Chapter 6 - Adrian DeLuca's Perfect LieAdrian had found Peter Novak's garage less than forty minutes after we arrived.
That alone told me someone had been following us for longer than we realized.
Daniel opened the service door, and we hurried into a narrow passage behind the workshop. Peter stayed behind to create a distraction.
I wanted to stop.
I wanted to ask him to come with us.
But Daniel pulled me forward.
“Keep moving.”
We emerged in a loading yard, climbed over a low fence, and crossed an empty lot toward a row of industrial buildings.
Behind us, the garage door rattled.
A man shouted.
Then came the sound of something heavy striking metal.
I stopped.
“Peter!”
Daniel caught my arm.
“He knew this might happen.”
“We can't leave him.”
“If Adrian gets you, everything your father prepared disappears.”
His words forced me to keep walking.
We reached a delivery van parked behind a warehouse. Eleanor was waiting inside, pale and breathing hard.
Daniel started the engine.
As we pulled onto the road, I looked back.
Three black SUVs had surrounded Peter's workshop.
Adrian had not brought the police.
He had brought his own men.
That night, we learned that Peter had been taken to a private office owned by one of Adrian's security companies. Daniel tried calling him repeatedly, but no one answered.
I sat on the edge of the apartment bed, unable to stop thinking about the look on Peter's face when he had mentioned Vivian.
She had arranged something unusual.
Marco had approved it.
Adrian had been driving.
And Sophie had been in the back seat.
I didn't know whether anyone had intended for my daughter to die.
But I knew they had concealed evidence, and I knew my husband was more interested in finding me than explaining what happened.
At 11:30 p.m., Eleanor brought me a cup of tea.
“Your father wants to speak with you.”
“Then put him on the phone.”
She hesitated.
“There's a problem.”
“What problem?”
“He's gone.”
I stood so quickly that the cup nearly fell from my hand.
“What do you mean, gone?”
“The location where he was staying has been compromised. Someone arrived before he could leave.”
“Was he taken?”
“We don't know.”
I stared at her.
“Everyone who tries to help me disappears.”
“Not everyone.”
“That isn't much comfort.”
She accepted the accusation without defending herself.
Then she handed me a small tablet.
“Your husband has made a public statement.”
I didn't want to watch it.
I watched it anyway.
Adrian stood before a bank of microphones outside the hospital. His left arm rested in a black sling. A faint bruise remained beneath one eye, and his hair was combed neatly away from his forehead.
Behind him stood several men in dark suits.
A reporter asked whether the rumors about his marriage were true.
Adrian looked directly into the cameras.
“My wife is grieving the loss of our daughter,” he said. “She has been under extraordinary emotional strain. I am deeply concerned for her safety.”
Another reporter shouted a question about the divorce papers.
Adrian's expression became pained.
“Claire is the mother of my child. I love her. Whatever disagreements exist between us, I will never stop trying to protect her.”
I stared at the screen.
He had used the right words.
Every word was polished, restrained, and designed to make strangers believe he was a devastated father searching for his broken wife.
He did not mention Vivian.
He did not mention the secret trip.
He did not mention the conversation I had overheard at the funeral.
And he certainly did not mention the maintenance records.
The statement continued.
“I ask anyone who may have seen Claire to contact my office. Please don't approach her if she's frightened. Just let us know she's safe.”
Then his voice broke slightly.
“I've already lost my little girl. I can't lose my wife, too.”
I threw the tablet onto the bed.
It struck the mattress and bounced.
Eleanor said nothing.
I began laughing.
It was an ugly, breathless sound that turned into tears before I could stop it.
He had taken our daughter's death and turned it into a public performance.
He had wrapped his lies in concern and offered them to the world as truth.
And because Adrian DeLuca was wealthy, influential, and accustomed to getting what he wanted, people would believe him.
Some already did.
A news anchor appeared on the screen, describing me as a grieving woman who might be experiencing a mental health crisis.
A commentator suggested that I had abandoned my husband during his recovery.
Someone referred to my disappearance as a possible attempt to avoid public scrutiny.
I switched off the tablet.
“I want to destroy him.”
The words escaped before I could stop them.
Eleanor studied me carefully.
“Revenge can become another chain, Claire. Don't let him decide what kind of person you become.”
I wiped my face.
“What am I supposed to do? Forgive him?”
“No.”
“Forget Sophie?”
“Never.”
“Then what?”
“Find the truth. Make it impossible for him to bury it.”
I looked toward the bag containing the urn.
The apartment was silent except for the ticking of an old wall clock.
For days, I had thought of myself as a woman who had lost everything.
But there was one thing Adrian had underestimated.
I had spent nine years watching him work.
I knew how he spoke to people he wanted to intimidate.
I knew how he disguised threats as promises.
I knew that he never made an important decision without ensuring that someone else could be blamed if it failed.
And I knew that if the maintenance records were genuine, then he had a reason to be afraid of me.
For the first time, that knowledge felt useful.
I opened the tablet again and replayed his statement.
This time, I ignored his words.
I watched the people standing behind him.
Marco Bellini stood on Adrian's right.
Vivian was nowhere to be seen.
That was strange.
She had survived the same accident. She had been the subject of every rumor surrounding his marriage. Yet when Adrian spoke about losing his family, he had not mentioned her at all.
“Where is Vivian?” I asked.
Eleanor leaned closer to the screen.
“She may still be recovering.”
“No. Her injuries were minor. She was released from the hospital two days before Sophie's funeral.”
“How do you know?”
“I heard one of Adrian's men discussing her discharge.”
I enlarged the image.
Marco was looking toward someone outside the camera's frame.
His expression was tight.
Not grief-stricken.
Not worried.
Afraid.
I replayed the footage.
Marco glanced toward the unseen person, then subtly shook his head.
It lasted less than a second.
“What if Vivian knows something Adrian doesn't want her to say?” I asked.
Eleanor considered this.
“Then she might be our best source.”
“And our most dangerous one.”
“Yes.”
I picked up my phone.
For months, I had kept Vivian's number stored in my contacts under the name V. Cole. I had never called her.
I had never wanted to hear her voice.
Now I sent her a single message from an untraceable number.
I know about the maintenance records. Meet me if you want to tell the truth.
I stared at the screen.
No reply came.
Five minutes passed.
Then ten.
At 12:06 a.m., the phone vibrated.
One message.
You don't understand what Adrian did.
I typed back.
Then explain it.
Her answer appeared almost immediately.
He didn't disable the brakes.
I froze.
A second message followed.
But he knew they were defective.
I felt the blood drain from my face.
Another message arrived.
And Sophie wasn't the only person he expected to die on that road.
I read it three times.
Then I called the number.
The phone rang once.
Twice.
A woman's voice whispered, “Claire?”
“Where are you?”
“I can't tell you.”
“Then why contact me?”
“Because I've spent a week trying to convince myself that what happened was an accident.”
Her breathing became unsteady.
“And tonight, Adrian told me something that made it impossible.”
“What did he say?”
There was a pause.
Then Vivian whispered the words that changed everything.
“He said your daughter should never have been in that car.”
My fingers tightened around the phone.
“What does that mean?”
“It means Adrian knew someone had arranged the trip. He knew the vehicle had a problem. He knew there was a risk.”
“Then why did he drive?”
“Because someone threatened to expose him if he didn't.”
The room fell silent.
I could hear my own heartbeat.
“Who threatened him?”
Vivian began crying.
“I don't know.”
“Vivian, tell me the truth.”
“I am telling you the truth.”
“Then why did you tell him to drive faster?”
She went quiet.
When she spoke again, her voice was barely audible.
“Because I thought the person threatening him was bluffing. I thought we could get to the airport, leave Chicago for a few days, and come back before anyone could do anything.”
“And Sophie?”
“I didn't know she was coming.”
I closed my eyes.
I wanted to hate Vivian.
Part of me did.
But the horror in her voice sounded real, and I couldn't ignore the possibility that she had been used as carelessly as I had.
“Where are you?” I asked again.
She took a shaky breath.
“There's a church on the west side. Saint Matthew's. Tomorrow night, at eight.”
“Why should I trust you?”
“You shouldn't.”
The call ended.
I stood motionless in the middle of the room.
Then my phone vibrated one final time.
A photograph had arrived.
It showed the damaged SUV resting beside the mountain road after the crash.
The rear passenger door was open.
The front windshield was shattered.
And beneath the photograph, Vivian had typed a sentence.
Claire, look at the rear window.
I enlarged the image.
At first, I saw only broken glass.
Then I noticed something reflected in the shattered window.
A second vehicle.
Parked behind the SUV.
Its headlights were off.
And standing beside it was a man wearing a black coat.
A man whose face I recognized immediately.
My father.
May you like
He had been at the crash site.
And if he had been there that afternoon, then the story he had told me about disappearing to protect me was only the beginning of a much darker truth.
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