Chapter 7 - My Sister Came to BegLydia arrived at the estate two days later.
She wore a cream coat, dark sunglasses, and the expression she had perfected throughout childhood: the fragile, wounded look that made people instinctively apologize before she had explained what was wrong.
The guard at the entrance called Elena.
Elena called Matteo.
Matteo called me.
“She wants to see you,” he said.
I was sitting in the library with the copied accident report.
“Who?”
“Your sister.”
My stomach tightened.
“What does she want?”
“She says she has information about your father.”
I closed the folder.
“Let her in.”
Matteo studied me.
“Are you certain?”
“No. But I'm tired of being afraid of conversations.”
He nodded.
“I'll remain nearby.”
“Nearby is fine. In the room is not.”
He considered the request, then agreed.
When Lydia entered the library, she looked smaller than I remembered.
Not physically.
She was still beautiful, with her golden hair and carefully applied makeup. But the confidence she had displayed against the wallpaper in my apartment was gone.
Her eyes moved around the room, taking in the shelves, the paintings, and the windows overlooking the gardens.
Then she saw me.
“Nora.”
I did not stand.
“Lydia.”
She removed her sunglasses.
Her eyes were red.
“I didn't know where else to go.”
“That seems to be a recurring problem.”
She flinched.
For a moment, I felt guilty.
Then I remembered the silk camisole.
The open belt.
The months of lies.
I let the guilt pass.
Lydia sat opposite me.
“I know you're angry.”
“That's a reasonable observation.”
“I know what I did was wrong.”
“Do you?”
She looked down at her hands.
“Yes.”
I waited.
She twisted a ring on her finger.
“I never meant for it to happen.”
I almost laughed.
“Did Arthur fall on you?”
“No.”
“Did he mistake you for me?”
“Please don't do this.”
“Then stop asking me to pretend that you had no choice.”
Lydia's eyes filled with tears.
“I loved him.”
The admission settled between us.
I had expected excuses.
I had expected blame.
I had not expected her to say the one thing that made the betrayal impossible to dismiss.
“How long?”
She closed her eyes.
“Six months.”
Six months.
I thought of the dress fittings.
The wedding invitations.
The nights Lydia had called me to complain about her latest disastrous relationship while Arthur sat beside me, pretending not to listen.
Six months of secret meetings.
Six months of watching me plan a future she knew she intended to destroy.
“You came to my apartment,” I said slowly, “and helped me choose the wallpaper.”
She began crying.
“You asked me whether the room looked romantic.”
“You said it did.”
“I know.”
“You told me Arthur was lucky to have me.”
“I know.”
I looked away.
The grief was not as sharp as it had been on the first night.
It was deeper now.
A slow ache, rooted in the realization that someone could love you and still choose to hurt you.
“I can't forgive you because you're crying,” I said.
Lydia wiped her cheeks.
“I didn't come here for forgiveness.”
“Then why did you come?”
She looked toward the closed door.
“Because Arthur is in trouble.”
I leaned back.
“Of course he is.”
“He says people are asking him about old accounts. He thinks someone has been going through his office.”
“Matteo?”
“I don't know.”
“Then you should ask Arthur.”
“I can't.”
“Why?”
Her face changed.
For the first time, I saw genuine fear.
“Because he's disappeared.”
The room seemed to grow colder.
“When?”
“Yesterday morning. He left for work and never arrived. His car was found near the courthouse.”
I stared at her.
“Have you contacted the police?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“They said they were investigating.”
I studied her face.
“Why do you think I can help?”
“Because you're married to Matteo De Luca.”
There it was.
The real reason she had come.
Not remorse.
Not reconciliation.
Need.
She believed my new husband could solve her problem, and she had come to ask the sister she had betrayed to use her influence.
I stood.
“You should leave.”
“Nora, please.”
“No.”
“He might be dead.”
I froze.
Lydia rose too.
“I know you hate me, but I don't know what else to do. I thought if I came here, you could ask Matteo to find him.”
I turned toward the window.
I wanted to tell her that Arthur's disappearance was not my responsibility.
I wanted to remind her that she had chosen him.
I wanted to ask whether she had considered the possibility that the man she had stolen from me was not worth saving.
Instead, I asked, “What does Arthur know about Dad?”
Lydia stopped crying.
The change was so sudden that I turned back toward her.
“What?”
“You heard me.”
She looked toward the door again.
Then she sat down.
“Arthur found something in his firm's old files.”
“What?”
“A letter.”
“From whom?”
“Dad.”
My heart began pounding.
“What did it say?”
“I don't know everything.”
“Tell me what you know.”
Lydia pressed her hands together.
“Arthur said Dad had been working with someone connected to the De Luca family. He believed Dad had copied financial records and hidden them before he died.”
“Did Arthur know where?”
“No. But he thought the letter might contain a clue.”
“Where is it?”
Lydia hesitated.
“Arthur had it.”
“Had it?”
“He showed it to me three weeks ago. He said it was too dangerous to keep in the office.”
I stepped closer.
“Where did he put it?”
“I don't know.”
I stared at her.
“You came here asking me to find Arthur, but you didn't mention that he had a letter from our father.”
“I was afraid.”
“Of what?”
“Of what he might discover.”
I felt the old anger rise.
“You have spent your entire life allowing fear to make decisions for you.”
Lydia's face crumpled.
“I know.”
“No, you don't. You know how to use fear to get people to protect you.”
She looked at me with an expression I had never seen before.
Not wounded.
Not defensive.
Ashamed.
“I did love you,” she whispered.
I believed her.
That was the worst part.
“I know,” I said. “But love isn't the same thing as loyalty.”
She lowered her head.
For several moments, neither of us spoke.
Then I asked, “What else are you hiding?”
Lydia looked up.
“Nothing.”
“Think carefully.”
Her eyes moved toward the door.
“I didn't tell Arthur everything.”
“What does that mean?”
“When Dad died, I found a key in his desk.”
I stopped breathing.
“What key?”
“A small brass key. It was attached to a tag with a symbol on it.”
My mind returned to the documents Matteo had shown me.
The circle.
The intersecting lines.
The mark my father had used on envelopes when he wanted me to find something important.
“Where is it?”
Lydia began crying again.
“I gave it to Arthur.”
The room went silent.
“You gave our father's key to the man you were having an affair with?”
“I didn't know what it was.”
“You didn't think to ask me?”
“You were always the one who knew what to do.”
The words struck harder than I expected.
For a moment, I saw us as children.
Me helping Lydia with homework.
Me lying to our mother when Lydia broke a vase.
Me giving her money when she was short on rent.
Me defending her when she was selfish, reckless, or cruel.
I had spent years being the responsible sister.
Somewhere along the way, responsibility had become a role neither of us knew how to escape.
I looked at her.
“Did you tell Arthur where you found it?”
“Yes.”
“Did he go back to the house?”
“I don't know.”
I closed my eyes.
The brass key might lead to a safety deposit box, a storage unit, or something my father had hidden before his death.
It might also explain why Arthur had disappeared.
I opened my eyes.
“I'm going to help find him.”
Lydia looked up, hope flooding her face.
“Really?”
“I'm going to find out what happened to him. That doesn't mean we're friends again.”
She nodded quickly.
“Of course.”
“And you will tell Matteo everything you know.”
“I will.”
“You will not leave out details because you're afraid of what he might think.”
“I won't.”
I studied her for a moment.
Then I said the thing I had needed to say since the day I found her in my apartment.
“You did not win Arthur by taking him from me. You only showed me who both of you were.”
Lydia covered her mouth.
I felt no satisfaction.
Only exhaustion.
She left the library an hour later, escorted by a driver who would take her to a hotel.
Matteo entered after she was gone.
He looked at the closed door.
“What did she tell you?”
I explained everything.
He listened without interrupting.
When I finished, he called his attorney and instructed him to begin searching for the letter and the key through lawful channels.
Then he turned to me.
“Your sister may be in danger.”
“I know.”
“Do you want her protected?”
I considered the question.
“Yes.”
“Even after what she did?”
I looked at him.
“I don't want her hurt. That doesn't mean I have to forgive her.”
Matteo nodded slowly.
“Those are different things.”
“Yes.”
He stood beside me near the window.
For a while, we watched the rain begin again.
Then he said, “You handled that well.”
I laughed bitterly.
“I wanted to throw her out.”
“You didn't.”
“I wanted to make her suffer.”
“But you didn't.”
I looked at him.
“Do you think that makes me weak?”
“No.”
His answer was immediate.
“I think it means you understand that your anger belongs to you. It doesn't have to become your entire personality.”
I stared at him.
There were moments when Matteo seemed to understand me with unsettling precision.
I wondered whether he had once needed to learn the same lesson.
“Did you ever have a brother or sister?” I asked.
“No.”
“Did you want one?”
He looked toward the garden.
“Sometimes.”
“What happened?”
“My father believed affection created weaknesses. He didn't encourage attachments.”
I felt a familiar ache.
“That's a terrible way to raise a child.”
“Yes.”
He did not elaborate.
I wanted to ask him more, but his phone vibrated.
He read the message and his expression hardened.
“What is it?”
“We found Arthur's car.”
“And?”
“There was blood inside.”
I gripped the windowsill.
“Is it his?”
“We don't know yet.”
I closed my eyes.
Lydia's face appeared in my mind.
Arthur's tie lying across the sofa.
The open apartment door.
The life I had believed I was supposed to have.
For the first time, I understood that I was no longer investigating the past simply to find answers about my father.
I was investigating because the past had reached into the present and begun taking people away.
May you like
And if I did not discover the truth soon, the next message might not be a photograph or a threat.
It might be a name attached to a body.
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