Chapter 4
Elena came back with us.
Not permanently.
Not dramatically.
She packed one suitcase, locked her cottage and told a neighbor she'd be away for several days.
On the flight home, she and Vincent sat across the aisle from each other.
They talked almost the entire time.
Not about the lost years.
Not yet.
They talked about ordinary things.
Books.
Restaurants.
The neighborhood where they'd grown up.
An elderly music teacher both had disliked.
At one point Elena asked, “Do you still organize your closet by color?”
Vincent stared at her.
“No.”
She smiled.
“You're lying.”
He looked toward me.
“This is why siblings should remain geographically separated.”
Elena laughed.
I realized how rarely Vincent had probably heard his sister laugh during the last thirty years.
When we arrived at the estate, Mia was waiting with Tessa and Mrs.
Alvarez.
I had explained only the simplest version.
We're meeting someone who is part of our family.
Mia understood family primarily as people who remembered what snacks she liked.
That seemed good enough for now.
She ran toward me first.
“Mommy!”
I crouched and hugged her.
Then she noticed Elena.
Children sometimes recognize resemblance without understanding why it matters.
Mia stared.
Elena stared back.
Mia whispered, “You look like Mommy.”
Elena pressed her lips together.
“Yes,” she managed.
“A little.”
“Are you Grandma?”
Every adult in the room became still.
Elena looked at me.
She didn't assume.
She waited.
That simple act answered a question I hadn't realized I was still carrying.
I smiled.
“You can call her Grandma Elena if you want.”
Mia considered this carefully.
“Okay.”
Then she held up a picture she'd drawn.
“This is a dinosaur.”
Elena accepted it like she'd been given a priceless painting.
“It is magnificent.”
“It's purple.”
“I noticed.”
“Purple dinosaurs are faster.”
“Obviously.”
Mia nodded approvingly.
Their relationship began there.
Not with a tearful declaration.
With a purple dinosaur.
Mrs.
Alvarez had remained several steps away.
Elena finally looked toward her.
The older woman covered her mouth.
“Oh, Elena.”
“Hello, Rosa.”
Mrs.
Alvarez crossed the room.
They embraced.
Vincent turned away under the deeply unconvincing pretense of checking his phone.
Renzo appeared beside him.
“Allergies?”
Renzo murmured.
Vincent glared.
“Not one word.”
That evening, after Mia fell asleep in the guest room, the four of us—Vincent, Elena, Renzo and I—went to the private archive.
It was located behind the study.
I had worked in the house nearly a year without knowing the room existed.
Metal cabinets lined three walls.
Boxes were labeled with years.
Vincent found the files from his father's final decade.
Antonio Castalano had kept everything.
Business records.
Correspondence.
Property documents.
Even handwritten notes from meetings.
May you like
It took two hours to find the file.
My name was on it.
