“What angry lady?” I asked.

“The one with the red shoes.”

Vanessa.

At the engagement party, she’d worn red satin heels.

My pulse quickened.

“Lily, where did you see that lady?”

“At Grandma Evelyn’s house.”

“Was Uncle Matt there?”

Lily nodded.

“She told him he wasn’t allowed.”

Luca went rigid.

“When?”

Lily shrugged.

“A long time ago.”

For a seven-year-old, that could mean yesterday or six months earlier.

I didn’t press her.

But Luca looked deeply disturbed.

Vanessa had known Matteo was still in contact with Evelyn.

And she’d never mentioned it.

That evening, Daniel recovered the blue coat.

Peter Walsh had left it in a locker at the Milwaukee train station.

He’d taken it because Richard Bellini threatened to cancel his daughter’s remaining educational support unless he cooperated.

Peter had agreed to speak with investigators.

But the lining had already been cut open.

Whatever Evelyn had hidden there was gone.

Luca called me from the mansion.

“Someone reached it first.”

“Richard?”

“We don’t know.”

I looked at Lily sleeping on the couch.

Her silver bracelet gleamed beneath the lamp.

Then I remembered something.

“Mr. Moretti, what if the coat wasn’t meant to hide the evidence?”

“What do you mean?”

“What if it was meant to lead you to someone who already had it?”

Silence.

Then Luca said, “Matteo.”

The next morning, I accompanied Luca to Milwaukee.

We met Peter Walsh at a modest diner near the station, with Daniel waiting nearby.

Peter looked exhausted.

His hands shook around a cup of coffee.

“I didn’t know Mrs. Moretti was hurt,” he said.

“I only knew Bellini wanted the coat.”

Luca watched him carefully.

“Who did you give it to?”

Peter shook his head.

“Nobody. I left it where they told me.”

“Who told you?”

Peter reached into his jacket.

He removed a small photograph.

It showed Antonio Moretti standing beside a teenage boy.

On the back was an address.

A community center in Milwaukee.

“Someone left this in my locker,” Peter said. “I figured it was a warning.”

Luca took the photograph.

His expression changed.

“That’s not a warning.”

“Then what is it?” I asked.

He looked at me.

“An invitation.”

We drove to the address.

The community center was an aging brick building surrounded by maple trees.

Inside, children were painting at folding tables.

A woman at the front desk looked up.

“Can I help you?”

Luca showed her Matteo’s photograph.

“We’re looking for this man.”

She studied it.

Then smiled.

“Oh. Mr. Matthew.”

My heart began pounding.

“Does he work here?” Luca asked.

“Every Thursday.”

“Is he here now?”

She glanced toward the hallway.

“He’s teaching the scholarship kids.”

Luca moved toward the classroom.

But the woman stepped in front of him.

“Before you go in, there’s something you should know.”

She pointed toward a framed photograph on the wall.

It showed twelve children standing beside a man in a brown hat.

All were smiling.

Beneath the photograph was a brass plaque.

THE ANTONIO MORETTI CHILDREN’S TRUST — SUPPORTED BY MATTHEW COLLINS.

I stopped breathing.

Collins.

My last name.

The same name as my late husband.

And beneath the plaque was another photograph.

A young man holding a newborn baby.

My baby.

Lily.

I gripped the wall.

“That’s my husband.”

Luca turned toward me.

“Sarah?”

My voice barely worked.

“That’s David Collins.”

The man I’d buried five years earlier.

The man I’d believed had died in a warehouse accident.

And standing beside him in the photograph was Matteo Moretti.