Chapter 7 - The Five Women Before Clara
That night, I reviewed the files of the five caretakers I had fired.
For months, I had described them as incompetent. One had supposedly mishandled Matteo's medication. Another had failed to follow his physical therapy schedule. A third had quit after claiming the atmosphere in the house was unbearable.
I had never bothered to ask for their side of the story.
Now I read every report.
The first woman, Margaret, had written: Matteo responds poorly to being observed during emotional distress.
The second, Elise, had requested that cameras be removed from the child's bedroom during counseling sessions.
The third, Sandra, had noted that Matteo displayed signs of intense guilt whenever his mother's name was mentioned.
Each report contained the same final notation.
Dismissed by Mr. Rossi for failure to produce measurable improvement.
I sat back.
I hadn't been hiring caretakers.
I had been hiring witnesses to confirm that I was doing everything possible.
When they told me something I didn't want to hear, I replaced them.
My phone rang.
Margaret's name appeared on the screen.
I hadn't spoken to her since the day I fired her.
“Mr. Rossi,” she said cautiously. “I received your message.”
“Thank you for calling.”
Silence.
I wasn't accustomed to beginning conversations with gratitude. I suspect she noticed.
“I'd like to ask you a question,” I continued. “Did Matteo ever say anything about the accident while you were working here?”
“Yes.”
“What did he say?”
“He asked me whether a bad thought could make something happen.”
I closed my eyes.
“When was this?”
“Three days before I left.”
“What did you tell him?”
“That thoughts don't cause explosions. People make choices, and sometimes those choices hurt others.”
“And what happened afterward?”
“You called me into your office and asked why Matteo was having nightmares. When I suggested grief counseling, you accused me of encouraging weakness.”
I remembered the meeting.
I remembered the anger.
I did not remember her exact words, but I remembered my own.
He's not weak. He's a Rossi.
Margaret continued.
“I tried to explain that he needed permission to grieve. You told me I was being paid to help him recover, not teach him to feel sorry for himself.”
My throat tightened.
“I'm sorry.”
The line went silent.
“I never expected to hear those words from you,” she finally said.
“I should have said them sooner.”
“Yes, you should have.”
She didn't soften her answer. I respected her for that.
“Margaret, did you ever notice anything unusual about the security staff?”
She hesitated.
“One night, I found Matteo sitting in the hallway outside your study. He was holding his mother's photograph. He told me he'd heard two men talking inside.”
“Who?”
“He couldn't identify them. But he said one of them told the other that the child must never remember.”
My hand tightened around the phone.
“When was that?”
“About a week before I resigned.”
“Why didn't you report it?”
“I did. I wrote it in my report.”
I searched the document on my desk.
There it was, buried in the third paragraph.
Possible overheard conversation concerning the accident may be contributing to the child's distress.
Below it was my handwritten response.
Do not indulge fantasies.
I felt physically sick.
“Margaret, would you be willing to speak with my investigator?”
“I'll speak to anyone who wants to listen.”
We ended the call.
I sat motionless for several minutes.
Then I contacted the remaining four caretakers.
Every conversation brought another small piece of the same ugly picture.
Elise had heard someone searching Matteo's bedroom after midnight.
Sandra had found a damaged photograph hidden inside his pillowcase.
The fourth caretaker had resigned after a guard insisted on entering Matteo's room during a private therapy session.
The fifth had written that the child seemed to become frightened whenever Luca visited.
I had dismissed every concern.
The front door opened.
Luca's voice floated through the hall.
“Vincent? Are you home?”
I closed the files.
He entered my study without waiting.
“I thought I'd take Matteo to the lake tomorrow,” he said. “The boy needs fresh air.”
“No.”
Luca blinked.
“What?”
“You won't take my son anywhere.”
His expression hardened.
“Since when do you question everything I do?”
“Since I discovered that my son's fear has been convenient for you.”
For the first time in our lives, my brother looked at me without pretending to be amused.
Then he leaned across the desk.
“Listen carefully. Whatever that woman has been telling you, stop it now. Matteo is confused, and you are making it worse.”
“Get out.”
“Vincent.”
“Get out of my house.”
He stared at me for several seconds.
Then he smiled.
“You've always been willing to destroy everything you love because you can't admit you're afraid.”
He walked to the door.
Before leaving, he turned back.
“And if the boy remembers something real, you'd better pray it isn't what I think it is.”
The door slammed.
I stood slowly.
Luca had just confirmed something he could not possibly have known unless he had been there.
May you like
Matteo remembered more than a ring.
And my brother was terrified of what my son might say next.
