Chapter 6 - Camille’s Version of the Night.
Camille did not stay missing long.
At 2:40 that afternoon, she walked into a police precinct with 2 attorneys.
That told me something.
Guilty people ran.
So did frightened people.
People with expensive attorneys sometimes did both and then negotiated where to stop.
Daniel called.
I was at Teresa’s house with Lucia.
Dominic was not there.
Another choice I made.
“Camille wants to speak to you.”
“No.”
Daniel paused.
I surprised myself.
“No?”
“She can speak to police.”
“She says Marco gave her something the night he died.”
My chest tightened.
“What?”
“She will only say to you.”
I closed my eyes.
Manipulation.
Or fear.
Either way, I hated being the key.
“Police in the room.”
“Yes.”
“Dominic?”
“She refuses.”
I almost laughed.
“He is not invited.”
Another choice.
I went.
Camille sat in an interview room wearing a cream sweater and no jewelry.
She looked younger without gala makeup.
Tired.
Human.
I resented that.
It was easier to hate her under chandeliers.
She looked at me.
Then at my plain black dress.
Her eyes dropped.
“I am sorry about Lucia.”
I sat.
“Do not start there.”
She flinched.
Good.
“Why did you know Marco?”
Her attorneys shifted.
Camille ignored them.
“My father brought him to Northline meetings.”
“How old were you?”
“Twenty-four.”
“What were you doing there?”
“Working for the foundation.”
“Did you understand the money?”
“Some.”
“Did you know Marco was investigating your father?”
“Yes.”
I stared.
“Did Arthur know you knew?”
“No.”
That surprised me.
Camille continued.
“Marco came to me because he thought I might help.”
“Why you?”
“I hated my father.”
Simple.
Ugly.
Possible.
“Why?”
She laughed softly.
“That is a long answer.”
“We have time.”
“My mother spent 22 years pretending Arthur’s affairs were charity dinners.”
I said nothing.
“He controlled everything. Money. friends. where I went to school. what jobs I could take. who I dated.”
“Dominic.”
Her face tightened.
“The engagement was my father’s idea.”
“Did Dominic know?”
“No.”
“He thought it was yours?”
“He thought it was mutual.”
I stared.
For once, Camille’s cruelty and victimhood existed together.
One did not erase the other.
“You could have said no.”
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“Because I wanted Dominic.”
At least honest.
“I thought if my father arranged the opportunity, I could make the marriage mine.”
“That sounds familiar.”
She looked at me.
I continued.
“Everybody in this story keeps taking something manipulated and deciding the feeling makes it clean.”
Camille lowered her eyes.
“You’re right.”
I almost hated that everyone had learned to say it.
“What did Marco give you?”
“A flash drive.”
“Where is it?”
“My attorney has it.”
Daniel, behind the glass, would like that.
“What is on it?”
“Northline board recordings.”
My pulse jumped.
“Why didn’t Marco keep it?”
“He thought my father would search him.”
“Did Arthur?”
“Yes.”
“Did he search you?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“He underestimated me.”
I looked at her.
That, I believed immediately.
“What happened the night Marco died?”
Camille’s hands tightened.
“We met in the garage.”
“The video.”
“You saw it.”
“Yes.”
“Arthur gave him a folder.”
“Yes.”
“Then?”
“I waited 20 minutes.”
“Why?”
“Marco told me to.”
“For what?”
“He wanted Arthur and Gray to leave first.”
“Did they?”
“Arthur went upstairs. Gray drove out.”
“Then you got into Marco’s car.”
“Yes.”
“What did you talk about?”
“He gave me the drive.”
“What else?”
“He asked me to send a message if he did not contact me by morning.”
“To who?”
She looked at me.
“You.”
My heart stopped.
“What message?”
“That he was sorry.”
I stared.
“That is all?”
“No.”
Camille looked down.
“He said tell Rosa the yellow dress is in the attic.”
My skin went cold.
“What yellow dress?”
“I didn’t know.”
For 4 years, I had kept boxes in our old apartment attic storage.
Marco’s things.
Baby clothes.
Wedding decorations.
My mother’s sewing machine.
A yellow dress?
I thought of Lucia’s dress.
Different.
Maybe.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
Camille’s eyes filled.
“I was afraid.”
I laughed once.
“You were afraid.”
“Yes.”
“Marco died. You had a message for his wife.”
“Yes.”
“And you kept it.”
“My father told me Gray said Marco died instantly.”
“He did not.”
“I know that now.”
“You knew he had asked you to contact me if he failed to call.”
“Yes.”
I stood.
“Then you knew enough.”
Camille’s attorney started.
“Mrs. Bellini—”
I raised a hand.
“No.”
I looked at Camille.
“You mocked my daughter in front of eighty people.”
Tears appeared.
“Yes.”
“You told her a dress I made was embarrassing.”
“Yes.”
“You knew her father.”
Camille closed her eyes.
“Yes.”
“Did you know who Lucia was when you did it?”
That was the question.
The room went silent.
Camille opened her eyes.
“Yes.”
My entire body went cold.
“You knew.”
“Yes.”
I almost slapped her.
Almost.
Instead I stepped back.
“Why?”
Her voice broke.
“Because I saw Marco.”
“What?”
“In her.”
I stared.
“She has his eyes,” Camille whispered. “And the way she held the staircase rail. He did the same thing when nervous.”
My rage became something I could barely hold.
“So you punished her.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because I was angry.”
“At Marco?”
“At myself.”
The answer was pathetic.
Human.
Still unforgivable in that moment.
“I had spent 4 years pretending none of it happened. Then she stood there wearing yellow.”
“What does yellow have to do with Marco?”
Camille looked confused.
“I thought you knew.”
“Knew what?”
“Marco wore a yellow tie the night he died.”
My breath stopped.
Police inventory listed no tie.
Gray had said items were lost in the crash.
Camille continued.
“He joked that Lucia picked it.”
She had.
I remembered.
Lucia was three.
She had pointed to the yellow tie in the closet and said sunshine.
Marco wore it.
My knees weakened.
Camille covered her face.
“I saw your daughter and remembered him.”
“And chose to humiliate her.”
“Yes.”
I stared.
No excuse.
No redemption.
Just an adult taking shame out on a child.
“I am not forgiving you.”
“I know.”
“Stop.”
She nodded.
I sat again.
“The attic.”
Camille said, “Marco told me yellow dress. attic. Rosa will understand.”
I did not.
Then suddenly I did.
My wedding dress.
Not yellow originally.
Ivory.
But during our first anniversary, Marco and I attended a ridiculous themed party. I dyed an old thrift-store dress yellow because we had no money for something new.
Afterward I kept it.
The dress was in the attic.
Marco used to tease me for never throwing fabric away.
My chest tightened.
He had hidden something inside a dress I would never discard.
Again.
Sewing.
Clothes.
Home.
He knew exactly where strangers would not look first.
I turned to Daniel.
“We need my old attic storage.”
Police went with me.
Camille stayed.
Dominic did not come.
I had not told him yet.
The storage room smelled of dust and old wood.
My yellow dress hung inside a garment bag behind winter coats.
I ran my fingers along the hem.
Nothing.
Then the bodice.
The lining felt thick near the left seam.
I opened it carefully.
A small plastic sleeve fell out.
Inside:
A handwritten note.
One Polaroid.
And a tiny key.
The Polaroid showed Arthur Whitmore, Samuel Gray, Emilio Moretti, and Vittorio Castalano seated around a table.
Date handwritten:
NORTHLINE — FINAL VOTE.
The note said:
ROSA,
IF CAMILLE KEPT HER PROMISE, THEN SHE IS BRAVER THAN SHE THINKS.
I almost laughed.
Marco had trusted Camille.
She had failed for 4 years.
But she had finally told me.
The note continued.
THE PAPER LEDGER IS NOT THE MOST DANGEROUS THING.
THE SECOND BOOK BELONGED TO VITTORIO.
HE HID IT AFTER HE REALIZED NORTHLINE WAS BUILT TO STEAL THE CASTALANO VOTE THROUGH MARRIAGE.
IF DOMINIC EVER GETS ENGAGED TO ARTHUR WHITMORE’S DAUGHTER, THEN ARTHUR WON.
My heart stopped.
Marco had predicted the engagement.
Years before it happened.
Not because Dominic and Camille were in love.
Because Arthur had been planning it.
The note continued.
DO NOT BLAME CAMILLE FOR HER FATHER’S PLAN UNLESS YOU KNOW SHE CHOSE IT.
I closed my eyes.
Complicated even from the grave.
The final line:
THE KEY OPENS VITTORIO’S DESK.
NOT THE ONE IN DOMINIC’S HOUSE.
THE ONE HE NEVER TOLD HIS SON ABOUT.
Address underneath.
An old social club in Little Italy.
Dominic’s father had kept a private office there.
I called Dominic.
He answered.
“Rosa.”
“Camille knew Marco.”
Silence.
“She told you.”
“Yes.”
“What did she say?”
I told him.
Not everything.
Enough.
Then:
“Marco left a key.”
“To what?”
“Your father’s desk.”
Dominic went still.
“My father’s desk is in storage.”
“No.”
I read the address.
He stopped breathing.
“How do you know that place?”
“Marco did.”
Dominic’s voice changed.
“My father used that club before I was born.”
“He had an office.”
“He told me it was closed.”
“Apparently fathers lie.”
That landed.
“I am going.”
I expected him to say not alone.
He did.
“Who is with you?”
“Daniel.”
“Good.”
A small change.
Trusting the police presence instead of replacing it.
“I will meet you there.”
“No armed group.”
“No.”
“Dominic.”
“No group.”
“Fine.”
The club was closed.
Had been for years.
The owner, an eighty-year-old man named Salvatore, opened when Dominic called.
He recognized the key.
That frightened Dominic more than I expected.
“Vittorio’s upstairs room.”
“You knew?”
Salvatore shrugged.
“Your father paid storage.”
“For eight years?”
“For twenty.”
Dominic looked furious.
At a dead man.
I understood.
Upstairs, the office had been preserved under dust sheets.
Desk.
Leather chair.
Filing cabinet.
Photographs.
One of Dominic as a boy.
One of his mother.
One of Vittorio with Marco.
Dominic stopped at that.
Marco looked twenty-five.
Smiling.
My husband had existed in Dominic’s family history long before I knew him.
I opened the desk with the tiny key.
Inside was a red ledger.
Not hidden dramatically.
Just sitting beneath tax papers.
Vittorio’s second book.
Dominic touched the cover.
Then stopped.
Looked at me.
“Your choice.”
That mattered.
I opened it.
The first pages contained Northline ownership.
Castalano share: 31%.
Whitmore: 22%.
Moretti: 19%.
Other partners.
Then a clause.
If Castalano controlling heir marries Whitmore direct heir, voting shares combine under family alliance proxy for 10 years.
I stared.
The engagement would have given Arthur effective control.
Dominic looked sick.
“He knew.”
“Your father?”
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t he tell you?”
“I don’t know.”
The next page answered.
Vittorio’s handwriting:
DOMINIC WILL REFUSE IF HE KNOWS.
Arthur intends to make the relationship appear independent.
Do not interfere unless engagement becomes formal.
I looked at Dominic.
“Your father knew Arthur planned to manipulate your love life.”
“Yes.”
“And decided not to tell you.”
“Yes.”
“Protection?”
Dominic laughed bitterly.
“Apparently genetic.”
We turned the page.
Another note.
MARCO BELLINI HAS COPY. IF I DIE BEFORE THIS IS RESOLVED, MARCO IS AUTHORIZED TO WARN DOMINIC.
Dominic closed his eyes.
“Marco tried.”
“Yes.”
Then:
SAMUEL GRAY IS COMPROMISED.
EMILIO MORETTI KNOWS.
CAMILLE MAY NOT.
Arthur must not learn Marco has second book.
The final page contained 1 name underlined twice.
NICO BELLINI.
My chest tightened.
Dominic stared.
“What?”
Under the name:
TRUSTED BY MARCO. PLACE WITH DOMINIC IF I DIE.
Silence.
Nico.
Dominic’s current security chief.
Marco had recommended him.
I looked at Dominic.
“Did you know?”
“No.”
“Why did you hire Nico?”
“My father left a sealed recommendation.”
The dead men had arranged everyone around us.
Marco.
Vittorio.
Teresa.
Nico.
Me.
Dominic.
The question was whether that made our lives manipulated or merely influenced.
Then footsteps sounded behind us.
Nico stood in the doorway.
He looked at the red ledger.
Then at me.
His face changed.
“You found it.”
Dominic’s jaw tightened.
“You knew.”
Nico looked at him.
“Yes.”
A betrayal.
Another one.
Dominic became still.
“How long?”
“Since the day Vittorio died.”
Dominic stared.
“And you said nothing.”
“Vittorio ordered me not to.”
I almost laughed.
Everyone obeying dead men.
Nico continued.
“Until the Whitmore engagement became formal.”
Dominic’s face hardened.
“It did.”
“Yes.”
“Then why didn’t you tell me?”
Nico looked at me.
Because of course there was more.
“Marco asked me to wait.”
My chest tightened.
“Marco was dead.”
“Yes.”
“So?”
“He left instructions.”
“Where?”
Nico reached into his coat slowly.
Removed an envelope.
My name.
ROSA.
I stared.
“You have carried that for four years?”
“No.”
“When?”
“Teresa gave it to me this morning.”
Silence.
Teresa.
The woman Marco told me to trust.
Still holding secrets.
I took the envelope.
Opened it.
Marco’s handwriting.
Rosa,
If you reached Vittorio’s desk, then Dominic has probably learned enough to hate his father and me equally.
Fair.
I almost smiled through tears.
The next line erased it.
There is one truth I kept from everyone, including Dominic.
I caused the crash.
I stopped breathing.
Dominic stared at me.
Nico looked down.
The letter continued.
Not intentionally.
I cut across 2 lanes because I saw Gray behind me and panicked.
A truck struck the rear quarter.
The crash itself was my fault.
Gray did not ram me.
He did not force the wheel.
Do not let Dominic kill a man for something I did.
My knees weakened.
Marco had died because fear made him move.
Gray followed.
Gray lied.
Gray left him hurt.
But the impact itself had not been murder.
The truth got smaller and more painful.
Then:
Gray reached me while I was alive.
He took the ledger copy.
I told him Camille’s name because she had the recordings.
I needed somebody to find her.
He misunderstood.
Or pretended to.
That explained Marco’s last word.
Not accusation.
Instruction.
Find Camille.
My anger shifted.
Four years of false interpretation.
Gray had let everyone believe Camille might be involved because it protected him.
The final paragraph:
If Rosa ever learns all this, tell her I am sorry I turned protection into secrecy.
Tell Lucia her father was afraid.
Not fearless.
Afraid and trying anyway.
That is the truth I want her to inherit.
I lowered the letter.
No one spoke.
Then my phone rang.
Teresa.
I answered.
Her voice was controlled.
Too controlled.
“Rosa.”
“What happened?”
“Lucia is safe.”
My heart stopped anyway.
“Why are you saying it like that?”
“Because someone came to the house.”
“Who?”
Teresa looked at whoever stood before her.
Then said the name.
“Arthur Whitmore.”
My blood turned cold.
“He says he has Camille.”
May you like
The line crackled.
“And he wants the red ledger.”
