Chapter 3 - The Coldest Graveside
Vincent sank to his knees right there in the entryway, the hard marble bruising his legs, but he didn't seem to feel it. "You buried him without me," he breathed, his voice cracking into a ragged sob. "My boy. My only son. You put him in the ground, and you didn't even wait for me to come home."
A bitter, volcanic laugh tore from my throat. "Wait for you? How long was I supposed to keep his body in the morgue, Vincent? Three days? A week? Until your quarterly earnings report was finalized? Until you closed the German shipping line?"
I walked over to the antique console table and picked up a black leather folder. Inside was the death certificate, the receipt from the funeral home, and a small ziplock bag containing Captain Blue, Noah's worn stuffed rabbit. The plush fur was still slightly matted with the hospital sanitizer Noah had smelled like in his final hours.
I tossed the rabbit onto Vincent’s lap. He flinched as if I had thrown a live grenade. He grabbed the rabbit, pressing it against his chest, burying his face into the blue fabric, and broke down completely. Great, shuddering sobs wracked his broad shoulders. The ruthless titan of industry was reduced to a broken shell on the floor of his own palace.
"I didn't know," he wailed, tears soaking into the blue fur. "Claire, by God, I swear to you, I didn't know! Madison told me you texted her from home! She told me you said Noah’s fever broke and that he was eating pancakes! She showed me the messages on her phone!"
"I never sent those messages," I said, cold dread tightening in my chest. "I called his father. I called your private, encrypted satellite phone. The phone you told me would reach you anywhere in the world, even in a submarine."
Vincent looked up, his eyes bloodshot, his face flushed red with grief and mounting fury. "Madison had that phone. She told me the cellular network in Munich was interfering with our corporate security firewalls. She said she would carry the domestic line in her handbag and notify me instantly if personal matters arose."
Just then, the heavy front doors swung open again.
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Madison Reed stepped into the foyer. She shook off her wet umbrella with an air of practiced elegance, her designer trench coat draped effortlessly over her arm. Her makeup was pristine, her lipstick a discreet, professional shade of rose. She stopped short, her gaze darting from me standing rigid by the stairs to Vincent weeping on the floor with a stuffed animal in his arms.
"Mr. Moretti?" Madison said, her voice dropping into that smooth, comforting tone she always used when handling crisis situations for the firm. "Is everything alright? What's going on?"
