Chapter 4 - Eight Minutes
Vincent did not show Lorenzo the photograph that night.
At first, I thought it was because he still believed I had done it.
Then he said, “If Vivien knows we are looking at her, she will destroy whatever she left behind.”
“You think she planted the medicine.”
“I think I don’t like coincidences.”
“That is not the same thing.”
“No.” His mouth tightened. “It isn’t.”
He returned the next morning before sunrise.
Emma was still asleep beneath a quilt Mrs. Alvarez from the kitchen had brought over. The rabbit was tucked under her chin. Her cheeks had color again.
Vincent stood by the kitchen counter, holding two coffees.
He handed one to me.
I stared at it.
“You don’t trust me,” he said.
“You interrogated my three-year-old.”
His face shifted.
Not defensiveness.
Regret.
“I did.”
“You asked if I put pills in her backpack.”
“I did.”
“And now you want me to drink coffee you brought?”
“It’s sealed.”
I took it anyway.
Not because I trusted him.
Because I had not slept in twenty-four hours.
He spread printed security logs across the counter.
“The east wing camera records continuously,” he said. “Except from 2:17 to 2:25.”
“Why?”
“Power fluctuation.”
“That sounds convenient.”
“It is.”
He tapped the page.
“The backup generator did not activate. The footage did not corrupt. Someone manually disabled the camera feed.”
“Can Vivien do that?”
“Not without help.”
My stomach tightened.
“Who helped her?”
Vincent’s eyes were grim.
“That’s what I need to find out.”
He had brought a list of everyone working overnight: two guards, a night nurse, a housekeeper, a driver, the groundskeeper, and Marco Bellini.
I knew Marco.
Twenty-six. Quiet. Dark hair. Security trainee.
He had been kind to Emma. He always saved orange juice boxes from the staff kitchen because she called them “sunshine drinks.”
“He wouldn’t,” I said.
Vincent did not respond.
“What?”
“Marco’s keycard was used to access the security office at 2:11 a.m.”
My chest tightened.
“And my name was added to the medical room log four minutes later.”
“Yes.”
I sat down slowly.
“Did he confess?”
“No.”
“Did you ask him?”
“He is gone.”
The coffee slipped in my hand.
“Gone where?”
“His room was empty by dawn. His phone is off. His car is still at the estate.”
That was not running.
That was disappearing.
By noon, Lorenzo came to the guest house.
He arrived without guards.
Without Vincent.
Without his usual armor.
He stood in the doorway for several seconds, as though uncertain whether he was allowed inside.
“Emma asleep?” he asked.
“She’s drawing.”
He looked past me.
Emma sat at the small dining table with crayons. She was drawing two girls beneath a yellow sun.
One had brown curls.
One had dark hair.
Between them was a giant pink heart.
Lorenzo’s eyes stayed on the paper too long.
Then he looked at me.
“May I speak with you?”
“You already are.”
“Sophia.”
“What, Lorenzo?”
His shoulders stiffened at the use of his name.
Good.
He had spent seven months calling me Miss Marino in front of staff, Sophia in private, and nothing at all whenever Vivien was nearby.
I had learned not to expect fairness from powerful men.
But I had not expected disappointment to feel this personal.
“I should not have let Vincent question Emma,” he said.
I blinked.
“What?”
“I should have stopped it.”
“You should have.”
“I know.”
His voice was rough.
For a moment, he looked less like the head of a criminal empire and more like a father who had nearly made the wrong decision twice in one day.
“I was afraid for Isabella,” he said.
“And that gave you the right to be afraid of my child?”
“No.”
The answer came quickly.
Too quickly to be rehearsed.
“I have spent five years being terrified every time Isabella breathes differently,” he continued. “Every time she sleeps too long. Every time she turns pale. Fear makes people cruel when they think they are being careful.”
My anger did not disappear.
But it shifted.
Because I knew that fear.
I lived with it every day.
“Then you should understand,” I said, “why I will burn this place to the ground before I let anyone use Emma’s heart against me.”
Lorenzo stared at me.
Then he nodded once.
“I believe you.”
The words should have brought relief.
Instead, I felt furious.
“Now you do?”
“Yes.”
“After she was locked in a room? After your fiancée called her a thief?”
His expression darkened at Vivien’s name.
“She is not my fiancée anymore.”
I froze.
“What?”
“I asked her to return the ring.”
Somewhere outside, wind tore through the bare trees.
I looked at his empty left hand.
No ring.
No sign of Vivien.
“You did that because of a suspicion?”
“I did it because my daughter repeated words Vivien should never have said to her.”
Before I could answer, Emma suddenly screamed.
Not a normal scream.
A frightened one.
I ran into the living room.
She stood by the window, tears streaming down her face.
“Mama! Bella!”
Across the lawn, Isabella was standing alone near the frozen pond.
No coat.
No shoes.
Vivien was nowhere in sight.
And in the snow behind Isabella were two sets of footprints.
One small.
One adult.
May you like
Leading toward the black water.
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