Chapter 4 - THE LAWYER, THE MISSING RECORDS, AND THE WATCHING CAR
Rebecca Hale met my father and me on Monday afternoon.
Sophie stayed with Mrs. Alvarez, who had apologized repeatedly for losing sight of her at the park and had agreed that another caregiver should be present during future outings.
Rebecca wore a charcoal blazer, flat shoes, and no jewelry except a wedding ring.
She listened while Dad explained the old records.
She interrupted only to clarify dates and distinguish what he’d personally observed from what other people had told him.
When he mentioned the possibility that Antonio Moretti’s accident had been connected to Victor’s financial activities, she held up one hand.
“We need to separate those issues.”
Dad nodded.
“You may have evidence of financial misconduct. You may also have reasons to question what happened to Antonio. But we can’t assume one proves the other.”
“I understand.”
“Good.”
She looked at me.
“Have you told anyone else about the documents?”
“Only Dante Moretti.”
“Did he see them?”
“No.”
“Did he ask to take them?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“I refused.”
For the first time, Rebecca smiled.
“That was sensible.”
I felt some of the tension leave my shoulders.
She turned toward Dad.
“Where are the records now?”
He glanced at me.
I waited.
“Inside the clock,” he admitted.
Rebecca’s expression didn’t change.
“Are they the originals?”
“Some are. Others are copies I made before leaving Boston.”
“Have you maintained them in the same condition?”
“As much as possible.”
She wrote something down.
“Don’t move or alter them until we document what exists. We need a careful inventory and a secure preservation plan.”
I looked toward Dad.
He nodded.
Rebecca continued.
“I can advise you about contacting appropriate authorities, and we can discuss whether your information should be presented through counsel. I also want you to understand that if those records relate to unlawful conduct in companies you worked for, investigators may ask difficult questions about your own role.”
Dad straightened.
“I expected that.”
“Then we begin with the truth.”
She looked at me.
“And you, Clara, need to decide how much involvement you want. You’re not obligated to become the messenger between your father and the Moretti family.”
I stared at her.
Nobody had said that before.
I’d spent the entire weekend feeling as though every decision depended on me.
My father.
My daughter.
Dante.
The records.
The danger.
Rebecca’s words reminded me that some responsibilities belonged to professionals.
Others belonged to the people who had created the problem.
I nodded.
“I want to protect my daughter and help my father tell the truth.”
“Good,” Rebecca said. “Those are clear goals.”
When we left her office, Dad seemed exhausted.
But he also looked lighter.
In the elevator, he touched my arm.
“Thank you.”
I shook my head.
“We’re doing this together.”
He nodded.
For once, he didn’t argue.
Dante called that evening.
I was stirring a pot of vegetable soup when my phone rang.
His number appeared.
I considered ignoring it.
Then I answered.
“Hello?”
“Clara.”
“Mr. Moretti.”
“Dante is fine.”
“I’m still deciding.”
He made a quiet sound that might have been amusement.
“How’s Sophie?”
“She wore the red shoes to school. Her teacher says she showed them to every person who entered the classroom.”
“Are they comfortable?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
There was a pause.
Then he said, “I wanted to ask about your father.”
I turned off the stove.
“He’s getting legal advice.”
“From whom?”
“An attorney who represents him.”
Another pause.
“I understand.”
I waited.
He continued.
“I’ve been reviewing some of the things I was told about Thomas Bennett.”
“And?”
“There are inconsistencies.”
I leaned against the counter.
“What kind?”
“Dates. Accounts. People who claimed to have seen documents they couldn’t possibly have accessed.”
I looked toward the living room.
Dad sat beside Sophie, helping her sound out words in a library book.
“Dante, I need you to understand something.”
“Go ahead.”
“My father isn’t handing over those records simply because your family wants them.”
“I understand.”
“And I don’t want anyone from your household coming here without asking.”
He was quiet.
Then he said, “That’s reasonable.”
I was almost suspicious of how easily he agreed.
He seemed to sense it.
“You expected an argument.”
“Yes.”
“I probably would have given you one a few years ago.”
“What changed?”
He took a breath.
“I met a little girl who asked for help instead of being afraid to ask.”
I looked at the pot of soup.
Then toward Sophie.
She was laughing because Dad had deliberately pronounced a word incorrectly.
I smiled despite myself.
“That doesn’t make you harmless.”
“No.”
The honesty surprised me.
“It doesn’t,” Dante repeated. “And I won’t ask you to pretend otherwise.”
We spoke for several more minutes.
Then he told me he’d arranged for an independent forensic accountant to review certain company records.
He didn’t ask me to trust the findings.
He said any relevant documents could be made available through our attorneys.
When the call ended, I stood in the kitchen holding my phone.
The apartment was warm.
The soup smelled good.
My daughter was laughing.
And somewhere across Boston, a man who had built his life around never asking permission was beginning to learn how to wait for an answer.
Three days later, my father became frightened again.
It began with a car.
A dark sedan parked across from our house shortly after lunch and remained there for nearly two hours.
The driver never got out.
Dad noticed it from the living-room window.
At first, he told himself it was someone waiting for a neighbor.
Then the car returned the next afternoon.
Same color.
Same position.
I called Rebecca.
She advised us not to confront the driver, to record what we could safely observe, and to contact the police if the behavior suggested an immediate threat.
I did.
An officer came by and spoke with us.
The car was gone by then.
We couldn’t establish why it had been parked there.
The officer took the information and suggested several practical precautions.
I changed the routine for picking Sophie up from school.
I told the school office that no one except approved caregivers could collect her.
I checked the locks on our doors.
And I stopped allowing Dad to dismiss his own fear simply because he didn’t want to inconvenience me.
On Friday, the dark sedan appeared again.
This time, I photographed it from inside the house.
Then I called the police.
By the time an officer arrived, it had left.
I sent the photographs to Rebecca.
She asked whether Dante knew where we lived.
“Yes.”
“Could someone connected to him be watching the property?”
“I don’t know.”
That was the problem.
I didn’t know who was helping us.
I didn’t know who might be frightened of the records.
And I didn’t know whether the danger came from a secret buried twenty-three years earlier or from the decisions people were making now.
That night, after Sophie fell asleep, I sat beside Dad.
“You need to tell me if there’s anything else.”
He looked at the dark window.
“I’ve told you what I remember.”
“Everything?”
He hesitated.
I felt my stomach tighten.
“Dad.”
He sighed.
“There was one other document.”
“What document?”
“A letter Antonio wrote to me shortly before we fled.”
I stared.
“You never mentioned a letter from him.”
“I didn’t know whether to trust it. The envelope arrived after I had already decided to leave.”
“What did it say?”
Dad looked toward the clock.
“He wanted to meet privately. He said there were things about Victor he’d begun to question.”
I swallowed.
“Do you still have it?”
“Yes.”
“Inside the clock?”
He nodded.
I looked at the pendulum moving behind the glass.
All my life, I’d heard that steady ticking.
At night.
During storms.
While studying for school.
While waiting for my mother to come home from work.
May you like
I’d thought the clock was comforting because it was familiar.
Now every tick sounded like a reminder that my father had kept part of our lives locked away.
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