Chapter 3
Nicholas drew a breath.
“Because six months was longer than I had any right to take from you.”
Something in my chest tightened.
He went on.
“At first I told myself I needed two weeks. Then a month. Then the investigators asked for more time. Every delay became another reason not to tell you.”
“So why didn’t you?”
“Because once I understood you were safe, the excuse stopped being about your safety.”
He looked at me directly.
“It became cowardice.”
I had expected a complicated defense.
Instead he gave me that.
“I was afraid you would never forgive me.”
“You were right.”
“I know.”
“And yet you came back.”
“Because whether you forgive me isn’t the point.”
I said nothing.
“You deserved the choice I took from you,” he said. “You deserved to decide whether you still wanted a life with me after knowing what I had done.”
The words landed quietly.
No plea.
No demand.
Just a truth that should have been obvious months ago.
I looked down at the folder.
“Does Daniel know you’re alive?”
“No.”
“Does anyone outside the three people you named?”
“The federal attorney does now.”
“And you trust him?”
“Enough to give him copies.”
“Copies of what?”
Nicholas nodded toward the other boxes.
“Everything.”
I looked around.
“You kept originals here?”
“Some.”
“That seems reckless.”
“It is.”
I blinked.
Again, he surprised me.
“Then why?”
“Because I stopped trusting the chain of custody.”
I almost laughed.
“You sound like someone from a crime show.”
“I’ve had worse reviews.”
For one second—one dangerous, painful second—I remembered exactly why I had loved him.
Then the feeling disappeared beneath everything else.
“I want to go home.”
Nicholas nodded.
“I’ll drive you.”
“No.”
“Claire.”
“I can call a car.”
He did not argue.
While I waited near the front door, he brought me an umbrella.
I nearly refused.
Then I took it.
Not because I forgave him.
Because it was raining.
My ride arrived eight minutes later.
Before leaving, I turned.
“Nicholas.”
He looked up.
“Did you ever write to me?”
His expression changed.
“Every day.”
“Where are the letters?”
“In my desk.”
“Why didn’t you send them?”
“Because sending them would have made me feel better.”
I waited.
“And none of this was supposed to be about making me feel better.”
The car took me home through evening traffic.
I watched the city pass.
At some point, my phone began ringing.
Daniel.
I stared at his name.
I did not answer.
When I reached home, the lights were on.
I froze on the sidewalk.
Then the front door opened.
Sofia stood there holding a grocery bag.
She had a key.
Of course she did.
She smiled when she saw me.
“I brought soup.”
Then her smile faded.
Perhaps something in my face told her.
The grocery bag slipped slightly in her hands.
“Claire?”
I stepped inside and closed the door.
For a long moment, we looked at each other.
Then I said, “I saw Nicholas.”
Sofia closed her eyes.
That was all the confirmation I needed.
The anger returned, but it was different now.
Quieter.
Heavier.
“You knew.”
She set the grocery bag on the table.
“Yes.”
“How could you?”
She did not defend herself.
Instead she removed her coat and folded it carefully over a chair.
“I have asked myself that question every morning for six months.”
“That isn’t an answer.”
“No.”
She sat down.
For the first time, I noticed how tired she looked.
Not grieving.
Tired.
“Then answer me.”
Sofia clasped her hands.
“When Nicholas came to me that night, he smelled like smoke. His shirt was torn at the shoulder. He said someone had discovered what he was doing and that if people believed he was alive, they might look at everyone he loved.”
She paused.
“I told him to call you.”
My throat tightened.
“He refused?”
“At first.”
“At first?”
“I called him a fool.”
Despite everything, I could hear Sofia saying it.
“I told him marriage did not mean deciding another person’s life for them.”
“Then why did you help him?”
“Because I was afraid.”
Her voice trembled, but she continued.
“I had seen the car outside my house. I had found an envelope in my mailbox with no return address.”
“What envelope?”
Sofia looked at me.
“Nicholas doesn’t know about that.”
I went still.
“What was in it?”
“A photograph.”
“Of what?”
“You.”
The room became very quiet.
“Me?”
“You were leaving the bookstore on Clark Street.”
I remembered the afternoon.
I had bought a cookbook I still had not opened.
“There was writing on the back.”
“What did it say?”
Sofia swallowed.
“Ask Nicholas what his father forgot.”
I stared at her.
“Why didn’t you tell him?”
“I intended to. Then the warehouse burned.”
She rubbed her thumb along her wedding ring.
“When he arrived at my house, terrified that someone might use us to reach him, I made the wrong decision for what I thought were the right reasons.”
“And you watched me grieve.”
“Yes.”
“You could have told me.”
“Yes.”
“Every Thursday. You sat at my table.”
“Yes.”
She did not flinch from it.
That made it harder to stay furious.
Not impossible.
Just harder.
“Why are you telling me about the photograph now?”
“Because Nicholas came back.”
“That doesn’t answer me.”
She looked toward the window.
“Because three days ago, I received another envelope.”
A cold sensation ran through me.
“What was inside?”
Sofia reached into her handbag.
She removed a plain white envelope.
My name was written across the front.
Claire Moretti.
No stamp.
No return address.
“I brought it because I was going to tell you tonight,” she said.
I opened it.
Inside was not a photograph.
It was a photocopy of an old handwritten page.
The ink had faded to gray.
At the top was a date from nineteen years earlier.
Below it were several names.
May you like
Carlo Moretti.
Anthony Vale.
