Chapter 4 - His Mother’s Hand
Teresa Duca slapped his hand away from the bedside lamp.
Lorenzo froze.
His mother pointed toward the door.
“You want me to leave?”
She shook her head angrily.
Her right side remained weak after the stroke. Words sometimes arrived broken or not at all. People mistook the effort for confusion.
Lorenzo had done it himself.
Now she pointed again.
He followed her gaze.
The little indoor camera sat above the doorway, installed after her fall in August.
He unplugged it.
Teresa exhaled.
“Better?”
She nodded.
He pulled a chair close.
“Did Vivien bring you papers?”
Her good hand tightened around the blanket.
“Yes.”
“Did you sign?”
“No.”
“Did someone help you sign?”
Her eyes filled.
Lorenzo felt something heavy settle behind his ribs.
“Ma.”
She worked her mouth.
“Hand.”
“Someone held your hand?”
She nodded once.
He looked at the fingers resting against the blanket.
“Vivien?”
“No.”
Teresa struggled, furious with her own tongue.
“Man.”
“What man?”
She couldn’t get it out.
He reached for the notepad on her nightstand.
She pushed it away.
Writing was still difficult too.
Instead, she pointed to a framed photograph beside the flowers.
Lorenzo picked it up.
His mother stood at last year’s Christmas dinner between Lorenzo and Charles Vale.
Vivien’s father.
Teresa tapped Charles’s face.
Then she closed her eyes.
Lorenzo sat still long enough to hear the radiator click.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
She opened her eyes again.
The hurt in them made him wish he hadn’t asked.
He had visited in ten-minute bursts. Taken calls during her therapy. Let Vivien explain what his mother supposedly meant.
He had mistaken comfort for care.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
Teresa touched his wrist.
Not forgiveness.
A request to listen.
Downstairs, Rocco was waiting with the first security report.
“The camera authorization came through Mercer’s terminal.”
Graham Mercer had run estate security for eleven years.
“Bring him in.”
“He left an hour ago. Said his wife was sick.”
“Is she?”
“His wife died in 2022.”
Lorenzo stared at him.
Before he could speak, his phone rang.
Elena.
Her voice shook.
“We’re in the car.”
“What happened?”
“Nothing yet.”
“Where are you?”
“At the hotel parking lot.”
He stood.
“Listen to me. Stay with the driver.”
Elena swallowed audibly.
“There’s a man by the entrance holding Mia’s red coat.”
Lorenzo turned to Rocco.
May you like
Elena whispered the rest.
“I left that coat in our room.”
