Chapter 6
Raffaele made the call from the bridal suite. He didn't leave the room to do it. He sat on the edge of the bed I hadn't slept in for five years, his navy jacket folded beside him, and put his phone on speaker so I could hear it.
Mr. Keller picked up on the second ring. I recognized his voice even after all that time, that same flat, patient voice that had handled our marriage license.
"Raffaele," he said. "What's happened?"
"I need the report my mother filed," Raffaele said. "The day Evelyn disappeared. The police report from the wedding."
There was a pause on the line. Paper shuffling. "You have it, Raffaele. We sent copies years ago."
"I need you to read it to me," he said. He looked at me. His hand was tight around his silver watch. "Out loud. With Evelyn here."
Bianca stood by the window with her arms crossed over her sequined dress. She didn't try to stop him, which frightened me more than if she had.
Keller cleared his throat. "Incident report, filed June 14th, five years ago, by Bianca Moretti. States that Evelyn Moretti, bride, left the mansion grounds voluntarily at approximately 4:15 p.m. on wedding day. Entered a yellow taxi called to the service entrance. Stated she was not ready for marriage and did not wish to be contacted. No distress noted."
The words landed so cleanly in the quiet room. Yellow taxi. Service entrance. Not ready. I felt the boy shift closer to the housemaid by the doorway, his sneakers silent on the wood.
Raffaele closed his eyes for a second. "Did anyone verify the taxi?"
"No follow-up requested by the family at the time," Keller said. "Your mother asked that we not pursue. She said you agreed it was best to allow privacy."
I hadn't moved. I could hear my own breathing.
"I never called a taxi," I said. My voice was hoarse from the night before. "I never left the suite."
Bianca's smile was small and tired. "Evelyn, honey, you weren't yourself that day."
Raffaele ended the call. He set his phone down very carefully on the bedspread, like he was afraid it would break.
I pushed myself up. My legs still ached from the chamber, but I walked to the closet. The double doors in the bridal suite were still painted white, the handles the same brass ovals I'd touched the morning I was supposed to get married. I pulled them open.
My wedding dress was still there. It hung in its garment bag, unzipped halfway, the skirt folded where I'd stepped out of it to change my shoes. Below it, on the shelf, was my small overnight bag. Open. Unpacked.
I reached inside and pulled out my wallet. My driver's license was inside. The photo from when I was twenty-three, my hair pulled back the same way. My bank card. My car keys on a little leather fob.
"If I ran away in a taxi," I said, and I held them out to Raffaele, "why didn't I take my license? My car was in the lot. My purse was right here."
He took the license from me. His fingers brushed mine. He stared at the date, at the address that was still this mansion.
Bianca stepped forward. "You left a note," she said quickly. "You were upset. You said you needed space. I kept your things because I knew you'd come back."
"What note?" Raffaele asked.
Bianca didn't look at him. She looked at me. "She was overwhelmed, Raffaele. You remember how she was that whole gala season. Crying before events, saying she couldn't do this. The foundation dinner was that weekend and the press was coming to the house. I protected you from a scandal."
"Show me the note," Raffaele said.
"There was no note," I said. I could hear how flat my voice sounded. "Bianca, there was no taxi. Call the company. Check the logs. No one came to the service entrance at 4:15."
Raffaele was already dialing again. He called the sheriff's non-emergency line and asked for taxi dispatch records for that date. The clerk put him on hold. The hold music filled the suite, bright and ordinary. The housemaid held the boy's hand tighter. Her knuckles were white around his small fingers.
The clerk came back. "Sir, we have no record of a dispatched taxi to that address on June 14th. No pickup logged."
Raffaele thanked her and hung up. The silence after was heavier than before. He sat with my license in one hand and his phone in the other, and for the first time since he'd pulled the veil from the floor seam, I saw him realize what he'd done. Or what he hadn't done.
"I didn't check," he said. He wasn't talking to Bianca or to Keller on the phone anymore. He was talking to me. "She told me you left and I didn't check the closet. I didn't call the taxi company. I just believed her."
Bianca smoothed her dress. Her earrings caught the daylight. "I did what a mother does," she said, and her voice stayed even, reasonable. "I kept this family from being torn apart in the newspapers right before the charity gala. I thought she would come to her senses and return. I never meant—"
"You filed a false report," Raffaele said.
"I protected my son," Bianca said. She finally looked at her grandson standing by the door. "And my grandson."
May you like
The boy didn't understand the words, but he pressed himself harder against the housemaid's black dress. I slipped my license back into my wallet and zipped the bag closed. My hands stopped shaking once I did.
The paper trail was there now. It existed outside this room, in the county clerk's files. A taxi that never came. A bag that was never packed. A lie written down and signed.
