Chapter 5 - THE VOICE ON THE TAPE
My father's name had been spoken at the Moretti estate for years without anyone knowing it belonged to me. I kept thinking about that on the morning Mara and I met the audio examiner. Peter Carter had fixed a hidden cabinet for Serena, taken a commission at North Star Framing and died after a scaffolding collapse. Now Richard Bellini's visit to my mother suggested he had known exactly what Dad was doing.
But suspicion wasn't evidence. Mara had written the words on a note at the top of her folder: ASK WHAT CAN BE VERIFIED.
Before the session began, Mara reminded me that I could take a break if hearing the recording became overwhelming. I nodded, grateful she had asked privately rather than speaking for me in front of the room. There were days when I still woke hearing the crack of glass and feeling my ankle fold beneath me. I was beginning to learn that being determined did not require pretending I was unhurt.
The examiner, a careful woman named Dr. Selma Ortiz, greeted us in a laboratory with soundproofed walls and a table covered in sealed evidence bags. Luca joined by video call from his attorney's office. Serena sat beside Eleanor Finch, out of camera range until she felt ready to speak.
“We've made a preservation copy of the cassette,” Dr. Ortiz explained. “The recording is old and has some damage. I can identify likely edits, but I can't certify every speaker from sound alone. I'll provide the audio and my observations so investigators can compare it with other recordings.”
She played it.
At first there was only hiss and the distant rattle of something heavy. Then a man's voice spoke, brisk and impatient.
“Move the original before the inspection. The new inventory will say the crates were opened in Serena's presence.”
Another voice replied, “She won't sign that.”
“Then she won't see her brother again.”
I recognized Richard's cadence from dinner. Recognition wasn't proof, but the words made me sick.
A door slammed. Footsteps followed. Then a younger woman's voice, sharp with uncertainty, asked, “You said nobody would get hurt.”
The man's answer was almost casual.
“Vanessa, stop asking questions. Carry the envelope upstairs.”
In the video window Luca closed his eyes. Serena reached for a glass of water, but her hand shook too badly to lift it.
Dr. Ortiz stopped playback. “There are other voices later. We will need corroboration. The tape isn't, by itself, a full account of what happened.”
“Can you replay the last section?” Serena asked.
A few minutes later came a distant alarm, shouts and the sound of a vehicle engine. Someone yelled that two warehouse workers were still inside. The same male voice ordered the driver to leave. Then the recording cut off.
Luca leaned toward his camera. “That warehouse fire nearly killed Tomas Adler and his apprentice. Richard told me the sprinkler system failed and that Serena had caused the disturbance.”
Serena shook her head. “I was trying to get the workers out. Richard had locked the loading gate because he didn't want anyone seeing the shipping crates. The alarm began when a forklift caught fire. I told the men to open the gate, but they couldn't find the key.”
“Did either worker survive?” I asked.
“Both,” Luca said. “One left Chicago. The apprentice never returned to the trade.”
Mara noted their names. We had a way to check Serena's account without depending entirely on memory. Fire department reports, employment records and medical bills might confirm where people had been and when the alarm began.
After the call, Mara took me to a small diner overlooking a parking lot. My ankle still ached after sitting too long, and I was hungry enough to order eggs, toast and a bowl of oatmeal. When the waitress set the food down, I realized I had spent the entire morning waiting to be told what I was allowed to eat. Working for Vanessa had taught me habits that felt normal until I left the mansion.
“You keep apologizing when you ask for water,” Mara observed.
“Do I?”
“Every time.”
I stared into my coffee. “I used to think if I was quiet enough, I could stay invisible. Then I tore up a painting in front of forty people.”
“Neither is a permanent definition of you.”
Her words stayed with me through the afternoon. We visited the city's records office to request documentation of my father's accident. The inspector's report described a scaffold failure at a restoration warehouse thirteen months after Serena vanished. The bolts holding one support had been removed for maintenance and not replaced. The company paid a settlement without admitting wrongdoing. The listed safety supervisor was a man named Calvin Rusk.
“Is Rusk connected to Richard?” I asked.
“His company serviced several Bellini properties,” Mara said. “That's a connection worth investigating, not proof of murder.”
We requested the remaining inspection photographs and the supervisor's statement. One attachment was missing from the scanned file. Mara filed a formal request rather than assuming it had been intentionally removed.
At home I found my mother studying an envelope of unpaid medical bills. She had another appointment in two days, and the pharmacy had increased the price of one medication. I felt the familiar urge to offer to return to work immediately, stitched hand or not.
“Don't,” she said, reading my expression. “We'll call the patient advocate. You are not going back into a place where someone can hurt you and call it an inconvenience.”
I also called the hospital billing department with my mother and helped her request an itemized statement. We found one charge that should have been covered by a financial-assistance program. It was a small victory, worth less than the bills still waiting in the drawer, but it reminded us that not every difficulty required a powerful stranger to solve it. Sometimes it required patience, paperwork and someone willing to stay on the phone.
That evening Luca asked to come by. I said he could meet us in the downstairs common room, not our apartment. He arrived without the usual entourage, holding a paper bag from a bakery and a small stack of documents. My mother accepted the pastries with amused suspicion.
“I can bake for myself,” she told him.
“I believe you,” Luca said. “These are an apology for arriving at dinner time.”
He had news. The missing fire inspection attachment had surfaced in the Moretti insurance archives. It included a photograph of a loading gate fastened with a chain, taken the morning after the warehouse fire. Beside it was an invoice for emergency repairs signed by Calvin Rusk. The picture showed a padlock still hanging from the chain.
“The company said the gate was clear,” Luca told me. “If that picture is genuine, it wasn't.”
“How did you get it?”
“An old insurer's archive. Anthony has requested certified originals and notified the fire investigator.”
My mother listened quietly. When Luca finished, she said, “And what are you going to do about the people who worked for you and got hurt?”
He looked at her. “I need to find out what happened. Then there has to be restitution and accountability.”
“Not only for the Moretti family,” she said.
“No,” he agreed. “Not only for us.”
I watched him look at my bandaged hand. He didn't reach for it. Somehow that restraint made his concern easier to trust.
“Emily,” he said, “I also wanted to tell you that you've been placed on paid medical leave while the employment investigation continues. It will not require you to sign a release.”
“Who decided?”
“I did, on the advice of an independent human-resources consultant.”
“And if I don't want to return?”
“You won't be pressured.”
For eleven months I had feared the loss of a paycheck more than the loss of my own safety. Hearing him say those words should have been a relief. Instead I felt grief for all the other workers who had never been given that choice.
“Can you check the staff records?” I asked. “Claire said she was threatened. I wasn't the first.”
“Yes,” he said. “And I want an outside firm to speak to employees without managers present.”
He left before nine. My mother watched him disappear through the lobby doors.
“He seems different from the man you've described,” she said.
“Maybe he's finally seeing what the house was like when he wasn't in the room.”
Later, after she went to bed, Mara called. She had located Tomas Adler, one of the workers injured in the old warehouse fire. He now lived in Michigan and was willing to speak with investigators. Before agreeing to an interview, however, he had asked a question.
“Why now?” Mara repeated. “After twelve years, why is the Moretti family suddenly interested in the truth?”
I stared at the stitches in my palm. “Tell him because somebody finally opened the frame.”
Then I changed my mind.
“No. Tell him we're asking for his story. Not asking him to rescue ours.”
Mara was quiet for a moment. “That's a better answer.”
When I ended the call, a new message appeared on my phone. It was from Serena, sent through Eleanor Finch.
I REMEMBER YOUR FATHER TALKING ABOUT A SECOND SET OF PHOTOGRAPHS. HE SAID THE FIRST COULD BE STOLEN, BUT THE SECOND WOULD NEVER LEAVE THE CITY.
Underneath, she had added three words.
May you like
ASK ABOUT STATION NINE.
I looked out at the lights of Chicago and wondered how many places had been hiding pieces of the same night.
