Chapter 3 - What Rebecca's Mother Knew
Roman did not raise his voice.
That frightened Rebecca more than shouting would have.
“What truth?”
Clara sat in the center of the drawing room with both hands resting on the handle of her cane.
It was after midnight.
Rain tapped the windows.
Margaret had sent everyone else away except Marcus.
Rebecca stood near the fireplace, still wearing the sweater she had pulled on while police searched her apartment.
Clara turned her face toward Roman.
“Your father did not die because his brakes failed.”
Roman’s expression became empty.
“The investigation—”
“Was controlled.”
“By whom?”
“I never knew.”
Roman’s jaw tightened.
“You knew for seventeen years that Antonio may have been murdered?”
“I suspected.”
“You said ‘truth.’”
“Because Evelyn knew more.”
Rebecca stepped forward.
“My mother?”
Clara nodded.
“She was working here when Antonio died.”
Roman paced toward the window.
“You told me she was a medical aide.”
“She was.”
“Then how did she know anything about my father’s car?”
“Because she heard a conversation.”
Rebecca’s pulse quickened.
Clara continued.
“Your father and his brother had been arguing for months.”
Roman stopped.
“Adrian?”
“Yes.”
Adrian Costa.
Rebecca had heard the name.
Roman’s uncle.
Chairman of several Costa companies.
A man almost as wealthy as Roman and far more acceptable in photographs.
He attended charity galas.
Sat on university boards.
Appeared beside Roman at public events.
Rebecca had met him once two days earlier.
He had kissed Clara’s cheek and told Rebecca she was “the famous waitress.”
She had disliked him instantly without knowing why.
Roman shook his head.
“My uncle loved my father.”
“So did Cain.”
Rebecca stared at Clara.
Roman gave a humorless laugh.
“You’ve been saving that line.”
“For sixteen years.”
Roman sat opposite her.
“Tell me everything.”
Clara began with her eyesight.
At fifty-three, she had been diagnosed with a degenerative retinal condition complicated by repeated hemorrhages.
Within two years, her useful vision had deteriorated dramatically.
Evelyn Davis was assigned through a private nursing agency after Clara underwent surgery.
“She was supposed to stay six weeks,” Clara said.
“She stayed eleven months.”
“Why?” Rebecca asked.
“Because I asked.”
Clara smiled faintly.
“Your mother was irritating.”
Rebecca almost laughed.
“She still was when she died.”
“She refused to flatter me. She hid salt from me. She told Antonio he smoked too many cigars.”
Roman looked down.
That sounded like Evelyn.
Rebecca could hear her mother’s voice inside the description.
Clara continued.
“At the time, Antonio and Adrian were fighting about the ports.”
“What about them?” Roman asked.
“Your father wanted to shut down certain operations.”
Roman knew what that meant.
Some Costa businesses were legitimate.
Hotels.
Warehouses.
Construction.
Real estate.
Others were not.
Antonio Costa had inherited an organization older than he was.
Extortion.
Illegal gambling.
Smuggling.
Roman had spent years cutting pieces away after becoming boss.
Clara said, “Antonio discovered drugs were moving through two Costa-controlled warehouses.”
Roman frowned.
“He forbade narcotics.”
“Yes.”
“Adrian knew that.”
“Adrian authorized the shipments.”
Silence.
Rebecca looked at Roman.
His face had hardened.
“Proof?”
“Antonio found accounts.”
“Where?”
“Evelyn helped him copy them.”
Rebecca’s breath caught.
“My mother was copying mafia ledgers?”
Clara tilted her head.
“When you say it that way, it sounds irresponsible.”
“It was incredibly irresponsible.”
“Yes.”
Roman almost smiled despite himself.
Then Clara continued.
“Antonio intended to confront Adrian at a family meeting.”
“What happened?”
“The night before the meeting, Evelyn overheard Adrian speaking with someone in the garage.”
“Who?”
“She never saw him.”
Clara’s fingers tightened.
“She heard Adrian say, ‘Tomorrow there won’t be anything left to discuss.’”
Roman stood.
“Why wasn’t I told?”
“You were nineteen.”
“I was his son.”
“You were angry, reckless and carrying a gun everywhere because you thought fear made you a man.”
Roman flinched.
Clara did not soften it.
“I had already lost most of my sight. I was frightened. Antonio told me he would handle it.”
Rebecca asked quietly, “And the next morning?”
“His car left the road.”
Police concluded brake failure.
Accident.
Antonio Costa died before reaching the hospital.
Adrian became interim head of the family.
Roman challenged him less than a year later and ultimately took control.
Rebecca stared.
“If Evelyn knew, why didn’t she go to police?”
“She tried.”
Clara’s face changed.
“Two detectives came to our home.”
Roman frowned.
“I remember.”
“You remember the official interview.”
“There was another.”
“Evelyn spoke privately with Detective Samuel Rourke.”
Roman’s expression darkened.
“Rourke.”
Rebecca asked, “Who is he?”
“Former organized crime detective.”
“Former?”
“Retired twelve years ago. Lives in Arizona.”
Clara shook her head.
“No.”
Both turned toward her.
“He is dead.”
Roman stared.
“When?”
“Three months after Antonio.”
“How?”
“Heart attack.”
Rebecca whispered, “Convenient.”
Clara nodded.
“The next day, someone left photographs outside Evelyn’s apartment.”
Rebecca knew before Clara said it.
“Of me.”
“Yes.”
Eleven-year-old Rebecca walking to school.
Sitting on a playground.
Standing beside Evelyn outside a grocery store.
A warning.
Her mother had never told her.
Clara said, “Evelyn resigned that night.”
Rebecca’s eyes burned.
“She took me to Milwaukee.”
“I know.”
“We moved because she said she needed a fresh start.”
Clara lowered her head.
“I paid for the move.”
Rebecca went still.
“What?”
“She refused at first. Your mother had an impressive relationship with pride.”
Roman glanced at Rebecca.
She ignored him.
Clara continued.
“She finally accepted enough money for six months’ rent.”
Rebecca felt as though the floor had shifted.
Everything she remembered from childhood had another explanation now.
New school.
Mother checking locks three times.
No forwarding address.
Evelyn refusing to list their number.
Rebecca had thought grief over her parents’ divorce made her paranoid.
No.
She had been hiding.
“What happened to the copies?” Roman asked.
“I don’t know.”
“Evelyn had them?”
“Yes.”
Rebecca thought of the stolen box.
Roman did too.
“Who knew she kept records?” he asked.
“Antonio.”
“Adrian?”
“Maybe.”
“Who else?”
“I don’t know.”
Roman stood.
“That isn’t good enough.”
Clara’s face tightened.
“I was blind, grieving and trying to keep my son alive.”
The words struck.
Roman stopped.
Clara continued.
“You think you were the only one who lost Antonio?”
His anger collapsed slightly.
Rebecca looked away.
Families did strange things with grief.
They turned pain into territory.
As though whoever hurt most owned the dead.
Roman crouched in front of his mother.
“Why now?”
“Because Rebecca came back.”
“She never left Chicago.”
“I mean back into our lives.”
Clara reached toward his face.
He leaned closer.
“And because someone searched her home after she asked about my medication.”
Roman’s expression changed.
“Those could be connected.”
“They are.”
“How do you know?”
Clara hesitated.
“Because this morning I remembered something.”
Rebecca felt the room tighten.
“What?”
“The night I walked away from the estate.”
Roman’s jaw tightened.
“You mean escaped.”
“I went for air.”
“You crossed six blocks.”
Clara ignored him.
“I heard someone behind me near the gate.”
“Who?”
“I don’t know.”
“A guard?”
“No.”
“How do you know?”
Clara touched her nose.
“Cedar cologne.”
Roman went still.
Rebecca noticed.
“Someone you know uses it.”
Roman stood slowly.
“Adrian.”
Clara nodded.
“He has worn the same fragrance for thirty years.”
Rebecca’s stomach tightened.
“Your uncle was at the estate that night?”
Roman looked at Marcus.
Marcus already had his phone out.
“No scheduled visit.”
“Check cameras.”
“I will.”
Clara continued.
“I heard him speaking to someone.”
“What did he say?”
“Something about me being worse.”
Roman’s face hardened.
“Worse?”
“My memory.”
Rebecca remembered the doubled medication.
“What exactly?”
Clara concentrated.
“He said, ‘Increase it again. She’s still too clear.’”
Silence.
Rebecca’s skin went cold.
Roman did not move for several seconds.
Then he said, “Marcus.”
“Already calling the pharmacy.”
“Get Bell.”
Rebecca watched him.
“Roman.”
He turned.
“Don’t warn whoever is doing this.”
“I’m not going to warn them.”
“You look like you’re about to break a doctor in half.”
“He has options.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
“Then be smarter.”
His eyes narrowed.
Rebecca continued.
“If somebody is drugging Clara, they think nobody has noticed. That is useful.”
Roman hated the logic.
Which meant he understood it.
Marcus arranged independent testing through a hospital outside the Costa network.
Clara agreed only after Rebecca promised no one would treat her like a laboratory experiment.
Blood was drawn before dawn.
The results arrived twelve hours later.
Clara had elevated levels of clonazepam in her system.
Three times the amount prescribed.
The effects could include confusion.
Memory problems.
Drowsiness.
Poor coordination.
Exactly the symptoms Roman had watched worsen.
He stared at the report.
Rebecca stood across from him in the library.
“So some of the memory trouble—”
“Could be medication.”
“Not all.”
“No.”
Roman’s jaw tightened.
Bell had prescribed increased doses.
The pharmacy had filled them.
Someone had manipulated at least part of Clara’s care.
Roman wanted Dr. Bell brought to the house.
Rebecca convinced him to wait.
Instead, Marcus began tracing phone records.
Clara’s medication was replaced with the proper dose under an independent physician.
Within forty-eight hours, she was noticeably more alert.
Not cured.
She still lost words.
Still forgot Rebecca had already read the same newspaper article aloud.
But the fog lifted.
Roman noticed.
The guilt almost destroyed him.
“I told her she was forgetting,” he said quietly one night.
Rebecca found him alone in the dark kitchen.
Clara had gone to bed.
“I used it against her.”
“You didn’t know.”
“I should have.”
“How?”
“It’s my job.”
Rebecca leaned against the counter.
“You think everything is your job.”
“Yes.”
“That sounds exhausting.”
He looked at her.
“It is.”
For the first time, he looked less like Roman Costa and more like a man who had not slept properly in years.
Rebecca poured coffee.
He reached for it.
She moved the cup away.
“It’s midnight.”
“I’m an adult.”
“Debatable.”
His mouth twitched.
She poured him water instead.
“You really aren’t afraid of me.”
“I didn’t say that.”
Roman paused.
“You are?”
Rebecca considered lying.
“No point.
“Yes.”
Something changed in his eyes.
“But fear doesn’t make people right.”
He studied her.
“You know what people say about me.”
“Yes.”
“And you stay.”
“Your mother pays well.”
He laughed.
Quiet.
Unexpected.
Rebecca smiled.
Then Roman became serious again.
“Why did your mother never tell you?”
Rebecca looked toward the dark window.
“Probably the same reason Clara didn’t tell you.”
“To protect me.”
“Parents love that excuse.”
“It’s not always an excuse.”
“No.”
She thought of Evelyn.
“But it can still hurt.”
Roman nodded.
The next day they searched Rebecca’s remaining belongings.
Nothing.
Then Rebecca remembered one thing the intruder had not taken.
Her mother’s sewing box.
It was still in storage in Milwaukee.
Evelyn had carried it through every move.
Rebecca hated sewing and never opened it.
Roman wanted someone sent immediately.
Rebecca went herself.
He insisted on coming.
“This is unnecessary,” she said as their SUV headed north.
“Your apartment was searched.”
“I survived Milwaukee for years without armed escorts.”
“You were less interesting then.”
“Charming.”
They reached the storage facility near sunset.
Rebecca found the plastic bin beneath old kitchen chairs.
Inside lay the wooden sewing box.
Thread.
Buttons.
Needles.
A thimble.
Nothing.
She felt foolish.
Then Roman lifted the removable tray.
“Rebecca.”
Beneath it was an envelope.
CLARA.
Rebecca stopped breathing.
Her mother’s handwriting.
She handed it to Roman.
“No.”
He looked at her.
“You open it.”
“It’s addressed to your mother.”
“She trusted yours.”
Rebecca swallowed.
She opened the envelope.
Inside was a photograph of Antonio Costa beside Adrian.
A date written on the back.
And a small brass key.
There was also a note.
Clara—
If something happens to me, the rest is where you first taught me to read without seeing.
Do not trust Lawrence Bell.
Do not trust Adrian.
And if Roman is old enough to understand, tell him his father knew.
Evelyn.
Rebecca read the words twice.
Roman did not speak.
Then he took out his phone.
“Marcus.”
His voice had become terrifyingly calm.
“Find Dr. Bell.”
A pause.
Marcus answered something.
Roman’s expression changed.
“When?”
Rebecca’s pulse quickened.
“What?”
Roman lowered the phone.
“Bell didn’t show up at his clinic this morning.”
“Where is he?”
“No one knows.”
Rebecca looked down at Evelyn’s letter.
Do not trust Lawrence Bell.
Seventeen years earlier, her mother had already known the name of the physician currently treating Clara.
That was impossible.
Dr. Bell claimed he had met the Costas only seven years ago.
Roman stared at the same line.
“He lied.”
Rebecca whispered, “About how long he’s known your family.”
Roman looked at her.
“No.”
May you like
His eyes hardened.
“About everything.”
