Chapter 6 - Vincent’s Missing Letter
Jonathan replayed the sentence 3 times.
Neither of them spoke.
A reason to silence him.
Not proof.
Not a confession.
But enough to reopen questions everyone had stopped asking 5 years earlier.
Alessia remembered the morning her father died.
She had been feeding 1-year-old Lily strawberries when Jonathan called.
Vincent had collapsed in his library.
The medical examiner found severe coronary disease.
There had been no autopsy beyond the standard examination because his physician confirmed a history of cardiac problems.
Everyone accepted it.
Vincent was 67.
He worked too much.
He slept too little.
He ignored doctors.
His death had been tragic, but plausible.
Now plausibility felt like camouflage.
“Can we exhume him?” Alessia asked.
Jonathan exhaled.
“Not based on this alone.”
“What would we need?”
“Evidence suggesting the original cause of death may have been wrong.”
“Like what?”
“Toxicology information. Medical inconsistencies. A witness. Something.”
Alessia thought of the missing letter.
“What did my father mean by a copy?”
“We need to find it.”
Vincent had kept personal papers in 3 places.
His library at the mansion.
A private safe at Moretti headquarters.
And a safe-deposit box at First Atlantic Bank.
The library had been renovated by Garrett 2 years after their marriage.
Alessia had approved it.
That fact now made her furious.
The corporate safe contained nothing relevant.
The bank box was more promising.
Only Alessia and Jonathan were authorized to access it after Vincent’s death.
They entered the vault the next afternoon.
Inside the narrow metal box were family documents, property deeds, 2 antique watches, and a sealed envelope addressed to Alessia.
She stared at it.
“I’ve never seen this.”
Jonathan checked the bank log.
“No one opened this box after your father died.”
“Not even me?”
“No.”
Alessia opened the envelope.
Inside was a handwritten letter.
My dearest Alessia,
If you are reading this, either I finally became sensible enough to give it to you, or circumstances prevented me from doing so.
There are people who have confused your kindness with vulnerability.
Evelyn Hale is one of them.
Her son Garrett has participated in financial schemes that damaged our company. I believe they may attempt to approach you because you control what they want most: access to the Moretti family assets.
Do not underestimate them.
More importantly, do not let them near Lily.
Alessia stopped reading.
Her eyes blurred.
Her father had known.
He had tried to warn her.
Jonathan waited quietly.
She continued.
I have given evidence of their fraud to someone I trust. If anything happens to me before Friday, speak to Daniel Mercer.
Do not confront the Hales first.
Promise me that.
Love always,
Dad
Alessia lowered the letter.
“Who is Daniel Mercer?”
Jonathan’s face had gone pale.
“You don’t know?”
“No.”
“He was your father’s private investigator.”
“Where is he?”
Jonathan looked at her.
“He disappeared 4 years ago.”
They found Daniel Mercer’s last known address in Vermont.
His investigation firm had closed 6 months after Vincent’s death.
Bank activity ended shortly afterward.
No death certificate.
No forwarding address.
No public records beyond a property sale.
Jonathan’s investigator located the buyer.
Mercer had sold his home for cash and left almost everything behind.
“Why would he disappear?” Alessia asked.
Jonathan looked at Vincent’s letter.
“Maybe someone frightened him.”
“Or paid him.”
“Possibly.”
They spent the next day tracing Mercer.
At 6:15 p.m., Jonathan’s investigator called.
Mercer was alive.
He had changed his name.
He lived in a small coastal town in Maine.
Alessia wanted to leave immediately.
Jonathan insisted on going with her.
They arrived shortly before midnight.
Mercer’s house overlooked a dark stretch of ocean.
A light was on inside.
Alessia knocked.
No answer.
She knocked again.
A man’s voice came through the door.
“Who is it?”
“Alessia Moretti.”
Silence.
Then a lock turned.
Daniel Mercer was 58.
Gray beard.
Tired eyes.
The moment he saw Alessia, his face collapsed.
“Oh, God.”
She stared at him.
“You knew my father.”
He looked past her toward Jonathan.
Then back at Alessia.
“You shouldn’t have come.”
“My father told me to find you.”
Mercer closed his eyes.
“Then Vincent’s letter survived.”
“Yes.”
Mercer stepped aside.
“Come in.”
His living room contained almost no personal photographs.
Only books and a wood stove.
He did not offer coffee.
He did not waste time.
“Vincent hired me to investigate Evelyn and Garrett Hale.”
“We know.”
“You don’t know all of it.”
Alessia sat forward.
“Tell me.”
Mercer looked directly at her.
“Your father didn’t die because of the fraud.”
Alessia’s pulse stopped.
“What?”
“The fraud was only the beginning.”
Mercer stood and walked toward a locked cabinet.
He removed a box.
Inside were documents.
Photographs.
Bank statements.
Medical records.
Then he placed one photograph on the table.
Garrett.
Standing outside Alessia’s Manhattan apartment.
The date was 7 months before they officially met.
“He followed you,” Mercer said.
Alessia stared at the image.
“Why?”
Mercer’s expression turned grim.
“Because Evelyn believed Lily was the key to something Vincent had hidden.”
Alessia looked up.
“What?”
May you like
Mercer placed a copy of an old trust document in front of her.
“51 percent of Moretti Hospitality.”
