Chapter 8 - WHAT CLARA KNEW ABOUT MY FATHER
Before Amelia let me into the room, she made me wash my hands again.
Not because they were dirty.
Because Clara's blood had dried beneath my fingernails.
I stood at a utility sink scrubbing until my skin turned red.
Amelia watched from the doorway.
"You can stop."
"There is still blood."
"There will always be blood if you keep digging for it."
I looked at her reflection in the metal fixture.
"Was that medical advice?"
"No."
"Then spare me."
"Clara spared you for five years."
I turned.
Amelia did not flinch.
"She covered for you at dinners when people asked where you were."
"I know."
"She lied to her mother about why you missed Christmas."
I had forgotten that.
"She defended you to me when I told her to leave."
That one I did not know.
"When?"
"Six months ago."
My chest tightened.
"What did she say?"
Amelia's anger softened into something sadder.
"She said the man she married was still in there somewhere."
I looked down at my hands.
"She was wrong."
"Maybe."
Amelia stepped closer.
"But if she wakes up, do not make her comfort you for what you did to her."
I stared at her.
"I would not."
"You already have."
"What?"
"Every time she confronted you and you turned the conversation into how stressed you were."
I had done that.
More than once.
"Every time she asked where you were and you accused her of not trusting you."
I had done that too.
"Every time she cried and you acted wounded that she could think badly of you."
I leaned against the sink.
Amelia's voice dropped.
"If she wakes up angry, let her be angry."
"If?"
"When."
She corrected herself immediately.
"When she wakes up."
I nodded.
That conversation changed how I entered Clara's room.
I had planned an apology.
A speech.
A promise.
I abandoned all three.
Words had always been my easiest tool.
Clara deserved something harder.
To speak first.
To decide the terms.
To hate me without being required to manage my response.
I dried my hands.
Amelia stopped me before opening the door.
"One more thing."
"What?"
"If she asks you to leave, you leave."
My first instinct was refusal.
I swallowed it.
"All right."
Amelia studied me as though checking for sarcasm.
Then she opened the door.
That was the moment I understood how much of my marriage had been built on Clara adapting around the fact that nobody could tell Dominic Valente no.
I entered determined to survive hearing it.
I had imagined Clara waking a hundred different ways while I stood outside the operating room.
In every version, she needed me.
In reality, she looked at me like needing me had become the most dangerous habit of her life.
"I know about Serena," I said.
Clara closed her eyes.
Not from surprise.
From exhaustion.
"I know about Carlo too."
Her eyes opened again.
"How much?"
"Enough to know I was a fool."
"That part did not require an investigation."
The words were quiet.
They landed cleanly.
I deserved worse.
"Victor told me about the second investigation."
Clara's expression changed.
"Is Victor alive?"
"Yes."
Relief softened her face for half a second.
I noticed.
Jealousy tried to rise inside me.
I killed it immediately.
I had no right.
"He said you were investigating my father's death."
Clara looked toward Amelia.
The doctor stood by the monitor.
"Five minutes," Amelia said.
"Ten," Clara answered.
Amelia sighed.
"Seven."
Then she stepped into the hall.
Clara looked back at me.
"Your father did not die from a heart attack."
I had expected the sentence.
It still felt impossible.
"How do you know?"
"I do not know for certain."
"Then why say it?"
"Because his medical records were changed."
I stared at her.
"Changed by who?"
"That is what I was trying to prove."
She shifted slightly and winced.
I stood instinctively.
"Do not."
I stopped.
She hated needing help in front of me now.
That hurt too.
"Three months ago, I was organizing papers from the old Glencoe property," she said.
"I found one of your father's insurance folders."
I remembered the house.
My father had used it for business retreats.
We sold it after his death.
"There was a copy of his final hospital bill."
"And?"
"It listed a toxicology panel."
My skin went cold.
"His official medical file has no toxicology panel."
"Exactly."
"What did it show?"
"I could not access the result."
She took a shallow breath.
"But I found the laboratory invoice."
"Why would a heart attack require toxicology?"
"Sometimes it would not."
"Sometimes?"
"Dominic, I am not a doctor."
Her voice sharpened despite her weakness.
"That is why I asked Amelia."
"And?"
"She said there were several drugs that could mimic cardiac failure, especially in someone with your father's history."
I stood slowly.
"Carlo found him."
"Yes."
"Carlo controlled access to his office."
"Yes."
"Carlo handled the hospital paperwork."
Clara nodded.
The room seemed to shrink around me.
"Why did you not tell me?"
The question came out raw.
Clara stared at me for a long time.
"I did."
I frowned.
"No."
"At dinner in March."
I searched my memory.
A restaurant.
Clara had brought a folder.
Serena had called halfway through the meal because someone had supposedly followed her home.
I left before dessert.
"You said you found something strange in my father's papers."
"And you told me we would talk about it later."
I looked down.
"We never did."
"No."
"Because I forgot."
"Because Serena needed you."
There was no anger in her voice.
That was worse.
Anger meant there was still something alive enough to fight.
Clara sounded finished.
"I am sorry."
"I know."
"That does not sound like forgiveness."
"It is not."
I nodded.
I would not ask for what I had not earned.
"What did you find after that?"
"A notary entry."
"For what?"
"Your father signed a sealed declaration six days before he died."
"Where?"
"The notary died eight years ago."
"The declaration?"
"Transferred to a law firm that dissolved."
Of course.
"But one partner is still alive," Clara continued.
"Harold Vance."
I knew the name.
A retired estate lawyer in Wisconsin.
"I called him."
"What did he say?"
"Nothing at first."
A faint smile touched Clara's mouth.
"Then I mailed him a copy of our marriage certificate and told him I believed my husband was in danger."
"He believed you?"
"No."
The smile disappeared.
"But he called me after someone broke into his cabin."
I felt the blood drain from my face.
"When?"
"Two weeks ago."
"Is he alive?"
"As of yesterday."
"Where is he?"
"I am not telling you yet."
My temper flashed.
"Clara."
Her eyes turned hard.
"Do not use that voice with me."
I stopped.
"You do not get to order me anymore."
The room went very still.
"I nearly died tonight because I was trying to untangle a war you were too distracted to see."
Her voice trembled now.
"You were holding Serena's hand while I bled in the street."
I could not look away.
"I know."
"No, Dominic."
Tears gathered in her eyes.
"You know the image."
She pressed one hand weakly to her chest.
"You do not know what it felt like."
I said nothing.
She continued.
"I was conscious after the crash."
My stomach turned.
"For how long?"
"I do not know."
Her breath hitched.
"Tommy was not moving."
I clenched my jaw.
"I could smell gasoline."
A tear slid into her hairline.
"I thought the car was going to burn."
"Clara-"
"And the stupid thing I kept thinking was that you would not even know where I was."
I could not breathe.
"Because you were with her."
Every defense I had ever used disappeared.
There was nothing to defend.
"I am sorry."
She turned her face away.
"I know."
The same two words.
Still not forgiveness.
A knock sounded at the door.
Amelia stepped in.
"Time."
Clara closed her eyes.
I stood.
Before I reached the door, she spoke again.
"Dominic."
I turned.
"Harold Vance has the declaration."
Hope and fear hit at once.
"Where?"
"He was supposed to meet me tomorrow at noon."
"Where?"
She gave me an address in Kenosha.
"Do not go alone."
I almost smiled at the irony.
"I have learned that lesson."
Her eyes remained closed.
"No, you have not."
Amelia opened the door for me.
I stepped into the hallway.
My phone buzzed immediately.
A message from Mateo.
CARLO LEFT THE FAKE CLINIC.
A second message followed.
HE IS HEADING NORTH.
I looked back at Clara.
Kenosha was north.
Then Mateo called.
"Dominic, we have another problem."
"What?"
May you like
"Harold Vance's house is on fire."
