Chapter 7 - The Red Dress
Patrick Donahue.
Fay's father.
She stared at the name until the letters blurred.
“No.”
Luca took the photograph.
“Your father?”
“He's in Florida.”
“Not anymore.”
They checked.
Patrick had flown to Chicago three days earlier.
Fay called.
Disconnected.
She remembered every strange detail of the past year.
Her father's eagerness for the marriage.
His insistence Conrad was the only solution.
His sudden move afterward.
His refusal to discuss Kathleen.
“Find him.”
Luca already had men moving.
Fay looked at the red gown hanging nearby.
The message was obvious.
Wear the dress.
Come alone.
Be seen.
Be humiliated.
The same weapon used from the beginning.
Only now Fay understood something.
Shame worked only while she agreed to carry it.
She changed.
Not into the red dress.
Into Rosa's green gown.
Then she looked at herself.
Her body had not changed.
The woman looking back had.
“Let's go.”
The address led to the abandoned Donahue diner.
Fay entered alone.
At least that was what whoever watched the cameras would believe.
Conrad sat tied to a chair.
His lip was split.
His hands were bloody from fighting the restraints.
When he saw Fay, fury crossed his face.
“What are you doing here?”
“Nice to see you too.”
“Leave.”
“No.”
A man stepped from the kitchen.
Patrick Donahue.
Her father.
Fay's heart broke before she could stop it.
“Dad?”
He looked older.
Ashamed.
“I'm sorry, sweetheart.”
Conrad strained against the chair.
“Don't listen to him.”
Patrick held a gun.
His hand shook.
Fay stared at it.
“You did this?”
“Not all of it.”
“Who?”
Patrick looked toward the kitchen.
“Someone your mother trusted.”
A second figure emerged.
Mallory.
Conrad's former assistant.
She smiled.
Fay's confusion deepened.
“You said someone paid you.”
“They did.”
“Vivienne?”
“No.”
“Adrian?”
“No.”
Mallory's smile vanished.
“Your mother.”
Fay froze.
“My mother is dead.”
“So everyone keeps saying.”
The words echoed.
Too familiar.
Conrad stared at Mallory.
“What game are you playing?”
Mallory placed a phone on the table.
Video began.
Kathleen Donahue appeared.
Older.
Alive.
Fay grabbed the table.
The recording was dated three months earlier.
Kathleen looked directly into the camera.
“Fay, if you're seeing this, Conrad finally found the ledger.”
Fay couldn't breathe.
Kathleen explained.
Her death had been staged.
Vivienne helped.
Patrick knew.
For twenty-four years, Fay's father had let her believe her mother was buried in Wisconsin.
“Why?” Fay whispered.
Patrick cried.
“To keep you alive.”
Conrad's anger became lethal.
“You let your daughter grieve a living mother for twenty-four years?”
“I had no choice.”
“You always have a choice.”
Fay looked at Conrad.
Those words mattered coming from him.
Mallory stopped the video.
“Where is she?” Fay asked.
Mallory shrugged.
“I don't know.”
“Then why kidnap Conrad?”
“I didn't.”
Patrick whispered, “I did.”
Fay stared at her father.
“Why?”
“Because Kathleen contacted me. She said Conrad had become dangerous.”
Conrad laughed without humor.
“She isn't wrong generally.”
Fay ignored him.
“What did Mom want?”
“The ledger.”
Of course.
Everyone wanted the ledger.
Fay moved closer to Patrick.
“You could have called me.”
“I was trying to protect you.”
“No.”
Her voice sharpened.
“You were trying to control what I knew.”
Patrick flinched.
It was the same mistake Conrad had made.
The same mistake Vivienne had made.
Protection without truth.
Love used as permission to take away choice.
Fay was finished accepting it.
“Untie my husband.”
Patrick hesitated.
“Dad.”
He obeyed.
Conrad stood.
Fay immediately touched his face.
“You're bleeding.”
“You came.”
“Obviously.”
“I told you to leave.”
“And apparently kidnapping hasn't improved your personality.”
His hand covered hers.
For one second, nobody else existed.
Then the diner lights died.
Luca shouted outside.
A crash came from the kitchen.
When emergency lights flickered on, Mallory was gone.
Patrick was on the floor.
And the phone playing Kathleen's recording had disappeared.
Conrad grabbed Fay.
“Stay behind me.”
A back door stood open.
Cold air moved through it.
On the floor lay a red satin ribbon.
Fay picked it up.
Written across it:
COME HOME, FAY.
She stared at the handwriting.
She knew it.
She had seen it on birthday cards every year until she was nineteen.
Her mother's handwriting.
Then someone knocked on the diner window.
Three slow knocks.
Fay turned.
May you like
A woman stood outside.
And whispered through the glass, “Baby girl.”
