Chapter 3 - The City Where Nobody Knew My NameMadison wanted to call the police immediately.
I wanted to throw my phone into the ocean.
Neither reaction would have solved anything.
Instead, I took screenshots of the messages and forwarded them to Rebecca.
She called within minutes.
“Don't reply,” she said.
“I wasn't planning to.”
“Has anyone approached you?”
“No.”
“Do you recognize the number?”
“No.”
I heard papers rustling.
“I'm contacting an investigator. Meanwhile, stay with Madison, don't advertise your location, and don't travel alone at night.”
Madison stood beside me with her arms folded.
“She isn't traveling anywhere alone.”
Rebecca paused.
“Good.”
After we hung up, Madison took my phone and placed it facedown on the kitchen counter.
“You need dinner.”
“I'm not hungry.”
“You're growing a human being.”
“Madison—”
“Claire, I can be supportive and bossy at the same time. It's one of my better qualities.”
I smiled despite myself.
She served chicken soup and warm bread.
I managed half a bowl.
Then I went to bed and listened to the rain.
For a few hours, I almost forgot about Vincent.
Almost.
I dreamed about our wedding.
About Evelyn fastening a pearl bracelet around my wrist.
About Gabriel standing at the far end of the church despite having died years earlier.
In the dream, he looked at me and said, “Ask who moved the car.”
I woke with my heart racing.
It was four in the morning.
My phone was silent.
The apartment was still.
I walked to the bathroom and looked at myself in the mirror.
I looked ordinary.
Brown hair pulled into a loose ponytail.
Pale face.
Dark circles beneath my eyes.
No expensive dress.
No diamonds.
Just a thirty-one-year-old woman who was pregnant, divorced, and somehow caught in the middle of a murder investigation.
I placed both hands on the sink.
“What have you gotten yourself into, Claire?”
There was no answer.
The next morning, I received a call from a number registered to a federal office.
The woman introduced herself as Special Agent Rachel Morgan.
She worked with an FBI organized-crime team based in Chicago.
Rebecca had contacted the appropriate federal authorities through a former prosecutor, and Agent Morgan had been assigned to evaluate the information.
Her voice was calm.
Professional.
She didn't sound impressed by the Moretti name.
“I understand you've received threats,” she said.
“Yes.”
“Have you told Vincent Moretti?”
“No.”
“Good. For now, please don't discuss the investigation with him.”
That was easier said than done.
Vincent had called twice since my arrival.
I hadn't answered.
Agent Morgan continued.
“We're reviewing the financial records your attorney supplied. Some of the companies involved have appeared in other investigations.”
My pulse quickened.
“Can you tell me which ones?”
“Not yet.”
“Do you believe Gabriel was murdered?”
“We're treating the information seriously. But there are things we need to establish before reaching conclusions.”
I appreciated her caution.
In Vincent's world, people declared guilt first and searched for evidence later.
Agent Morgan asked me questions for almost an hour.
When had Evelyn given me the notebook?
Who knew I possessed it?
Had I ever seen Arthur Bell discussing company finances with Salvatore Moretti?
Had Vincent ever mentioned Gabriel's final destination?
I answered as carefully as I could.
Then she asked something unexpected.
“Did Evelyn ever tell you about a man named Eli Walker?”
I frowned.
“No. Who is he?”
“A former dispatcher at the South Side freight yards.”
“Was he involved in Gabriel's death?”
“We're trying to locate him.”
There was a brief silence.
Then she added, “One more question. Did your husband know you were reviewing his grandmother's records?”
“Not in detail.”
“Why not?”
I stared at the rain beyond the window.
“Because he was usually too busy to ask what I did all day.”
Agent Morgan didn't respond immediately.
Then she said, “Sometimes the things people overlook become important later.”
After the call, I sat on Madison's couch and cried.
Not loudly.
Not dramatically.
I simply cried until I ran out of tears.
It wasn't only fear.
It was exhaustion.
I had spent so long being Vincent Moretti's wife that I had forgotten how frightening it could be to make decisions without waiting for someone else's approval.
Madison sat beside me.
“You don't have to solve all of this.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
I laughed weakly.
“No.”
She pulled me into a hug.
“You're allowed to start over without saving the entire Moretti family.”
I thought of Evelyn's letter.
You owe my family nothing.
Maybe Madison was right.
Maybe the smartest thing I could do was hand everything to Agent Morgan, change my number, and spend the next seven months preparing for motherhood.
But then I remembered the second car.
Someone had driven away from Gabriel's murder.
Someone had known exactly what was going to happen.
And someone was frightened enough of Evelyn's evidence to threaten me across the country.
I couldn't pretend I hadn't seen it.
Three days later, I began my new job.
Rainier Housing Initiative occupied a renovated brick building near downtown Seattle.
The organization helped finance affordable housing developments and emergency assistance programs.
Its director, a warm, practical woman named Ellen Brooks, greeted me with a handshake.
“We were impressed by your experience in financial compliance,” she said. “Madison says you're one of the most careful people she's ever met.”
“She also thinks putting ketchup on scrambled eggs is a crime.”
Ellen laughed.
“Then she'll fit in here.”
For the first time in weeks, I spent an afternoon discussing something that had nothing to do with Vincent Moretti.
Vendor invoices.
Grant requirements.
Internal controls.
Ordinary problems that could be solved with spreadsheets and honest conversations.
It felt wonderful.
At lunch, I walked to a small café and bought a sandwich.
Nobody followed me.
Nobody called me Mrs. Moretti.
Nobody stared at the expensive ring that was no longer on my finger.
I sat near the window and watched people hurry through the rain.
A young father crossed the street holding his daughter's hand.
She wore bright yellow rain boots and kept jumping into puddles.
He pretended to scold her.
Then he jumped into one himself.
The little girl shrieked with laughter.
Something tightened in my chest.
I thought about my baby.
Would it have Vincent's gray eyes?
His stubborn expression?
Would it be a boy who took apart every toy he owned or a girl who asked impossible questions?
I smiled.
Then I looked down and realized I was crying again.
Pregnancy was making me emotional.
But this time, the tears weren't entirely sad.
The following Wednesday, Madison accompanied me to my first ultrasound appointment in Seattle.
The clinic was bright and peaceful.
A nurse asked about my medical history.
I answered the questions.
Then the sonographer dimmed the lights.
“Ready to see your baby?”
I nodded.
My throat was too tight for words.
The screen showed blurred shapes I couldn't understand.
Then the woman moved the probe slightly.
“There we are.”
A tiny form appeared.
Small.
Almost impossibly small.
A flicker of movement caught my attention.
“Is that…?”
“The heartbeat,” she said gently.
I stared.
There it was.
A tiny life.
Real.
Growing.
Completely unaware that its mother had spent the past week worrying about murders, bank transfers, and the man she'd loved.
Madison squeezed my hand.
“Oh, Claire.”
I couldn't speak.
Tears slid down my cheeks.
The sonographer smiled.
“Everything we can assess today looks appropriate for this stage. Your clinician will review the full results.”
I nodded.
I didn't need a perfect world.
I didn't need a mansion.
I didn't need Vincent's millions.
I wanted this heartbeat to continue.
I wanted to meet the person it belonged to.
For the first time since discovering my pregnancy, I allowed myself to imagine that I might truly become a mother.
Afterward, Madison insisted on buying me a tiny pair of white socks.
“They're ridiculous,” I told her.
“They're perfect.”
“They're smaller than my hand.”
“Exactly.”
I placed them carefully inside my handbag.
That evening, I photographed the ultrasound image and saved it in a folder labeled Baby.
Then I opened the contact I'd been avoiding.
Vincent.
My thumb hovered over his name.
I could tell him.
I could send the picture.
I could write, Congratulations. You're going to be a father.
I imagined his reaction.
Would he be happy?
Would he accuse me of hiding the pregnancy to punish him?
Would his mother insist the child needed to be raised inside the Moretti family?
Would lawyers appear with papers before the baby was even born?
I placed the phone down.
Not tonight.
I wasn't going to keep the truth from him forever.
But I needed to understand my own rights and make a safe plan before telling a man whose family could turn affection into a struggle for control.
My child deserved better than that.
Two weeks passed.
I worked during the day and spoke with Rebecca or Agent Morgan when they had questions.
The FBI interviewed former employees.
Rebecca arranged independent authentication of several financial records.
I learned that Aster Holdings had been used to conceal payments unrelated to legitimate freight operations.
But the person who owned Rook Security remained difficult to pin down.
Arthur Bell's name appeared in early registrations.
Later documents listed a different owner.
Someone had deliberately complicated the paper trail.
One Friday afternoon, I received a voicemail from Vincent.
I almost deleted it.
Instead, I listened.
“Claire, it's me.”
A pause.
“I know you don't want to talk. I'm trying to respect that.”
His voice sounded rough.
“I found one of Gabriel's old watches in Evelyn's study today. He gave it to me when I turned twenty-five.”
Silence.
“I realized I couldn't remember the last time I told you a story about him that didn't end with his death.”
He inhaled.
“You used to ask me questions. About what he was like when we were kids. What made him laugh. Why he loved terrible movies.”
My eyes burned.
“I never answered properly.”
Another pause.
“You deserved more than I gave you. I know saying that now changes nothing.”
His voice lowered.
“I hope Seattle is treating you better than Chicago did.”
The message ended.
I listened again.
Then I placed my phone on the kitchen table and walked away.
Vincent's regret was not a reason to return.
Not yet.
That night, Madison came home carrying groceries.
I was sitting on the floor beside the coffee table with Evelyn's notebook spread open.
“Please tell me you're not spending another Friday with the Mafia murder scrapbook.”
“I found something.”
Madison put down her bags.
“What?”
“An entry that doesn't match the bank statements.”
I pointed to a page.
Evelyn had written:
E.W. — March 18 — $14,600 — relocation assistance.
Beneath it:
Never through family accounts. R.S. knows.
Madison frowned.
“E.W.?”
“Maybe Eli Walker.”
“The dispatcher the FBI mentioned?”
“Possibly.”
“And R.S.?”
“Rebecca Shaw.”
I checked the dates.
The payment had been made two months after Gabriel died.
Not through Moretti Holdings.
Through Evelyn's separate charitable account.
My heart began to pound.
“If Eli Walker received relocation money,” I whispered, “Evelyn knew he was in danger.”
Madison stared at me.
“Does that mean he saw something?”
“I think it means Evelyn believed he did.”
I reached for my phone.
Before I could call Rebecca, my laptop made a notification sound.
An email had arrived at my work address.
No subject.
No sender name I recognized.
Only one photograph attached.
I opened it.
The image showed the exterior of Rainier Housing Initiative.
My workplace.
The photograph had been taken that afternoon.
Through the front windows, I could see myself standing beside Ellen Brooks.
Below the photograph were six words.
Chicago is not far enough, Claire.
I felt the blood drain from my face.
Madison looked at the screen.
“Oh, my God.”
Then she grabbed her phone.
“That's it. We're calling the police.”
I didn't argue.
Because for the first time since leaving Vincent, I understood something terrifying.
The divorce had ended our marriage.
May you like
But it hadn't freed me from his world.
And someone inside that world had decided I knew too much.
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