Chapter 2 - THE GIRL VINCENT ROMANO DIDN’T BELIEVE
Vincent Romano did not raise his voice.
That made him worse.
Emma had learned this about dangerous men long before she was old enough to drive, vote, or understand why adults always told children to trust authority.
The loud ones wanted you afraid.
The quiet ones already knew you were.
Vincent stood at the far end of a library larger than the entire first floor of St. Catherine’s Children’s Home. Rain crawled down the black windows behind him. His suit jacket was gone. His white shirt was rolled to the elbows, exposing a silver watch and a thin scar along his forearm.
He looked nothing like the monsters Emma had been warned about.
That bothered her.
Monsters were easier when they looked like monsters.
“Tell me why a runaway child was on that road before my wife’s car went over the cliff.”
Emma tightened both hands around the straps of her backpack.
“I was walking.”
“At midnight?”
“Yes.”
“In a storm?”
“Yes.”
“While being followed?”
Her heart skipped.
Tony stood near the library door.
He had said almost nothing since they arrived, but Emma understood now.
The men in the SUV had seen more than she thought.
Vincent watched her face.
“Tony noticed a dark sedan three miles before the crash,” he said. “It slowed when it passed you. Twice.”
“I didn't see it.”
“You saw my SUV.”
“That was different.”
“How?”
“Your car is huge.”
Tony coughed.
Emma glanced at him.
For half a second, she thought the gray-haired giant was trying not to laugh.
Vincent was not.
“Emma.”
She hated how he said her name.
Not cruelly.
Carefully.
Like he was testing whether it belonged to her.
“Is Emma your real name?”
“Yes.”
“Last name?”
“No.”
Vincent’s eyes narrowed.
Emma immediately wished she could pull the word back.
Isabella sat on a leather sofa near the fireplace with a blanket wrapped around her shoulders. A doctor had already examined her. There was white tape above her eyebrow and a bruise forming along her jaw.
She should have been in a hospital.
Apparently Romanos did not stay in hospitals when someone had just tried to kill them.
Because that was the other thing Emma had learned since entering the estate.
Everyone was pretending the crash had been an accident.
Nobody believed it.
Isabella leaned forward.
“You don't have to answer anything you don't want to answer tonight.”
Vincent turned his head.
“Bella.”
“She saved my life.”
“And someone may have followed her to the same road where your brakes failed.”
The room became silent.
Emma stared at him.
“Your brakes failed?”
Vincent looked back at her.
“Yes.”
Emma's mouth went dry.
She remembered the car.
The way it had hit the guardrail.
No brake lights.
At the time, she had been too cold and scared to think about it.
Now she remembered.
The sedan had not slowed.
Not once.
“Did someone cut them?”
Vincent's expression changed.
It was small.
But Emma saw it.
Adults always underestimated children because children were supposed to be looking at toys, phones, cartoons.
Emma had spent years looking at faces.
Faces told you when dinner was safe.
Faces told you when to lock a bathroom door.
Faces told you when an adult had decided to lie.
“You think someone did,” she whispered.
Tony shifted beside the door.
Vincent walked toward her.
Emma took one step backward.
He stopped immediately.
That surprised her more than anything else.
Most adults did not stop.
They saw a child move away and reached faster.
Vincent stayed exactly where he was.
“Did you see anyone near Isabella's car?”
“No.”
“Did anyone speak to you before the crash?”
“No.”
“Did you recognize the sedan following you?”
“No.”
“Why were you on that road?”
Emma said nothing.
Vincent waited.
Rain struck the windows.
The fire cracked.
Somewhere beyond the library, a clock chimed one in the morning.
“Emma,” Isabella said softly.
“Don't.”
The word came out sharper than Emma intended.
Isabella went still.
Emma's eyes burned.
She hated crying.
Crying made adults uncomfortable, and uncomfortable adults either became kind for five minutes or cruel for an hour.
Neither helped.
“I saved you,” Emma said. “That's all. I didn't touch your car. I didn't know who you were. I didn't even know you were inside until I jumped.”
“I know,” Isabella said.
“He doesn't.”
Vincent's jaw tightened.
Emma pointed at him.
“He thinks I did something.”
“I think someone did something,” Vincent corrected. “And you were in the wrong place at the exact right moment.”
“So?”
“So coincidences get people killed.”
Emma laughed.
It was an ugly little sound.
“Then I must be the queen of coincidences.”
Vincent studied her.
Emma knew she should stop.
She had food in her stomach for the first time in two days.
Her clothes were drying upstairs.
There were armed men outside and locks on every door.
Maybe she was safer here.
Maybe.
But safety had always been a word adults used before explaining why Emma needed to obey.
Vincent glanced at her backpack.
“What is inside?”
“Mine.”
“I didn't ask whose it was.”
“You can't have it.”
“I didn't say I wanted it.”
“You were going to.”
Tony looked toward the ceiling.
This time Emma was certain he was hiding a smile.
Vincent noticed too.
“Something funny, Tony?”
“No, boss.”
“Good.”
Vincent looked at Emma again.
“I want to know whether whoever hurt you is connected to what happened tonight.”
“They aren't.”
“You don't know that.”
“Yes, I do.”
“How?”
Because Mr. Cole was too stupid to sabotage a billionaire's wife's car.
Emma nearly said it.
She stopped herself.
Vincent saw that too.
“What name did you just think of?”
Fear shot through her.
She stepped back again.
“How did you—”
“You looked at the door.”
“So?”
“People look toward exits when they think of someone they fear.”
Emma hated him.
She decided it instantly.
She hated his calm voice.
His expensive house.
His stupid ability to notice everything.
“I want to leave.”
Isabella stood.
“Emma—”
“I want to leave now.”
Vincent did not move.
“No.”
The word hit Emma harder than a shout.
Her body reacted before her mind did.
She grabbed the nearest object from the desk.
A silver letter opener.
Tony moved.
Vincent raised one hand.
Tony froze.
Emma held the blade in front of her.
Her hand shook violently.
“I said I want to leave.”
Isabella's face went pale.
Vincent stared at the letter opener.
Then at Emma.
“All right.”
Emma blinked.
“What?”
“You want to leave.”
“Yes.”
“Put that down and Tony will drive you anywhere you want.”
She did not believe him.
Vincent seemed to know that.
“The front gate is three hundred yards from this room. There are six security checkpoints between this estate and the highway. You cannot escape this property without my people knowing.”
Emma's fingers tightened.
“Vincent,” Isabella warned.
He ignored her.
“If I wanted you imprisoned, Emma, you would not need a letter opener to discover it.”
The truth of that frightened her.
Slowly, Emma lowered the blade.
Vincent reached into his pocket.
She tensed.
He removed a phone.
He placed it on the desk.
“Call the police.”
Emma stared.
“Tell them where you are. Tell them Vincent Romano is refusing to let you leave.”
Nobody spoke.
Emma looked at Isabella.
Then Tony.
Then Vincent.
“You know I can't.”
“Why?”
“Because they'll send me back.”
There it was.
The first piece of truth.
Vincent did not smile.
He did not celebrate.
He simply asked, “Back where?”
Emma swallowed.
“No.”
“Emma.”
“No.”
“Did someone at the children's home hurt you?”
Her stomach turned.
The letter opener slipped from her fingers and struck the carpet.
Isabella covered her mouth.
Vincent's entire face changed.
The businessman disappeared.
Something colder took his place.
“Who?”
Emma grabbed her backpack.
“I want to sleep.”
“Who hurt you?”
“I said I'm tired.”
“Emma—”
“Vincent.”
Isabella crossed the room.
She stood between them.
For the first time, Emma saw something remarkable.
Vincent Romano listened.
His wife put one hand against his chest.
“She is thirteen.”
“I know.”
“No. Right now, you don't.”
Vincent looked down at Isabella.
Emma expected anger.
Instead, his shoulders lowered.
Barely.
But enough.
Isabella turned.
“You can sleep in the blue room.”
“I don't need a room.”
“Then consider it a place with a door.”
Emma frowned.
“A door?”
“You can lock it.”
The words hurt.
Isabella knew they would.
Emma looked away.
“From the inside?”
“Yes.”
“Nobody has a key?”
Isabella hesitated.
Vincent answered.
“Security has emergency access.”
Emma laughed bitterly.
“Of course.”
“But nobody enters without your permission unless there is a fire or you are in immediate danger.”
“How do I know?”
Vincent took a small brass key from a drawer.
He handed it to her.
“You don't.”
Emma stared at the key.
“Trust is expensive,” he said. “I don't expect you to give it away on your first night.”
For the first time since arriving, Emma had no smart answer.
She took the key.
Then she walked out.
Tony followed at a distance.
Emma knew he was there.
She also noticed he never came closer than ten feet.
The blue room was on the second floor.
It had pale walls, a huge bed, and windows facing the ocean.
Emma hated the ocean now.
She closed the curtains.
Tony stood in the hallway.
“Good night, kid.”
“I'm not a kid.”
“Sure.”
She started closing the door.
“Tony?”
He raised an eyebrow.
“Was her crash really sabotage?”
His amusement disappeared.
“We don't know.”
“You're lying.”
“Yeah.”
Emma closed the door.
She locked it.
Then she pushed a chair beneath the handle.
After that, she checked the closet.
Under the bed.
Behind the curtains.
The bathroom.
She found a second door connecting to another bedroom and shoved a dresser in front of it.
Only then did she sit.
Her wet backpack rested on her knees.
She unzipped it.
Two shirts.
A toothbrush.
Thirty-eight dollars.
A photograph she kept folded inside a plastic bag.
Emma removed it carefully.
The woman in the picture was young.
Maybe twenty.
She stood in front of a lighthouse, smiling into the sun.
Emma had never met her.
Not really.
But on the back of the photograph, someone had written two words.
For Emma.
No last name.
No date.
Just those words.
It was the only thing that had been with her when she was left at St. Catherine's as a baby.
Emma touched the lighthouse pendant around her neck.
Then she looked at the photograph again.
Her breathing stopped.
The lighthouse behind the woman had a black stripe around its center.
A broken window near the top.
And a small stone building beside it.
Emma had seen it tonight.
From the cliff.
Less than a mile from Isabella Romano's crash.
She stood so fast the photograph fell.
“No.”
Emma picked it up.
She looked again.
Same lighthouse.
Same cliff.
Same road.
She ran to the window and tore the curtains open.
Rain blurred the coast.
Far away, through the storm, a beam of white light turned slowly across the black water.
Emma's heart pounded.
Three days of running.
One random road.
One car crash.
One woman named Romano.
And the lighthouse from the only photograph Emma had of her mother.
Coincidences get people killed.
Vincent's words came back.
Emma backed away from the window.
Then someone tried the handle of her locked door.
Once.
Softly.
Emma froze.
“Tony?”
No answer.
The handle moved again.
Emma grabbed the lamp.
A shadow appeared beneath the door.
“Who is it?”
Silence.
Then a man's voice whispered from the hallway.
May you like
“You should have drowned with her.”
The lights went out.
