Chapter 2
Vincent Romano did not move for several seconds after the call ended.
Rachel remained seated on the marble floor, Ruby asleep against her chest, the little girl's damp cheek resting over Rachel's heart.
Around them, the household had gone strangely still.
Mrs. Alvarez, the housekeeper, stood near the doorway with one hand pressed against her apron. Two members of the staff exchanged nervous glances. Even Marco Bellini, Vincent's longtime security chief, had stopped pretending not to listen.
Rachel noticed all of it.
But what she noticed most was Vincent.
Only moments earlier, he had looked at her with something almost like gratitude.
Now he was studying her as though a piece of an old puzzle had suddenly fallen into place.
Rachel swallowed.
"Mr. Romano?"
Vincent's gaze dropped to Ruby.
The hardness in his expression softened by a fraction.
"Take her upstairs."
Rachel hesitated. "Is something wrong?"
"Not in front of my daughter."
His voice wasn't raised.
That somehow made the words heavier.
Mrs. Alvarez stepped forward. "I can take Miss Ruby."
Ruby stirred immediately.
Her tiny fingers tightened in Rachel's blouse.
"No."
The word was barely more than a sleepy murmur.
Rachel instinctively rubbed her back.
"It's all right," she whispered. "I'm staying."
Ruby relaxed again.
Something unreadable passed over Vincent's face.
"Then take her yourself," he said.
Rachel rose carefully.
As she climbed the wide staircase, she could feel Vincent watching her.
She had arrived at the Romano mansion that morning worried about overdue rent, student loans, and the final notice sitting unopened on her kitchen table.
Now she had a different problem entirely.
Someone knew who she was.
And apparently that frightened Vincent Romano.
Ruby's bedroom was bright and unexpectedly cheerful, painted in soft cream and pale green rather than the extravagant pink Rachel had expected.
Stuffed animals lined a window seat.
A tiny pair of yellow rain boots stood beneath a chair.
Above the bed hung a framed photograph.
Rachel stopped when she saw it.
Ruby was younger in the picture, perhaps eighteen months old, laughing in her mother's arms.
Elena Romano.
Rachel had seen photographs of Vincent's late wife in newspapers after the bombing.
But newspapers hadn't captured the warmth in her face.
In the picture, Elena's dark hair blew across one cheek as she kissed Ruby's temple.
For a moment Rachel simply looked at her.
"You miss her too, don't you?" Rachel whispered to the sleeping child.
She laid Ruby gently beneath the blanket.
Ruby shifted toward the warm place Rachel's body had left behind.
Rachel sat on the edge of the mattress until the child's breathing settled again.
Then her eyes returned to the photograph.
Something about Elena's face bothered her.
Not because it was familiar exactly.
More like the feeling of hearing a melody she'd forgotten she knew.
Rachel frowned.
A soft knock came from the door.
Mrs. Alvarez stood there.
"Mr. Romano would like to speak with you."
Rachel looked at Ruby.
"I'll stay with her," the older woman said. "She seems peaceful."
Rachel stood slowly.
"Mrs. Alvarez?"
"Yes?"
"Who was on the phone?"
The housekeeper's expression changed.
"I don't know."
Rachel could tell that wasn't entirely true.
But Mrs. Alvarez wasn't going to say more.
Vincent waited in his study downstairs.
Rachel entered expecting Marco and perhaps several intimidating men in black suits.
Instead, Vincent was alone.
The room felt different from the rest of the mansion. Less decorated. More personal.
Bookshelves covered one wall.
Family photographs covered another.
An old upright piano stood beneath the windows.
Vincent remained behind his desk.
He didn't offer Rachel a seat.
"What's your mother's name?"
The question caught her off guard.
"Excuse me?"
"Your mother."
"Anne Jenkins."
"Maiden name?"
Rachel's unease deepened.
"Why?"
Vincent leaned back.
"Answer me."
She folded her arms.
She needed this job desperately.
But need had limits.
"Mr. Romano, I'm your daughter's nanny, not someone you're interrogating. If there's a problem with my background check, tell me what it is."
His jaw tightened.
For the first time since she'd met him, Rachel saw something beneath the controlled exterior.
Uncertainty.
"Your mother's maiden name."
Rachel stared at him.
Then she said, "Carver."
Vincent's fingers stopped moving.
He had been turning a pen over in his hand.
Now the pen became completely still.
"Anne Carver?"
"Yes."
"Did she ever work at St. Matthew's Medical Center?"
Rachel blinked.
"She was a nurse there before I was born."
Vincent stood.
The movement was abrupt enough that Rachel took one involuntary step backward.
Vincent noticed.
Immediately, his expression changed.
He stepped away from the desk instead of closer.
"I won't hurt you, Miss Jenkins."
Rachel gave a humorless little laugh.
"I didn't think you would until you felt the need to say that."
For half a second, Vincent almost looked embarrassed.
Then he turned toward the window.
"Your mother knew my wife."
Rachel stared.
"What?"
Vincent picked up his phone and placed it on the desk.
"The man who called told me to look into Anne Carver."
"Who was he?"
"I don't know yet."
"That doesn't make sense."
"No," Vincent said quietly. "It doesn't."
Rachel's mind raced.
"My mother never mentioned Elena Romano."
"When did your mother die?"
Rachel stiffened.
Vincent glanced at her.
"Three years ago," she answered.
"I'm sorry."
The sympathy sounded genuine.
That only confused her more.
"She was sick for a long time," Rachel said. "Cancer."
Vincent nodded.
"Did she leave papers? Letters? Anything from her nursing years?"
"Probably. I haven't gone through half her boxes."
"Where are they?"
Rachel frowned.
"In a storage unit in Queens."
Vincent looked toward her sharply.
"I want to see them."
"No."
He appeared surprised.
Rachel wasn't sure anyone told Vincent Romano no very often.
"They belonged to my mother," she said. "Whatever is in those boxes is mine."
"If there is something connecting her to Elena—"
"Then I'll look."
"Miss Jenkins—"
"Rachel."
His eyebrows lifted.
"If I'm living in your house, taking care of your child, and apparently connected to your family in some mysterious way, you can call me Rachel."
A strange silence followed.
Then Vincent nodded.
"Rachel."
She had expected the name to sound stern in his voice.
Instead it sounded almost careful.
"I'll go through the boxes," she continued. "If I find anything concerning Elena, I'll show you."
Vincent studied her.
"You really don't know anything."
It wasn't a question.
"No."
He looked away.
For the first time, Rachel began wondering if he was frightened of the answer too.
That afternoon, the mansion adjusted uneasily to its newest resident.
Mrs. Alvarez showed Rachel a bedroom on the third floor overlooking the garden.
It was larger than Rachel's entire apartment.
"I can't stay here."
Mrs. Alvarez smiled.
"Mr. Romano said you live here now."
"He says a lot of things like they're laws of physics."
The older woman tried not to laugh.
"He has been that way since he was twelve."
"You knew him then?"
"I worked for his parents."
Rachel glanced at her.
"What was he like?"
Mrs. Alvarez considered the question.
"Serious."
"That's difficult to imagine."
This time Mrs. Alvarez did laugh.
Then her smile faded.
"His mother was ill for several years. Vincent learned very young that worrying does not change things. He became someone who solves problems instead."
"And when he can't solve one?"
Mrs. Alvarez looked toward Ruby's room.
"He becomes very quiet."
Rachel understood.
Vincent's coldness suddenly seemed less mysterious.
It wasn't the absence of feeling.
It was what happened when a man who had built his life around control discovered there were things he could not control at all.
That evening, Ruby surprised everyone by sitting at the dining table.
She usually ate in the nursery because family meals had become difficult after Elena's death.
But when Rachel brought her downstairs, Ruby refused the high chair placed at the end of the table.
She pointed beside Vincent.
"Daddy."
Vincent looked at her.
"Yes, principessa."
Then Ruby pointed to the chair on her other side.
"Ray-ray."
Rachel froze.
Mrs. Alvarez covered her mouth.
Vincent stared at his daughter.
"Ray-ray?"
Ruby nodded solemnly.
Rachel crouched beside her.
"Is that me?"
"Ray-ray."
It was apparently settled.
Rachel took the chair beside Ruby.
Dinner began awkwardly.
Vincent spoke little.
Rachel tried to encourage Ruby to eat peas.
Ruby disagreed passionately with peas as a concept.
She placed one on her spoon, studied it, then offered it to Vincent.
"For Daddy."
Vincent looked suspiciously at the pea.
Rachel fought a smile.
"She's sharing."
"She's getting rid of it."
"Still technically sharing."
Ruby giggled.
The sound stopped everyone.
Not because it was loud.
Because no one had heard it in so long.
Vincent slowly turned toward his daughter.
Ruby giggled again.
Then she pushed the spoon toward him.
Vincent accepted the pea.
He ate it with the solemn dignity of a man signing an international treaty.
Ruby applauded.
Rachel laughed.
And then something extraordinary happened.
Vincent smiled.
It wasn't the restrained expression Rachel had seen earlier.
It was real.
Brief.
Unprotected.
It changed his entire face.
Mrs. Alvarez turned quickly toward the kitchen.
Rachel suspected the woman didn't want anyone to see her crying.
After dinner, Ruby demanded that Rachel read her a story.
Then another.
Then the same story again because two-year-olds apparently believed repetition improved literature.
Vincent appeared in the nursery doorway halfway through the fourth reading.
Ruby was sitting in Rachel's lap, pointing excitedly at a painted rabbit.
"Again," she ordered.
"We have read this rabbit's adventure three times."
"Again."
Rachel sighed dramatically.
"The rabbit has a very demanding audience."
Ruby grinned.
Vincent leaned against the doorway.
"She gets that from her mother."
Rachel glanced at him.
"You mean Elena?"
His gaze moved toward his daughter.
"She could make people do things they had already decided not to do."
There was affection in his voice.
And pain.
Rachel closed the book.
"What was she like?"
Vincent was silent long enough that Rachel thought he might leave.
Instead, he came inside.
"She loved terrible coffee."
Rachel smiled.
"That's your first description?"
"It was unforgivably bad."
Ruby crawled across the rug toward him.
Vincent lifted her automatically.
"She bought beans from a tiny shop in Brooklyn," he continued. "Burned them until they tasted like charcoal and insisted everyone else had no taste."
"Sounds charming."
"She was."
His voice softened.
"She sang when she cooked. Badly."
Rachel watched Ruby touch her father's chin.
"And she volunteered at a community clinic twice a month. She believed every problem could be improved if enough people cared about it."
Rachel's smile faded.
A community clinic.
Her mother had volunteered at one too.
"Where?"
Vincent looked at her.
"St. Gabriel's."
Rachel's stomach tightened.
"My mother worked there."
Neither spoke.
Ruby, oblivious to the shift, patted her father's cheek.
"Story."
Vincent kissed her forehead.
"Rachel will finish."
But Rachel was already thinking about the storage unit.
The next morning, Vincent wanted Marco to drive her.
Rachel refused.
"I'm capable of taking the subway."
Vincent stared at her over his coffee.
"You're not taking the subway."
"I have taken the subway every week since I was fifteen."
"Then you've had enough."
Rachel narrowed her eyes.
"Is there any sentence you can say that doesn't sound like an order?"
"Probably."
"Could you demonstrate?"
Vincent's mouth twitched.
Marco, standing nearby, suddenly became fascinated by the ceiling.
Eventually Rachel compromised by allowing a driver to take her to Queens.
Vincent did not come.
She was glad.
Her mother's storage unit contained the remains of an ordinary life.
Christmas decorations.
Old nursing textbooks.
Rachel's childhood drawings.
A lamp that hadn't worked since 2009 but that Anne Jenkins had apparently believed deserved another chance.
Rachel sat cross-legged between cardboard boxes for nearly an hour.
Memories came unexpectedly.
Her mother's handwriting on labels.
The smell of an old scarf.
A chipped blue mug.
Rachel had spent the years since Anne's death working constantly, telling herself grief was something that faded if you stayed busy enough.
Sitting among her mother's belongings, she realized grief didn't fade.
It changed shape.
Perhaps Ruby understood that better than anyone.
Rachel opened another box.
Inside were photographs.
Most were familiar.
Then she found an envelope labeled:
ST. GABRIEL'S — 2018.
Rachel's pulse quickened.
She opened it.
The first photographs showed clinic volunteers.
Her mother was easy to recognize despite her shorter hair.
Rachel flipped through them slowly.
Then stopped.
A young woman stood beside Anne.
Dark hair.
Warm smile.
Even younger than in the photograph hanging in Ruby's room.
Elena Romano.
On the back, Anne had written:
Elena R. — stubborn, generous, always late.
Rachel stared.
There was no doubt.
Her mother had known Vincent's wife.
Not casually.
Several photographs showed them together.
Laughing over takeout food.
Decorating a clinic waiting room for Christmas.
Holding donated baby clothes.
Rachel sat back against a box.
"Why didn't you ever tell me?"
Of course, there was no answer.
Then she noticed a smaller envelope beneath the photographs.
Her name was written across the front.
Rachel.
Her hands trembled slightly.
She opened it.
Inside was a folded letter.
The first line made her breath catch.
My darling Rachel,
If you ever meet Elena Romano or anyone in her family, there is something I should have told you long ago.
Rachel stopped reading.
For several seconds, she could hear nothing but the distant hum of the building's ventilation system.
Then she forced herself to continue.
Elena helped me during one of the hardest periods of my life, and years later I was able to help her in return. There was never anything improper or dangerous about it, although some people misunderstood because of the family she married into.
Rachel frowned.
The letter continued.
You were very young when I became sick, and later there never seemed to be a right time to explain. Perhaps I was a coward. Perhaps I simply wanted one part of your life untouched by other people's complicated histories.
There is a blue journal in this box. Read the entry dated March 14, 2018.
Rachel searched beneath the envelope.
At the bottom of the box lay a faded blue notebook.
She opened it.
March 14, 2018.
Anne's handwriting filled two pages.
Rachel began reading.
Elena came to the clinic after closing. She was frightened, though she tried very hard not to show it.
Rachel's heart began pounding.
She read faster.
Elena wasn't frightened for herself.
She was worried about a young woman named Sofia.
Someone Rachel had never heard of.
According to Anne's journal, Sofia had been pregnant and alone. Elena had quietly helped her find medical care and temporary housing.
But the final lines were what made Rachel sit completely still.
Elena asked me to promise that if anything ever happened to her, I would keep the enclosed documents safe.
She believes one day her daughter may need to know the truth about where the Romano family fortune really came from.
Rachel slowly lowered the journal.
Documents?
She searched the box.
There were none.
She emptied it entirely.
Nothing.
Then she noticed a key taped to the inside cover of the journal.
A tiny brass key.
Beside it, her mother had written two words.
Mercer Station.
Rachel stared at them.
Her phone rang.
Vincent.
She answered.
"Did you find anything?"
Rachel looked at Elena's photograph.
Then at the key.
"Yes."
Silence.
"What?"
"My mother knew Elena very well."
Vincent inhaled slowly.
"And?"
Rachel hesitated.
She didn't know why.
Perhaps because whatever was hidden at Mercer Station had been entrusted to her mother.
Perhaps because she had known Vincent for barely twenty-four hours.
Or perhaps because some instinct told her Anne had expected Rachel to make a choice for herself.
"There's a journal," she said.
"Bring it."
"I will."
"Anything else?"
Rachel looked down at the key in her palm.
Her mother's final written instruction suddenly felt heavier than the brass itself.
"Rachel?"
She closed her fingers around it.
"There's something I need to understand first."
Vincent's voice became quieter.
"What aren't you telling me?"
Rachel looked at the photograph of Elena standing beside her mother, two women smiling at a future neither could have predicted.
"I'm not sure yet."
She ended the call.
Outside the storage building, afternoon sunlight washed over Queens.
Rachel stood on the sidewalk, thinking about Ruby.
About Vincent.
About her mother.
Then she searched her phone for Mercer Station.
It no longer existed.
The old railway station had closed fourteen years earlier.
But a converted section of the building remained.
Private storage lockers.
And according to the information on the screen, they were still operating.
Rachel looked at the small brass key again.
Her mother had left it for her.
Elena had trusted Anne with something important.
And somewhere inside an old railway station was a secret that had been waiting eight years for someone to find it.
May you like
What Rachel didn't yet understand was why the truth had apparently become important now.
Or who had known enough to call Vincent the moment she entered his home.
