Chapter 1 - Something Was Wrong With the Coffee
Lucia pointed at the espresso and whispered, “Don’t drink that.”
Dominic Ferrero stopped with the cup halfway to his mouth.
Beside his hand lay a white linen napkin with three tiny brown drops across one corner.
The middle drop had a faint blue edge.
Dominic slowly set the cup down.
This was not about being tired.
I knew something had changed because every man in the room stopped breathing at the same time.
At least, that was how it felt.
One second I was standing beside the bookcase with a dust cloth folded between my fingers, wishing I had found any other place on earth for my seven-year-old daughter to spend her Thursday.
The next, six adult men were staring at Lucia.
My daughter stared back.
Not defiantly.
Not proudly.
She simply looked confused that no one else seemed to understand what she had seen.
“Lucia,” I said.
My voice sounded too loud.
She turned toward me.
Dominic did not.
His attention remained on the espresso.
“Come here.”
“But Mama—”
“Now.”
She walked toward me.
I put my hand around her shoulder.
Dominic Ferrero had been sitting at the end of a long walnut table with papers arranged in front of him. Three men occupied the opposite side. Another stood near the rain-streaked windows. Mrs. Bianchi had entered moments earlier carrying a folder.
Nobody touched anything.
Dominic looked tired.
I had noticed it ten minutes earlier.
His shoulders had lowered slightly. He had blinked several times as though the room were becoming difficult to focus on.
I had assumed he had worked too long.
Apparently everyone had.
Except Lucia.
Dominic looked at her.
“What did you say?”
I tightened my fingers around her shoulder.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Ferrero. She’s seven.”
“I know how old she is.”
His tone wasn't angry.
That frightened me more.
He pushed the cup farther away.
“Lucia.”
My daughter looked at him.
“What did you notice?”
She pointed.
“The coffee changed.”
One of the men gave a nervous laugh.
Children have a way of making adults laugh when adults desperately want something to be unimportant.
Dominic didn't laugh.
“How?”
Lucia looked at me.
I wanted to tell her to say nothing.
Instead, I heard myself whisper, “Answer him.”
She stepped forward.
“When you first got it, the bubbles were around the edge.”
Dominic glanced at the cup.
“Then Mr. Gray Jacket moved it.”
Every eye in the room shifted.
The man nearest the window stiffened.
He wore a charcoal jacket.
His name, I knew, was Adrian Cole.
I had seen him perhaps twelve times during my eleven months working at the estate.
He was one of Dominic's business advisers.
Or lawyers.
Or accountants.
Nobody explained these things to the cleaning staff.
Adrian smiled.
“I moved a coffee cup?”
“You turned it,” Lucia said.
His smile weakened.
Lucia continued.
“And then the bubbles went away.”
“That happens to coffee.”
“Yes.”
She frowned.
“But the blue didn't.”
Nobody moved.
Dominic looked at the napkin.
Three drops.
The center one did seem different under the warm desk lamp.
Barely.
I would never have noticed.
“How did you see that?” Dominic asked.
Lucia shrugged.
“I was drawing.”
She held up the notebook I had given her that morning.
On the page were badly proportioned horses, a house with six chimneys, and what appeared to be an airplane flying underwater.
“I was sitting low.”
Dominic leaned back.
His movement was slower than normal.
That scared me.
Mrs. Bianchi stepped forward.
“Mr. Ferrero, perhaps we should call Dr. Russo.”
“Do it.”
Adrian moved toward the table.
Dominic lifted one finger.
Adrian stopped.
“Don't touch the cup.”
The room changed again.
This time everyone felt it.
Dominic's exhaustion was still visible, but something harder had returned to his eyes.
Control.
“Alina.”
My stomach tightened.
“Yes, sir?”
“Take Lucia to the kitchen.”
I nodded immediately.
Then Lucia said, “But the man has the little bottle.”
Silence.
I closed my eyes for half a second.
Of course she did.
Of course my daughter, who once announced to an entire grocery store that a stranger had forgotten to zip his pants, had chosen this particular room to become observant.
Dominic's gaze moved to Adrian.
“What bottle?”
Adrian's hand was still inside his jacket pocket.
He slowly removed it.
Empty.
“Phone.”
Dominic said nothing.
Adrian produced a phone.
“Other pocket,” Lucia said.
Adrian stared at her.
For the first time, I saw something in his face that made me instinctively pull Lucia closer.
Not anger.
Calculation.
Dominic saw it too.
“Adrian.”
“I don't appreciate being searched because a child invented something.”
“Nobody mentioned searching you.”
Adrian's jaw tightened.
Dominic's eyes narrowed.
Then he looked at me.
“Take her out.”
This time I didn't hesitate.
I guided Lucia through the study doors.
Mrs. Bianchi followed us and closed them.
The moment the latch clicked, my knees nearly failed.
“What were you thinking?” I whispered.
Lucia's face fell.
“I was helping.”
“I know.”
“You're mad.”
“No.”
I crouched.
I took her face between my hands.
“I am terrified.”
She blinked.
That was when I realized my hands were shaking.
Mrs. Bianchi was already calling the doctor.
I heard voices through the study doors.
Low.
Controlled.
Then something struck the table.
Lucia jumped.
I pulled her against me.
“Kitchen,” Mrs. Bianchi ordered.
We moved.
Halfway down the corridor, Lucia tugged my sleeve.
“Mama?”
“What?”
“That man wasn't the one who put it in.”
I stopped.
“What?”
“Mr. Gray Jacket.”
She shook her head.
“He only moved the cup.”
My stomach turned cold.
“Then who?”
She looked back toward the study.
Before she could answer, the doors opened.
Dominic stood there, one hand gripping the frame.
His face had gone pale.
Behind him, Adrian was no longer smiling.
Dominic looked directly at Lucia.
“Tell me,” he said.
Lucia swallowed.
Then she pointed past him.
Not at Adrian.
At someone else.
Mrs. Bianchi's phone began ringing.
She looked at the screen.
Her face drained of color.
The caller's name was someone I recognized.
Someone who had been dead for four years.
May you like
My husband.
Paulo Reva.
