"Don't sign it yet," the little girl said.

The two men Vincent had called were named Russo and Tate.

They were not lawyers.

They were not police.

They arrived in a dark car and came through the side entrance without being told which one to use, which said everything about how often they had been called to the estate under difficult circumstances.

Vincent met them in the hallway.

"Nobody leaves," he said.

"Bellamy and the woman in the ballroom.

Keep it quiet."

Russo nodded.

Tate was already moving.

Vincent went back to the ballroom and picked up the bank key from the table where Dominic had set it.

"First Hudson Savings," he said.

"Carver Street."

"It'll be closed," Dominic said.

"I know the branch manager." Vincent turned the key over in his palm.

"I've known him for eleven years.

He'll open it."

He looked at Grace.

"I want you and Emily to stay here.

In the kitchen, not the ballroom.

Russo will be nearby."

Grace nodded.

Emily looked up at Vincent.

"Mr.

Moretti," she said.

"The necklace."

Vincent paused.

"What about it?"

"Isabella's necklace.

The silver one with the blue stone." Emily's voice was careful, the way children's voices get when they are saying something they know adults may not want to hear.

"I saw it before.

In a picture on Mrs.

Moretti's dressing table.

Mrs.

Sofia Moretti.

She was wearing it in the picture."

The ballroom went very still.

Vincent turned slowly toward Isabella.

Isabella's hand was already at her throat, fingers closing around the pendant.

"It was a gift," she said.

"A gift from a friend.

I have had it for years."

"Which friend?" Vincent said.

"That is none of your—"

"Which friend, Isabella."

Her chin lifted.

"Charles gave it to me.

Two years ago.

As a welcome gift when I joined the board of the Bellamy Foundation.

It has nothing to do with Sofia."

Vincent looked at Charles.

Charles looked at the table.

"Dominic," Vincent said.

"Come with me."

---

The branch manager of First Hudson Savings was a small, careful man named Gerald Fitch who had been woken from sleep, driven to his own branch by a man he had never met, and was now standing in the basement vault room in his overcoat and pajama trousers, trying very hard not to appear as frightened as he felt.

"Box 214," Vincent said, holding up the key.

Gerald found it on the third row.

His hands were steady, which Vincent noted and respected.

The box slid out.

Vincent set it on the table in the center of the vault room.

He opened it.

Inside were three things.

The first was a manila envelope, thick, sealed with tape that had dried and cracked at the corners from age.

Written on the front in Sofia's handwriting: *For Vincent.

Open when you are alone or with Dominic.

Not before.*

The second was a USB drive, black, with a small piece of tape on the side.

Written on the tape in the same handwriting: *Audio and documents.

Bellamy.

Isabella.

Trust transfer.*

The third was a photograph.

Vincent picked it up.

It showed Charles Bellamy and Isabella Romano seated at a restaurant table.

The photograph had a date stamp in the lower right corner.

The date was eleven months before Sofia disappeared.

Dominic leaned over Vincent's shoulder and looked at the photograph.

"They knew each other before," Dominic said.

"For at least a year before," Vincent said.

"Before Isabella ever came near you."

Vincent set the photograph down carefully on the table, face up, in the light.

"She didn't appear in my life," he said.

"She was placed there."

He opened the manila envelope.

The first document inside was a transfer order for the Moretti family continuity trust.

It was dated four days after Sofia's disappearance.

It bore Sofia's signature.

Vincent stared at the signature for a long time.

Then he turned to the second page.

It was a letter, handwritten, in Sofia's voice but clearly composed under duress.

The sentences were too short.

The phrasing was wrong.

Sofia had never written the way she spoke, but she had always written with a particular rhythm, a particular confidence.

This letter had neither.

The third page was a notarized affidavit from a witness Vincent did not recognize.

The fourth page was a receipt.

A payment receipt.

Dated three years ago.

Signed by Charles Bellamy.

Made out to a private security contractor whose name Vincent did recognize, because that contractor had appeared twice in connection with people who had needed to disappear quietly.

Dominic read it over his shoulder and said nothing for a moment.

Then: "He paid someone to take her."

"He paid someone to move her," Vincent said.

"There's a difference.

She's alive.

She left messages.

She knew about the box."

"Then where is she?"

Vincent folded the receipt carefully and placed it back in the envelope.

"That," he said, "is what Bellamy is going to tell us."

He picked up the box, tucked the envelope under his arm, and nodded to Gerald Fitch, who was standing near the vault door looking as though he very much wished he had not answered his phone that evening.

"Thank you, Gerald," Vincent said.

"You'll be compensated for your time.

Don't discuss this with anyone."

Gerald nodded with the enthusiasm of a man who intended to discuss it with absolutely no one, ever, for the rest of his life.

In the car on the way back to the estate, Dominic plugged the USB drive into his laptop.

He was quiet for a long time.

Then he said, "Vince."

"I know," Vincent said.

"It's all here.

Wire transfers.

Emails.

A recorded phone call between Bellamy and Isabella from two and a half years ago." Dominic's voice was steady but tight.