Chapter 4 - THE PHOTOGRAPH OUTSIDE THE CLINIC
I showed the photograph to Luca before I could talk myself out of it.
He looked at the screen and asked one question.
"Where is your father now?"
"At his therapy appointment. He usually finishes around eleven."
Luca called Daniel Price, who contacted the clinic and requested a welfare check through the appropriate channels. Within fifteen minutes, the clinic manager confirmed that Dad was safe, still inside the building, and accompanied by a staff member.
Only then did I realize how badly my hands were trembling.
"You can leave," Luca told me. "Nobody needs you here today."
"I want to know who sent this."
"So do I. But you can help by staying somewhere safe and telling the investigators exactly what happened."
The first police officer who interviewed me was Detective Clara Hayes. She wore a dark coat, spoke without unnecessary sympathy, and took every threat seriously. She asked for the original messages, the times received, and whether I had seen anyone following me.
"Do you have reason to believe your father is in immediate danger?" she asked.
"I don't know. That's what scares me."
She nodded. "We'll document the threats and coordinate with the clinic. Your employer can't investigate threats to you in place of law enforcement."
That sentence stayed with me. Luca had money, guards, and an intimidating surname, but Detective Hayes had authority he did not. I felt unexpectedly grateful that somebody had put a boundary between them.
Daniel drove Dad home afterward. The three of us sat at the kitchen table while Dad tried to make jokes about the ride.
"I've never been escorted by a man wearing a suit worth more than my car," he said.
"You don't have a car," I reminded him.
"Exactly. Very expensive suit."
I laughed, then cried before I could stop myself.
Dad held my hand. "I'm all right, Emmy."
"Somebody took your picture."
"Then somebody needs a better hobby."
He was trying to comfort me. It worked only a little.
***
Rebecca Shaw called that afternoon with a question about the dinner schedule. She wanted to know whether I had seen Vanessa leave the service corridor after her conversation with Marco.
"Yes. She went toward the front stairs."
"Was she carrying anything?"
"A white folder. I remember because she was holding it against her red dress."
"Did you see what was inside?"
"No."
Rebecca thanked me and ended the call. Ten minutes later, she called back.
"Emma, did you ever notice Vanessa using the office printer near the pantry?"
"All the time. She said the main office was too far from the event rooms."
"Did she have her own login?"
"I don't know. Paul usually signed in for her."
Rebecca sighed. "That helps."
She explained that the printer retained a list of recent jobs. The system administrator had found a document printed from a shared account on the afternoon of the dinner. It was a draft resignation letter bearing Marco's name.
"He never signed it," Rebecca said. "But it was prepared before the argument."
I leaned against the refrigerator.
Vanessa had not simply hoped Marco would resign. She had already written the letter.
"Did it say why he was leaving?" I asked.
"It stated that he accepted responsibility for financial mismanagement."
I thought of Marco standing before thirty-two guests while Vanessa calmly announced that he had cost Luca nearly ten thousand dollars.
She had rehearsed every step.
***
That night, Dad and I reviewed the household budget. We had never been wealthy, but he'd always made enough to keep the heating on and the refrigerator full. Now the expenses seemed to multiply whenever we tried to finish counting them.
I wrote down the mortgage, insurance, medication and therapy bills. Dad frowned when I entered the amount we still owed for his last hospital admission.
"We should sell the house," he said.
"No."
"Emma, it's too much for one person."
"It's our home."
"It's a building. Your mother was the part that made it home."
The words caught me off guard. I looked at the yellow coffee mug beside the stove and tried not to cry.
"I don't want everything to change," I admitted.
Dad reached across the table. "It already has. That doesn't mean we have to lose everything with it."
We agreed to ask the hospital for a revised payment arrangement and speak with a housing counselor before making decisions. It was not a miraculous solution. It was a plan with steps we could actually take.
I fell asleep knowing I had choices, even if none of them were easy.
The following morning, Detective Hayes called to confirm that the threatening photograph had been preserved and that investigators were contacting the photographer's employer. She advised me to continue documenting any new messages and to notify her if anyone approached Dad directly.
"Will this affect my work?" I asked.
"Your employer's responsible for workplace safety. You decide whether remaining there is right for you. We'll investigate regardless."
Her answer made me think about Luca's promises. He could offer support and a safer schedule, but he couldn't purchase my peace of mind. That would have to come from knowing I had options outside the mansion.
Two days later, I returned to work under a temporary schedule that kept me away from public events. I felt uncomfortable about the change until Luca explained that it was my choice whether to participate in the investigation further.
"You shouldn't have to see the person who threatened you every time you come to work," he said.
"You don't know Vanessa sent the messages."
"No. And I won't say she did until there's evidence."
I appreciated that he corrected himself before I had to.
The mansion felt different without Vanessa. Her flowers were still in the hall, and a stack of wedding invitations remained in the upstairs office. But the staff spoke at normal volume again. Nobody rushed to hide trays when Luca entered the kitchen.
Marco had returned to work after taking a day off. He looked exhausted but relieved.
"Marta's daughter received her tuition payment," he told me. "The new trustee arranged it."
"Good."
"You made that possible."
"Rebecca found the missing money."
"And somebody had to speak first."
I didn't argue. It was easier to accept the compliment than to explain how frightened I still was.
When I arrived at the mansion, Mrs. Carter asked me to sit with her in the staff office. She had received a copy of the threatening envelope report, but no personal details that I hadn't authorized her to see.
"I want to make sure we're doing this properly," she said. "You can have a different work area, paid leave for appointments, or a temporary shift change. None of those choices affects your employment record."
I stared at her. "Were those options always available?"
She looked uncomfortable. "Some of them were. We haven't been good at explaining them."
I chose the shift change and asked that any further arrangements be written down. She agreed. When I left the office, I felt something I hadn't felt since dinner: a small amount of control over my own day.
A little later, I saw the kitchen staff laughing around the coffee machine. The ordinary sound was such a relief that I nearly cried. Maybe safety was sometimes the freedom to have an unremarkable afternoon.
Near noon, Paul asked me to collect the printer trays. As I lifted the paper, a folded sheet slipped from beneath the cabinet. I recognized the pale-blue watermark used on the mansion's administrative stationery.
Across the top were the words TRANSITION PLAN.
Below them was a numbered list.
Remove Santori from vendor approvals.
Transfer catering contracts to Bellini Event Logistics.
Consolidate scholarship administration.
Terminate access for staff with outside financial obligations.
I read the last line twice.
Outside financial obligations.
The sort of phrase someone might use to describe my mortgage and Dad's medical bills.
I called Paul back and asked him to witness where I had found the sheet. Then we photographed it without removing it from its location and informed Rebecca.
When she arrived, she examined the paper and photographed both sides.
"This appears to be a draft business plan," she said. "It doesn't establish who wrote it. But the language may connect to other documents."
I pointed to the last line. "Does this mean Vanessa intended to fire people who were in debt?"
"It might. It might also mean something else. We need the full document and its author."
Luca read the copy and went silent.
"My father used language like that," he said finally.
"About employees?" I asked.
"About leverage. He believed anyone who needed money could be forced to do something."
The room was quiet.
"Do you believe that?" I asked.
"No," he said. "But I used to. That's why the phrase bothers me."
He looked at the paper again.
"My father died eight years ago. So who taught Vanessa to write like him?"
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That evening, Detective Hayes called. The photograph of Dad had been traced to a phone used by a private investigator. The investigator's client was not Vanessa.
It was Paolo Bellini.
