arrived Friday.
Vincent never explained them.
He simply left them on my desk.
At first, I thought they were financial statements.
Then I realized they were pieces of my own life.
A police report.
A hospital discharge form.
A property deed.
A photograph of my father.
A bank transfer with his signature.
And a handwritten note:
Read page seventeen.
I did.
Page seventeen contained the name of Anthony Bellante.
I stared at it for nearly an hour.
Anthony was Vincent's uncle.
The same man who had allegedly died eight years earlier.
My father had signed a statement accusing him of fraud.
But the statement had never been filed.
Why?
I confronted Vincent.
“Why are you giving me this?”
“Because you asked for honesty.”
“I asked for no lies about my safety.”
“This concerns your safety.”
“You knew my father was investigating your uncle.”
“Yes.”
“You knew Anthony was still alive?”
Vincent stared at me.
“Yes.”
I felt dizzy.
“Why didn't you tell me?”
“Because I needed to know whether you were involved.”
“I'm not.”
“I know.”
“How?”
“Because you're angry.”
I laughed bitterly.
“That proves nothing.”
“It proves you're not pretending.”
He stepped closer.
“I've spent most of my life around people who know exactly when to perform.”
“And I'm different?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“You still look at me when you're scared.”
I stopped.
That was the first time I realized he had been watching more closely than I thought.
Not my clothes.
Not my appearance.
Me.
The next packet contained a medical report.
My mother had been diagnosed with a minor heart condition three years earlier.
I knew.
What I didn't know was who had paid the hospital bill.
Vincent.
I stared at the document.
“You paid this?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Your father once saved my life.”
“That doesn't explain my mother's hospital bills.”
“No.”
He looked at me.
“It explains mine.”
I didn't understand until he handed me another paper.
A debt.
My father had borrowed money from Vincent's father.
To protect my mother.
The loan had never been repaid.
Instead, Vincent had quietly covered everything after my father's death.
I felt my anger weaken.
Not disappear.
Just change.
“Why didn't you tell me?”
“Because if I had, you would have felt obligated.”
“Would I?”
“Yes.”
He was right.
That irritated me.
The next week, someone entered my old apartment.
Nothing was stolen.
Except my father's photographs.
I called Vincent.
He arrived within fifteen minutes.
He walked through the apartment.
Opened cabinets.
Checked the windows.
Then looked at me.
“What was missing?”
“My father's photographs.”
“Which ones?”
“All of them.”
He went silent.
“Why would anyone want those?”
“Because they may contain a location.”
“What location?”
He looked at me.
“The place your father hid the ledger.”
I felt a chill.
“You keep saying ledger.”
“Because that's what your father left.”
“I don't know where it is.”
“I believe you.”
“Then why am I still here?”
His expression softened.
“Because someone else doesn't.”
That night, Vincent moved my mother to a private apartment under another name.
I objected.
He listened.
Then he said:
“You're right.”
That surprised me.
“My mother stays here with me.”
“Yes.”
“We don't disappear without warning.”
“Agreed.”
“You don't make decisions for me.”
“I'll try.”
“Try?”
A faint smile.
“I am still learning.”
That was the first time I saw something human in him.
Not the billionaire.
Not the criminal.
Just a man.
The next morning, a packet waited at breakfast.
Inside was a photograph of Vincent as a teenager.
Beside him was my father.
The date was twenty-two years earlier.
On the back:
HE SAVED THE BOY.
I looked at Vincent.
“You were seventeen.”
“Yes.”
“My father saved you.”
“Yes.”
“How?”
Vincent looked away.
“My father ordered me to kill someone.”
I froze.
“And your father?”
“Stopped me.”
He swallowed.
“Your father told me that if I pulled that trigger, I'd spend the rest of my life becoming someone I couldn't live with.”
I stared.
“What happened?”
“I lowered the gun.”
“Then?”
“My father never forgave Daniel Hollis.”
“Is that why he died?”
Vincent didn't answer.
The silence said enough.
My father's death had not been an accident.
I felt sick.
“You knew.”
“I suspected.”
“For how long?”
“Years.”
“Why didn't you tell me?”
“Because your father asked me to wait.”
“Until when?”
“Until I could keep you safe.”
“And now?”
His eyes met mine.
“Now you're my wife.”
“Fake wife.”
His jaw tightened.
“Not to me.”
I stepped back.
He looked as surprised by his own words as I was.
The room became very quiet.
Then my phone rang.
Unknown number.
I answered.
“Hello?”
A man's voice.
“You should ask Vincent why your father never finished the ledger.”
I stared.
“Who is this?”
“You'll know soon.”
The call ended.
I looked at Vincent.
He already knew from my face.
“What did he say?”
I told him.
His expression went cold.
Then he took the packet from the table.
“Your father did finish the ledger.”
I looked up.
“What?”
“He just never handed it over.”
“Where is it?”
Vincent's eyes held mine.
“That is what everyone has been trying to find for twenty-two years.”
“And you?”
“I stopped looking.”
“Why?”
“Because I thought it died with him.”
Then another packet arrived.
This one contained a single photograph.
My father standing outside a courthouse.
Beside him was a younger Vincent.
And behind them stood a woman I recognized.
My aunt Lydia.
My father's younger sister.
I had not seen her in fifteen years.
She was supposed to have moved to Florida.
Vincent stared at the picture.
“That's impossible.”
“Why?”
“Because Lydia died ten years ago.”
I looked at him.
The photograph had been taken three years later.
May you like
My aunt was alive.
And someone had spent years making sure I believed otherwise.
