Chapter 2 - “To me?”
“To an escrow account in your name.”
I stared at him.
“Why?”
“I told her the promise was legally witnessed by more than a hundred people.”
“She thought I was joking.”
“I didn't.”
Despite everything, I almost smiled.
“You forced your former fiancée to pay me ten million dollars?”
“I forced her to honor a public commitment.”
“That's an extremely elegant way of saying yes.”
His eyes softened.
“The money is yours.”
I shook my head.
“I don't want it.”
“Grace.”
“I don't.”
“Then don't spend it.”
“That isn't the point.”
“What is?”
I looked at the photograph again.
“I want to know why she chose me.”
Vincent was silent.
“And I want to know what happened six years ago.”
He nodded.
“Then we'll find out.”
“We?”
“You think I'm letting you investigate people connected to my businesses alone?”
“You just told me not to let fear decide where I go.”
“I said no such thing.”
“It was implied.”
He sighed.
I almost smiled.
Then my bedroom telephone rang.
Not my mobile.
The old internal mansion phone mounted beside the door.
Nobody called staff rooms directly after ten.
Vincent and I looked at each other.
I answered.
“Hello?”
Silence.
Then a woman's voice.
Older.
Shaking.
“Grace?”
My fingers tightened around the receiver.
“Yes?”
“You don't know me.”
“Who is this?”
“My name is Hannah Price.”
I looked at Vincent.
He was watching me closely.
The woman continued.
“I worked rigging at Belladonna Theater six years ago.”
Every hair on my arms lifted.
“What do you want?”
“I saw the news from the Moretti engagement party.”
“I saw you perform.”
Her breathing became uneven.
“I thought you had promised never to go in the air again.”
“Why would I promise you anything?”
“You didn't.”
A pause.
“You promised your mother.”
My knees weakened.
“My mother died four years ago.”
“I know.”
“How did you know her?”
Another silence.
Then Hannah whispered, “Because after your accident, your mother paid me to find out who cut your safety line.”
I gripped the receiver.
Vincent stepped closer.
I could barely hear my own voice.
“Did you find out?”
“Yes.”
My heart began pounding.
“Who?”
Hannah started crying.
“I need to show you something first.”
“What?”
“A photograph.”
“Of what?”
“The person standing above the rigging platform ten minutes before you fell.”
I closed my eyes.
“Who was it?”
Hannah gave me a name.
Not Vanessa.
Not Elaine Whitmore.
Not Sebastian Cole.
“Vincent Moretti.”
I turned slowly toward the man standing beside me.
He had gone completely still.
I kept the receiver pressed against my ear.
Vincent did not move.
Hannah Price had just named him as the man standing above the rigging platform ten minutes before the fall that ended my career.
“Are you certain?” I asked.
“Yes.”
Her answer came immediately.
“I kept the photograph.”
“Why?”
“Because your mother asked me to.”
I stared at Vincent.
He looked genuinely stunned.
That should have comforted me.
It did not.
“Where are you?”
“New Jersey.”
“Can we meet?”
“Yes.”
“Tomorrow morning?”
“No.”
Her voice sharpened.
“Tonight.”
Vincent heard that.
I covered the receiver.
“She wants to meet now.”
“I'll drive.”
I almost laughed.
“You understand how suspicious you currently are.”
“Yes.”
“And you're volunteering to take me alone to meet the woman accusing you.”
“I didn't say alone.”
That was fair.
I returned to the call.
“Give me the address.”
Hannah chose an all-night café near Hoboken.
Thirty minutes later, I sat in the back of a black sedan beside Vincent.
One security vehicle followed at a distance.
He had changed from his tailored suit into a dark sweater and coat.
Without the formal clothes, he looked younger.
More tired.
Neither of us spoke for several minutes.
Finally I asked, “Were you there?”
“At Belladonna?”
“Yes.”
“Yes.”
My stomach tightened.
“You told me you weren't.”
“I told you I wasn't there when you fell.”
“That is very carefully worded.”
“It was not meant to be.”
“Then explain.”
Vincent looked through the window.
“I attended a board inspection that afternoon.”
“Why?”
“The building had recently transferred into my management.”
“The foundation complained about maintenance problems.”
“So you went upstairs.”
“Yes.”
“To the rigging grid.”
“Yes.”
“Ten minutes before I fell.”
He looked at me.
“About forty minutes before.”
“Hannah says ten.”
“Then either her timing is wrong or mine is.”
That was not comforting.
“Did you touch the equipment?”
“No.”
“Did you see my rig?”
“I saw dozens of ropes.”
“I knew nothing about aerial equipment.”
“Who was with you?”
Vincent's expression shifted.
“Sebastian Cole.”
The insurance administrator.
“Anyone else?”
“Elaine Whitmore met us downstairs.”
“Vanessa's mother.”
“Yes.”
The connections tightened.
“Why didn't you tell me this earlier?”
“I didn't remember the exact day.”
“You forgot?”
“I managed eighteen properties that year.”
“I was at Belladonna repeatedly.”
He rubbed a hand over his jaw.
“When I first recognized you, I remembered the accident.”
“I did not immediately remember being inside the building that afternoon.”
I studied him.
“You expect me to believe that.”
“No.”
That answer surprised me.
“I expect you to verify it.”
The café was nearly empty when we arrived.
Hannah Price sat in a corner booth.
She was around fifty, with short gray hair and work-worn hands wrapped around a coffee cup.
When she saw me, tears immediately filled her eyes.
“Oh, Grace.”
I had never seen her before.
At least I did not think I had.
She stood.
I remained where I was.
Vincent stopped several feet behind me.
Hannah saw him.
Her face tightened.
“You brought him.”
“He brought himself.”
Vincent almost objected.
I looked at him.
He decided silence was safer.
We sat.
Hannah removed a sealed plastic folder from her bag.
Inside was a photograph.
She slid it across the table.
The image showed a young Vincent standing on Belladonna's upper technical platform.
He was wearing a charcoal suit.
Beside him stood Sebastian Cole.
The timestamp read 6:42 p.m.
My fall occurred at 6:58.
Sixteen minutes.
Not ten.
Not forty.
Vincent stared at the picture.
“I remember this.”
“What?”
He pointed toward something outside the frame.
“There had been water damage near the grid.”
“Sebastian wanted to show me.”
Hannah watched him carefully.
“That's what he told everyone.”
Vincent looked at her.
“What does that mean?”
She removed a second photograph.
Sebastian was alone.
Kneeling near an anchor assembly.
Timestamp 6:47.
My breath stopped.
“What is he doing?”
Hannah shook her head.
“I don't know.”
“I didn't take these pictures.”
“Who did?”
“Your mother.”
I stared at her.
“My mother was downstairs.”
“No.”
Hannah's voice softened.
“She followed them up.”
I could barely process that.
“My mother hated heights.”
“I know.”
“She was terrified.”
“But she had already become suspicious.”
“Of what?”
Hannah looked toward Vincent.
“Money.”
Of course.
Everything seemed to return to money.
“The foundation selected you for the European scholarship,” Hannah said.
“Your prize came from a private donor.”
“Elaine Whitmore.”
I nodded.
“She didn't want me to receive it?”
“Actually, she insisted you receive it.”
That contradicted everything I assumed.
“Then why did Vanessa end up with my bracelet?”
“I don't know.”
Hannah continued.
“Two weeks before your fall, someone changed the beneficiary on your performance trust.”
“To Elaine.”
“No.”
“Elaine was trustee.”
“The beneficiary changed to a company.”
“What company?”
“Cole Cultural Management.”
I looked at Vincent.
Sebastian Cole.
Hannah nodded.
“Your mother discovered it.”
“She confronted the circus director.”
“He told her it was an administrative mistake.”
“She didn't believe him.”
“So she started taking photographs.”
My mother.
The woman I remembered as gentle, exhausted, and almost painfully cautious had apparently conducted her own quiet investigation.
“Why did she never tell me?”
“You were preparing for the biggest performance of your life.”
“She didn't want to frighten you without proof.”
That sentence hurt.
My mother and Vincent had something in common.
Both had decided information was too dangerous for me until they chose the right moment.
Hannah continued.
“After the fall, your mother asked me to inspect the rigging.”
“I'm certified.”
“What did you find?”
“The primary silk anchor had been tampered with.”
My chest tightened.
“But I didn't find a cut safety line.”
“What?”
“The press reports were wrong.”
“So was the internal summary.”
Vincent leaned forward.
“What failed?”
“A load-bearing connector.”
“Someone filed part of the locking gate.”
“If enough force hit it during a drop, it would open.”
I remembered the sound.
A metallic snap.
Then nothing beneath me.
“Could it have been wear?”
“No.”
“The marks were fresh.”
“Who had access?”
“Rigging crew.”
“Management.”
“Anyone escorted onto the grid.”
Vincent asked, “Including me.”
“Yes.”
“Sebastian.”
“Yes.”
“Elaine?”
“No.”
“She never came upstairs that day.”
I looked at the photograph again.
“So my mother suspected Sebastian.”
“Yes.”
“Did she confront him?”
“No.”
“She went to the police.”
My eyes widened.
“I never knew that.”
“They told her the evidence was insufficient.”
“The connector disappeared before anyone could formally seize it.”
“Who removed it?”
“We don't know.”
Vincent's expression hardened.
“Who controlled the theater after the accident?”
“Your company.”
He absorbed that.
“So whoever removed it may have done so under Moretti authority.”
“Yes.”
I stared at him.
This was worse than a single suspect.
It meant the system around him had made evidence disappear whether he knew it or not.
Hannah slid another document toward me.
“My mother kept this?”
“Yes.”
It was a handwritten note.
Grace,
If I cannot prove what happened, I don't want you spending your life trapped inside my suspicion.
Heal first.
Live first.
Truth can wait until you are strong enough to choose it.
My vision blurred.
I recognized my mother's handwriting.
I had spent years believing she accepted the accident because she stopped discussing it.
She had not.
She had simply protected me from her unanswered questions.
I pressed the paper against the table.
“Why contact me now?”
Hannah looked ashamed.
“Because I got scared.”
“Of whom?”
“Sebastian.”
Vincent's gaze sharpened.
“What happened?”
“Three days after your engagement party, he called me.”
My heartbeat accelerated.
“What did he say?”
“He asked whether I had seen Grace perform.”
“That sounds harmless.”
“He hadn't spoken to me in six years.”
“Anything else?”
“He asked whether I still kept old technical records.”
Vincent's face became still.
“Did you answer?”
May you like
“No.”
“He said some old documents could create misunderstandings.”
