Chapter 7 - The Woman in the Blue Ribbon
We called the police.
That was the first decision I made without consulting Adrian, and it was the right one.
An officer arrived 35 minutes later, examined the photograph on my telephone, and asked whether we had received any direct threats. I showed him the messages, explained the stranger who had appeared at our apartment, and gave him Margaret's name.
I did not mention every detail of Adrian's family.
Not because I wanted to protect him.
Because I had learned that the truth was more useful when presented in an order other people could understand.
The officer took a statement and advised us to keep our doors locked, preserve the messages, and contact the department if anyone approached us again.
He could not promise that someone would be assigned to watch our building.
By the time he left, the streets outside were empty.
Sasha checked the locks twice.
Then she sat beside me on the sofa.
“I hate this.”
“So do I.”
“I hate that Mom's decisions are affecting us now.”
I looked at the photograph.
“Maybe she was trying to protect us.”
“Maybe. But I wish she had trusted us enough to explain.”
I understood what she meant.
My mother had spent her life protecting us from things we were too young to understand. She had made sacrifices quietly, worked extra hours without complaint, and told us that everything would be fine even when the bills were stacked beside the telephone.
She had believed that shielding us from the truth was the same as keeping us safe.
I had inherited that belief.
And now I was beginning to see how expensive it could become.
***
The following morning, Adrian sent a message asking whether I was safe.
I replied that I was and told him about the police report.
He called immediately.
“You did the right thing.”
I had expected him to object.
“I'm glad you agree.”
“I don't expect you to handle this according to my preferences.”
“That sounds almost healthy.”
A brief silence followed.
Then he said, “I have something to show you.”
We met at a quiet café near the river, one of the few places where I felt comfortable enough to sit with my back to a window.
Adrian arrived without a bodyguard at the table.
Two men remained outside, which was technically consistent with his promise.
I decided not to argue.
He placed a folder between us.
Inside were photographs of a little girl with dark hair and enormous brown eyes. In one, she stood beside a Christmas tree wearing a blue ribbon. In another, she sat on a man's shoulders, laughing so hard that her eyes had closed.
I recognized the man immediately.
Matteo Moretti.
“She looks happy,” I whispered.
“She was.”
Adrian touched the edge of the photograph.
“Her name is Isabella. She was 4 when Matteo died.”
“Who raised her?”
“My father's sister, initially. After she became ill, Isabella was moved to a family outside the city. The arrangements were made privately.”
“Why?”
“Because my father believed Matteo's enemies might target her.”
“Did he tell her who her father was?”
“I don't know.”
I looked at the photographs again.
There were several pictures of Isabella wearing different blue ribbons.
My throat tightened.
“What happened to her?”
“After my father died, I discovered that the people responsible for her care had moved. Their old address was empty. The financial records were incomplete, and the lawyer who handled the arrangements had disappeared.”
“Have you searched for her?”
“For years.”
“Then why did you stop?”
“I didn't.”
The answer was immediate.
He looked at me.
“I never stopped.”
Something in his expression made me believe him.
Not because I knew him well enough to understand every part of his life, but because grief had a way of revealing itself through small, involuntary gestures.
The way his fingers rested on the photograph.
The way his voice softened when he said her name.
The way he avoided looking at the empty chair beside us.
“Do you think my mother helped hide her?” I asked.
“I think she may have helped arrange the transfer. Your mother's name appears beside a payment made to the law firm that handled Isabella's care.”
“Was the payment legitimate?”
“It was recorded as a medical expense.”
I frowned.
“Why would a child need a medical expense that large?”
“That's what I want to find out.”
I studied the documents.
The payment had been made on November 17, 2009.
The same date as the photograph of my mother and Adrian's father.
The same date as the note about the river.
I felt the pieces of the puzzle shifting, although I still couldn't see the picture they were meant to form.
“Do you think Isabella is still alive?”
Adrian looked at me.
“Yes.”
“How can you be certain?”
“I'm not.”
He paused.
“But I have to believe she is until I have evidence otherwise.”
For a moment, I understood the difference between hope and certainty.
Hope was not a promise that everything would work out.
It was a reason to keep looking when the evidence offered no comfort.
I had spent years hoping that our financial problems would ease, that Sasha would graduate without taking on more debt, and that one day I would stop waking in the middle of the night to calculate what we owed.
Adrian had spent years hoping to find a little girl who might not even remember his name.
We were different people.
But perhaps we understood each other more than I had expected.
***
We spent the next hour comparing the dates in my mother's notebook with the records Adrian had collected.
The pattern became clearer.
Several weeks before Matteo's death, money had been transferred from a company owned by the Moretti family to a private account. The account was then used to pay a law firm, which had arranged Isabella's relocation.
Two days after the accident, the account was closed.
Three months later, another payment appeared under the initials V.B.
Victor Bellandi.
“What did he have to do with Isabella?” I asked.
“I don't know.”
“Could he have been involved in arranging her move?”
“Possibly.”
“Or could he have been trying to find her?”
Adrian looked at me.
“That's possible, too.”
I leaned back.
“We need to speak to Margaret.”
“I've already asked Elena to find her.”
“Has she agreed?”
“She hasn't answered.”
A cold feeling settled in my stomach.
“Do you think she's in danger?”
“I think she knows more than she told us.”
I could not argue with that.
Margaret had arrived at our apartment carrying the notebook and key. She had known exactly where to find us, yet she had never explained why she had waited 3 years to contact us.
She had been frightened of Victor.
But fear did not explain everything.
I looked at Adrian.
“I want to talk to her myself.”
“Then we will.”
“No. I will. You can wait nearby.”
He studied me.
“Why?”
“Because she may tell me things she won't tell you.”
“Because she thinks I'm dangerous?”
“Because you are dangerous.”
He accepted the answer with a small nod.
“Fair enough.”
I almost smiled.
“You're getting used to hearing that.”
“I'm beginning to suspect you enjoy saying it.”
“Only when it's true.”
For a moment, the atmosphere between us became lighter.
Then Adrian's telephone rang.
He answered, listened, and rose from his chair.
“What happened?”
He covered the microphone.
“Margaret has been found.”
My heart jumped.
“Where?”
“At a hospital on the north side.”
“Is she hurt?”
He listened again.
“She's alive.”
The relief came so quickly that I had to grip the edge of the table.
Then Adrian's expression changed.
“What do you mean, she left?”
He listened for several seconds.
“Find out who signed her out.”
He ended the call.
“What happened?” I asked.
“She was admitted early this morning after collapsing outside her apartment building. She left the hospital before the staff could contact her family.”
“Why?”
“I don't know.”
I gathered my things.
“We need to find her.”
Adrian nodded.
“I'll arrange it.”
I stopped.
“No. We need to find her. You can arrange whatever resources you need, but I want to be involved in the search.”
He looked at me for a long moment.
Then he said, “All right.”
It was a small concession.
But it mattered.
***
We found Margaret's apartment shortly after noon.
The building was old, with narrow hallways and paint peeling from the window frames. A neighbor recognized her photograph and told us she had lived alone for 11 years.
“She was a quiet woman,” the neighbor said. “Always kept to herself. But someone visited her last night.”
“Who?” I asked.
“A man. Tall, dark coat. I didn't recognize him.”
“Did she seem frightened?”
The neighbor hesitated.
“She looked like someone who had already decided to leave.”
We thanked her and went upstairs.
Margaret's door was locked.
Adrian's security team contacted the building manager, who opened it after verifying that Margaret had been taken to the hospital.
Inside, the apartment was almost empty.
The furniture had been covered with sheets. The kitchen cabinets contained only a few dishes. There were no photographs on the walls, no personal decorations, and no signs that anyone had lived there long enough to become attached to the place.
It looked less like a home than a waiting room.
I moved toward a desk near the window.
A drawer stood slightly open.
Inside lay a small envelope addressed to me.
My hands trembled as I opened it.
There was a single sheet of paper.
Dear Nerissa,
If you are reading this, I have probably failed to explain everything while I still had the chance.
Your mother was not involved in Matteo's death. She was trying to prevent something worse from happening.
The girl with the blue ribbon is alive.
Her name is Isabella Moretti, and she is the only person who can tell you what happened beside the river.
Do not trust the person who offers to protect you without asking what you want.
And do not trust the person who claims that love makes him incapable of lying.
I read the last 2 sentences again.
Then I looked at Adrian.
He had been standing near the doorway, watching me with an expression I could not interpret.
“What does it say?” he asked.
I handed him the letter.
He read it in silence.
When he reached the final line, his face became very still.
“Someone is trying to turn you against me,” he said.
“Perhaps.”
“Nerissa, I have never used your feelings to manipulate you.”
I looked at him.
“You haven't asked me what my feelings are.”
He opened his mouth, then closed it.
For once, he had no immediate answer.
I turned back to the letter.
Margaret had written nothing about where Isabella was living, who had taken her away, or how we could find her.
Only a clue.
The girl with the blue ribbon was alive.
I felt hope rising in me, fragile but undeniable.
Then I noticed something written in the lower corner of the paper.
A street name.
A date.
And a time.
Tomorrow. 6 p.m.
I showed Adrian.
He studied the writing.
“This is a meeting.”
“With whom?”
“I don't know.”
“Could it be a trap?”
“Yes.”
“Will you come with me?”
He looked at me.
“If you want me there.”
I thought about Margaret's warning.
Do not trust the person who offers to protect you without asking what you want.
I had spent so much of my life accepting help because I had no other choice that I had nearly forgotten how to ask for the kind of help I actually needed.
“Yes,” I said. “I want you there.”
Adrian nodded.
“Then I'll be there.”
He did not promise that nothing bad would happen.
He did not tell me to leave everything to him.
He simply accepted my decision.
As we left Margaret's apartment, I felt his hand brush mine.
Neither of us moved away immediately.
I wanted to take his hand.
I wanted to believe that the man beside me was someone I could trust.
But the letter had left me with a question I could no longer ignore.
If love did not make a man incapable of lying, what would make him choose to tell the truth?
May you like
I had a feeling I would find out tomorrow.
And I was afraid of what the answer might cost us both.
