Chapter 12 - THE HOUSE IN VERMONT
I drove to Vermont with Clara and Emma.
The old house stood alone among bare trees and early winter fog.
It had been abandoned for years.
Yet the electricity was still running.
The caretaker handed me a key.
“Your father paid the bills every month.”
“Why?”
“I never knew.”
Inside, everything smelled of dust and cedar.
Photographs covered the walls.
My father.
Isabella.
A younger version of Dante.
And a little boy.
Me.
I stared at one photograph.
I was perhaps five years old.
Isabella was standing behind me.
My father had his hand on my shoulder.
I had never seen that photograph.
Clara noticed something.
“There.”
She pointed toward a small writing desk.
A leather box sat on top.
I opened it.
Inside was a letter addressed to me.
Vincent,
There are things I couldn't tell you while I was alive because the people closest to you would have used the truth against you.
Dante knows.
Vivien knows.
But neither knows everything.
I read the final line.
“The real threat was never the trust.”
My stomach tightened.
“The real threat was always the person who believed he was entitled to your life.”
I looked toward Clara.
Emma was standing near the fireplace.
She pointed upward.
“Mr. Vincent.”
May you like
A tiny security camera was hidden above the mantel.
Someone had been watching the house.
