Chapter 5: What Emma Remembered
I wrote the name down before I could second-guess myself.
*Gerald Whitmore.*
I stared at it on the page.
Two weeks ago, Vanessa had been standing near the window of the sitting room, her back to the door, her voice low and careful the way it got when she didn't want to be overheard.
I had slowed my steps without meaning to.
She'd said: *Gerald, I need it done before the fifteenth.
The engagement announcement goes out on the sixteenth and after that it becomes much more complicated.*
A pause while the other person spoke.
Then: *I understand the risk.
That's why I'm paying you to manage it.*
Another pause.
Then: *Just make sure his signature looks right.
You've done it before.*
I had kept walking.
I'd told myself I'd misheard.
That it was a different kind of arrangement — a vendor, a caterer, something ordinary.
I'd been good at telling myself things like that for four months.
I wrote it all down now.
Every word I could remember.
The date.
The time.
The half-open door.
Then I turned back to the beginning of the notebook and read what I'd written from the start.
By the time I finished, Mrs.
Carter had come back with fresh tea and a plate of toast I still didn't eat.
"Mrs.
Carter," I said.
"Do you know a man named Gerald Whitmore?"
She set the tray down slowly.
"He was Mrs.
Moretti's estate attorney.
He handled everything after she passed."
"Is he still the attorney for the estate?"
"As far as I know." She looked at me carefully.
"Why?"
I turned the notebook toward her and pointed to the paragraph.
She read it.
Once.
Then she sat down.
"Emma," she said quietly.
"How long have you been carrying this?"
"Two weeks."
"Why didn't you say anything?"
"Because I thought I'd misunderstood." I looked at my hands.
"And because Vanessa had already told me what would happen to my mother's bills if I said the wrong thing to the wrong person."
Mrs.
Carter was quiet for a long moment.
Then she stood up, crossed to the desk, and picked up the landline.
"Who are you calling?" I asked.
"Daniel." She dialed.
"He needs to know about Whitmore before Mr.
Moretti gets back."
Daniel answered on the second ring.
Mrs.
Carter spoke for less than a minute.
She read him the paragraph from the notebook, word for word.
Then she listened.
Her expression changed.
"I see," she said.
"Yes.
I'll tell her."
She hung up.
"What?" I said.
"Daniel ran R.
Caruso." She turned to face me.
"Full name is Roberto Caruso.
He's a notary.
He's been used before to authenticate documents for private estate transfers in this state."
The room felt smaller suddenly.
"A notary," I said.
"A notary who has apparently authenticated three documents connected to the Moretti estate in the past six weeks." She paused.
"All three bear Luca's signature."
I thought about the photograph on Vanessa's phone.
The transfer of deed for the Lake Geneva property.
"How many properties does the estate have?" I asked.
Mrs.
Carter looked at me steadily.
"Seven," she said.
I set down my pen.
Seven properties.
Three documents already authenticated.
And Vanessa's message to Caruso tonight had said: *The other matter.
Is it done?
Confirmed for tomorrow.*
"She wasn't just trying to get rid of Bruno," I said.
"No."
"She was clearing the house.
Before the wedding." I looked at Mrs.
Carter.
"If she married him with forged transfers already filed—"
"The estate would be significantly smaller before the marriage contract was ever signed." Mrs.
Carter's voice was flat and precise.
"And if anything happened afterward to complicate the marriage—"
"She'd already have what she came for."
Neither of us spoke.
Then my phone lit up on the desk.
A message from a number I didn't recognize.
*Miss Collins.
You should know that what happened to the dog this afternoon was meant to be a warning, not an ending.
The ending is scheduled for tomorrow.
Leave the estate tonight.
Don't come back.*
I read it twice.
Then I carried it to Mrs.
Carter without a word.
She read it.
Her hand went to the landline again.
May you like
"Daniel," she said when he answered.
"Lock the house."
