Chapter 3 - THE SECRET INSIDE THE LITTLE YELLOW STAR
For three years, I'd imagined the final minutes of my husband's life.
I'd pictured him buying bread.
Stopping for coffee.
Walking home after work.
Anything ordinary enough to explain why he had been outside that bakery.
Now I learned he'd been there because of the woman who'd offered me a home after his funeral.
I stared at Teresa.
“You sent him there?”
She nodded.
“Michael wanted to turn over the records. I had copies of financial statements he needed, and we agreed to meet somewhere away from the estate.”
“Why not your lawyer's office?”
“Because I didn't know who Victor had already compromised.”
I felt anger rising through my chest.
“So you chose a bakery?”
“It was supposed to be safe.”
I laughed once.
A cold, terrible sound.
“Safe?”
Teresa flinched.
“I arrived late. By the time I got there, the street was filled with police cars.”
My knees weakened.
Gabriel stepped forward, but I raised my hand.
“Don't touch me.”
He stopped immediately.
Dante moved toward his mother.
“You never told me you arranged the meeting.”
She looked at him.
“Would it have mattered? You were already letting Victor run everything.”
Dante's expression hardened, but he didn't argue.
Across the room, Sophie had begun stroking Bruno's ears.
My daughter's soft voice interrupted us.
“Mommy, can we go home?”
Home.
The little cottage where a stranger had been knocking on her bedroom window.
The place I'd believed was safe because the Morettis said it was.
I knelt beside her.
“Soon, sweetheart.”
She touched my cheek.
“Are you mad at Grandma Teresa?”
I looked toward the elderly woman.
“I am.”
Sophie considered this seriously.
“Can you still love somebody when you're mad?”
The question broke something inside me.
“Yes, baby,” I whispered. “But loving someone doesn't mean pretending they didn't hurt you.”
Teresa began crying again.
I looked away.
Gabriel cleared his throat.
“Elena, I need to ask about the pillow.”
I pulled Sophie closer.
“What about it?”
“Michael carried a yellow star-shaped pillow into the bakery the afternoon before he died. I saw it in his car.”
I remembered.
He'd bought it at a children's store near our apartment.
Sophie had been two, obsessed with stars, and afraid of sleeping without him.
Michael told her that whenever she felt lonely, she could hold the star and remember someone loved her.
It had seemed like an ordinary gift.
Now it felt different.
Gabriel continued.
“Michael told me he had a backup copy of the records. He refused to say where he hid it.”
I looked at Sophie's pillow.
One corner had a slightly uneven seam.
I'd noticed it years ago.
Michael had said he repaired a loose stitch before giving it to her.
My stomach twisted.
“Sweetheart,” I said gently, “would you let me look inside your pillow?”
Sophie's eyes widened.
“Will it hurt him?”
For a moment, I didn't understand.
Then I realized she was talking about the star.
She'd given it a personality years ago.
I smiled despite everything.
“No, baby. I'll be very careful.”
She considered my answer before nodding.
“Okay. But you have to fix him afterward.”
“I will.”
Dante brought a small sewing kit from his mother's cabinet.
I sat beside Sophie and carefully opened the uneven seam.
Inside was ordinary white stuffing.
My hands shook as I searched.
For several seconds, I found nothing.
Then my fingers touched something hard.
I pulled out a tiny plastic case wrapped in faded blue fabric.
Gabriel leaned forward.
Teresa covered her mouth.
Inside the case was a microSD memory card.
Beneath it lay a folded piece of paper.
The handwriting was unmistakable.
Michael's.
I unfolded it.
Elena,
If you ever find this, I'm sorry I left you with questions I should have answered while I had the chance.
I thought I could fix the mistakes I'd made without putting you or Sophie in danger.
I was wrong.
Please understand one thing: I never stopped trying to get home to you.
My vision blurred.
I pressed the note against my chest.
For three years, I'd wondered if Michael had known something terrible was coming.
Now I had the answer.
He had known.
And he'd been frightened.
Dante quietly placed a laptop on the table.
“There's a memory card adapter in my office.”
I looked at him.
“How convenient.”
He didn't defend himself.
“I understand why you don't trust me.”
“No, you don't.”
I placed the memory card on the table.
“For three years, you knew my husband's death wasn't an accident. You watched Sophie ask why her daddy never came home.”
Dante lowered his eyes.
“You're right.”
I turned toward Gabriel.
“Can someone else open it?”
Gabriel nodded.
“We should preserve the original. A federal investigator can examine it properly.”
That was the first sensible thing anyone had said all night.
But Teresa suddenly reached for the card.
“Wait.”
I pulled it away.
Her expression changed.
“Michael gave me the name of a federal agent before he died. Her name is Isabel Reyes.”
Gabriel looked sharply at her.
“Reyes is still working the case?”
“I don't know. I was afraid to contact her after Michael died.”
Dante exhaled.
“Then we contact her now.”
I stared at him.
“You're willing to bring federal investigators into this house?”
He looked toward Sophie.
“For her, yes.”
I wanted to believe him.
But I couldn't.
Not yet.
Gabriel photographed the note without touching the card and called the federal contact number Teresa remembered. We were instructed to preserve everything and arrange a secure meeting the next morning.
Meanwhile, Dante insisted that Sophie and I remain in Teresa's sitting room until trusted protection could arrive.
I agreed only because leaving the mansion in the middle of the storm felt even more dangerous.
Sophie fell asleep on a couch with Bruno curled beside her.
I repaired the pillow as promised.
Then I sat near the fireplace, reading Michael's note over and over.
A few minutes later, Gabriel returned from the hallway.
His face was tense.
“Elena, I checked the estate's archived security logs.”
“What did you find?”
“The night Michael was murdered, someone used an emergency access code to leave this mansion.”
Dante stood.
“Whose code?”
May you like
Gabriel looked directly at him.
“Yours.”
