Chapter 2 - The Red Flannel
The lights came back on.
For one second, nobody moved.
Then the ballroom exploded.
Guests shouted. Chairs scraped across marble. Someone knocked over a champagne table. Security rushed toward the corridor while others pushed toward the exits, desperate to get away from a situation they didn't understand.
I didn't move.
I was still holding Sophie's hand.
Her tiny fingers were wrapped around mine so tightly they hurt.
I looked down at her.
"Stay with me."
She nodded.
Then I looked toward the corridor where the stranger had disappeared.
My security director, Marcus Hale, came running back.
"He's gone."
My jaw tightened.
"How?"
"He knew the service corridors."
"Did you catch his face?"
Marcus shook his head.
"No. He was wearing a cap and kept his head down."
I looked at the ballroom doors.
"Lock the building."
"They're already locked."
"Nobody leaves."
Marcus hesitated.
"Roman, there are three hundred guests in here."
"I know."
"And some of them are donors, politicians, judges—"
"I said nobody leaves."
He nodded and turned away.
I looked back at my mother.
She was still standing beside the staircase.
She looked smaller now.
Not weak.
Afraid.
I walked toward her.
Sophie followed me.
Every step I took seemed to make the room quieter.
My mother watched us approach.
"Roman," she said.
I held up the strip of red flannel.
"Explain this."
Her eyes moved to the fabric.
She didn't answer.
"You told Sophie I was dead."
Her lips trembled.
"I never said that."
Sophie suddenly spoke.
"You did."
My mother looked at her.
Sophie stepped closer to me.
"Grandma said Daddy went away because he didn't love us."
I stared at my mother.
She closed her eyes.
Just for a second.
But I saw it.
Regret.
Not surprise.
Not confusion.
Regret.
"How long?" I asked.
She opened her eyes.
"Roman..."
"How long has she been with you?"
She didn't answer.
"Three years?"
Nothing.
"Two?"
Still nothing.
I stepped closer.
"How long?"
My mother's voice became barely audible.
"She wasn't supposed to be here."
I felt something cold move through me.
"Where was she supposed to be?"
My mother looked toward the security guards.
Then toward the guests.
She lowered her voice.
"Not in your life."
The words hit harder than a slap.
I stared at her.
For three years, I had blamed Elena.
For three years, I had imagined my wife leaving me.
I had imagined her packing Sophie's clothes.
I had imagined her driving away.
I had imagined her looking in the rearview mirror and deciding not to come back.
Every night, I had asked the same question.
Why?
Now I was standing three feet from my mother, and suddenly the answer felt different.
"You took her."
My mother shook her head.
"No."
"You took my daughter."
"No."
"You kept her from me."
Her eyes filled with tears.
"I was protecting her."
I laughed once.
There was no humor in it.
"From me?"
My mother looked at Sophie.
"From everyone."
I wanted to scream.
Instead, I crouched beside Sophie.
"Baby girl, did Grandma hurt you?"
Sophie shook her head.
"Did she lock you somewhere?"
She hesitated.
Then nodded.
My stomach turned.
"Where?"
Sophie looked around the ballroom.
"Upstairs."
My mother closed her eyes.
I stood.
"Take me there."
She didn't move.
"Mom."
Her face hardened.
"Roman, you don't understand what you're dealing with."
"Then explain it."
"I can't."
"You can."
"I won't."
I took another step.
"Then I'll find out without you."
My mother suddenly grabbed my arm.
Her fingers dug into my sleeve.
"Don't go into the west wing."
I looked down at her hand.
Then at her face.
"Why?"
She released me.
"Because some things should stay buried."
I stared at her.
Then I understood.
The west wing.
I had grown up in this house.
I knew every room.
Every staircase.
Every locked cabinet.
The west wing had been closed after my grandfather died.
My mother always said the plumbing had failed.
But I remembered something.
There had never been a plumbing problem.
There had been a fire.
A small one.
Twenty years ago.
The same year my father disappeared from the family business.
The same year my grandfather changed his will.
The same year my mother became the head of the family foundation.
And now my daughter had just told me she had been kept upstairs.
I turned toward Marcus.
"Clear the west wing."
My mother stepped in front of me.
"No."
I stopped.
"Move."
"Roman, please."
I had never heard her say please to me.
Not like that.
Not with fear.
I looked at Sophie.
She was staring at the hallway.
Then she whispered:
"That's where Mommy cried."
My mother's face collapsed.
I turned back to her.
"Elena was there?"
She didn't answer.
"Sophie."
The child looked at me.
"Did Mommy live there?"
Sophie nodded.
"She told me Daddy would find us."
My breathing became shallow.
"Where is your mother now?"
Sophie looked down.
"I don't know."
"Did you see her today?"
She shook her head.
"Yesterday?"
Another shake.
"Where did you last see Mommy?"
Sophie squeezed the red fabric.
"She gave me this."
"When?"
"Before they took me."
"Who took you?"
Sophie looked frightened.
"I don't know his name."
"What did he look like?"
She thought for a moment.
"He had a scar."
"Where?"
She pointed toward her cheek.
"Here."
Marcus suddenly spoke behind me.
"Roman."
I turned.
He was holding a security photograph.
"There's something you need to see."
He handed me a tablet.
The screen showed a grainy image from one of the exterior cameras.
A man was standing near the rear service entrance.
Dark suit.
Baseball cap.
His face was turned slightly away.
But there was one visible detail.
A pale scar ran from beneath his left eye toward his jaw.
I stared at the image.
Sophie looked at it.
Her face went white.
"That's him."
Marcus looked at me.
"Who?"
"The man who took Mommy."
I zoomed in.
The image became blurry.
But I could see something around his wrist.
A silver watch.
There was a small symbol engraved on it.
A D.
I knew that watch.
My stomach dropped.
"Marcus."
"Yes?"
"Pull every security recording from the last seventy-two hours."
He nodded.
"And find out who owns a watch like that."
Marcus stared at the screen.
"Roman, if that symbol is what I think it is..."
"I know."
He lowered his voice.
"That's a D'Angelo family crest."
The room seemed to tilt.
I looked at my mother.
She had heard him.
She was crying now.
Not quietly.
Not gracefully.
She turned away from me.
"Mom."
She didn't respond.
I walked closer.
"Who was that man?"
She covered her mouth.
"Tell me."
Nothing.
"Who has been following my daughter?"
She whispered something.
I couldn't hear her.
"What?"
She looked at me.
"Your uncle."
My blood ran cold.
"My uncle has been dead for twelve years."
She shook her head.
"No."
She wiped her tears.
"Not him."
I waited.
"My brother."
I stared at her.
"My mother's brother?"
She nodded.
"Daniel."
The name meant nothing.
Then I remembered it.
A photograph.
A man standing beside my grandfather.
A younger version of my mother.
A little boy.
My uncle Daniel.
The man everyone had told me died in a boating accident when I was six.
I looked at my mother.
"Daniel is dead."
"He was supposed to be."
I couldn't speak.
Marcus stepped closer.
"Roman, we have another problem."
"What?"
He turned the tablet toward me.
The security footage showed the service entrance.
The stranger had arrived twenty minutes before Sophie appeared.
But he hadn't come alone.
A second person had entered with him.
A woman.
Blonde.
Wearing a long dark coat.
My heart stopped.
I leaned closer to the screen.
The image was grainy.
But I knew the way she walked.
I knew the tilt of her head.
I knew the small movement of her left hand.
I had watched that hand hold my daughter when she was a baby.
I whispered the name I had spent three years believing I would never say again.
"Elena."
My mother began sobbing.
Sophie looked at the screen.
"Mommy."
I couldn't breathe.
Elena was alive.
My wife was alive.
And she had been inside my house tonight.
For the first time in three years, hope hit me so violently that it almost felt like pain.
I grabbed Marcus by the shoulder.
"Find her."
"We're trying."
"Search every room."
"We are."
"Every hallway."
"Roman—"
"Every exit."
He nodded.
Security scattered.
I turned toward the west wing.
My mother stepped in front of me again.
"You can't go there."
I looked at her.
"She's alive."
My mother's eyes filled with tears.
"Yes."
The word barely came out.
I froze.
"You knew?"
She nodded.
"How long?"
She didn't answer.
"How long did you know my wife was alive?"
My mother looked toward Sophie.
Then she looked back at me.
"Three years."
I felt the floor disappear beneath me.
Three years.
My mother had known.
She had watched me search.
Watched me break.
Watched me believe my wife had betrayed me.
And all that time, Elena had been somewhere in this house.
I stepped toward the west wing.
My mother grabbed my wrist.
"Roman, listen to me."
I pulled free.
"No."
"You don't understand what Elena did."
"She survived."
"She lied to you."
"Because someone made her."
"You don't know that."
"I know enough."
I started walking.
Sophie followed.
Marcus moved beside me.
The ballroom guests were still silent.
Nobody dared stop us.
We reached the corridor leading toward the west wing.
At the end stood a large wooden door.
I hadn't seen it open since I was a child.
Dust covered the brass handle.
I reached for it.
Sophie suddenly stopped.
"Daddy."
I turned.
She was staring at the door.
"What is it?"
She whispered:
"Mommy told me never to open it."
I looked at the lock.
There was a small red mark carved into the wood.
The same shape as the symbol on the man's watch.
My hand closed around the handle.
Behind the door, something moved.
Then came three soft knocks.
Knock.
Knock.
Knock.
I looked at Marcus.
He reached for his phone.
Another sound came from the other side.
A woman's voice.
Weak.
Frightened.
Familiar.
"Roman..."
I stopped breathing.
May you like
It was Elena.
Then the lock began turning from the inside.
