Chapter 7: The Woman at the Top of the Stairs
I heard the car in the drive at 11:34 p.m.
Mrs.
Carter was still at the desk.
She'd spent the last forty minutes on the phone with Daniel, and I'd spent them finishing the notebook — every date, every threat, every overheard conversation I could pull back from the last four months.
My hand ached.
My shoulder ached worse.
But I kept writing.
The front door opened.
I heard the slow, familiar sound of old claws on the marble floor of the entrance hall, and something in my chest came loose.
I stood up.
Luca appeared in the study doorway with Bruno beside him.
The old dog moved stiffly, his tail swinging in that slow, deliberate way, his nose working the air.
He found me before I reached him.
I sat down on the floor and he put his whole weight against me, and I pressed my face into his neck, and I didn't say anything because there wasn't anything to say.
Luca stood in the doorway and let it happen.
After a moment he said, quietly, "He was asking for you."
I looked up.
"He kept turning toward the door," he said.
"The whole drive."
I scratched behind Bruno's ears the way he liked, the way I'd done every afternoon for eleven months, and he made the low sound in his throat that meant he was settling.
Mrs.
Carter set a water bowl on the floor.
Bruno drank for a long time.
Luca crossed to the desk and picked up the notebook.
He read it standing up.
He didn't sit down.
He turned pages slowly, and his face stayed very still, and the only thing that moved was his jaw, once, near the middle of the third page, when he reached the paragraph about my mother's bills.
He set it down.
"Emma," he said.
"I need to ask you something."
"All right."
"The name you heard on the phone two weeks ago.
Whitmore.
Are you certain?"
"Yes."
"And the words — *you've done it before.*"
"Yes."
He was quiet for a moment.
Then he looked at Mrs.
Carter.
"Has she come down?"
"No."
He nodded once.
He picked up the manila folder from Dr.
Reeves and placed it on the desk beside the notebook.
Then he walked to the door.
"Stay here," he said.
"Both of you."
He went upstairs.
Mrs.
Carter and I looked at each other.
We heard his footsteps on the landing.
A knock.
A door opening.
Then Vanessa's voice, composed and almost warm: "Luca.
You found him.
I'm so glad."
A silence.
Then Luca: "Sit down, Vanessa."
"I'd rather stand."
"Sit down."
A pause.
Then the sound of a chair.
Mrs.
Carter moved to the foot of the stairs without a word.
I followed.
We couldn't see them.
But we could hear.
"Gerald Whitmore," Luca said.
"Tell me about him."
"He's your mother's attorney.
You know him better than I do."
"Tell me about the calls."
A pause.
"I don't know what you mean."
"You called his personal cell twenty minutes ago from the house landline.
Before that, you've been in contact with a notary named Roberto Caruso.
And I have a photograph from your phone of a transfer of deed for the Lake Geneva property, signed in my name, dated three weeks ago."
Silence.
"Vanessa."
"I want a lawyer."
"You're in my house."
"Which is exactly why I want a lawyer." Her voice was steady.
Steadier than I expected.
"Luca, I understand you're upset.
But you've been going through my private phone, making accusations based on — on a receipt and a photograph you don't have the full context for—"
"Roberto Caruso authenticated three documents in six weeks," Luca said.
"All three connected to my mother's estate.
All three bearing my signature."
A pause.
"I was protecting the estate," she said.
"Your mother's attorney is seventy-one years old and he's been making decisions about those assets that are not in your interest.
I was restructuring—"
"Without telling me."
"Because you wouldn't have listened."
"Try me."
Another silence.
Longer.
"The Lake Geneva property," she said finally.
"Whitmore had been in contact with a developer.
He was going to recommend you sell it.
I stopped that."
"By transferring the deed."
"Into a holding structure that protects it."
"In whose name?"
She didn't answer.
"Vanessa.
In whose name?"
A very long pause.
"Mine," she said.
"Temporarily.
Until after the wedding."
The word landed in the stairwell like something dropped from a height.
Mrs.
Carter put her hand on my arm.
"Temporarily," Luca said.
"Yes."
"And the other two documents."
"Similar arrangements."
"For which properties?"
She named them.
Two properties.
One in Wisconsin.
One in Michigan.
Three properties.
Transferred before the wedding.
Before any marriage contract.
Before he knew.
"And the fourth," Luca said.
"The one Caruso confirmed for tomorrow."
The longest silence yet.
"Vanessa."
May you like
"The house," she said.
"This house."
