Twenty-two #2
“If anything feels off—grogginess, dizziness, nausea—let the nurses know immediately.”
I nod again. The words catch in my throat before they can become sound.
Inside, the questions churn. Why me? Why us? And why can’t I remember the truth?
Detective Lenning drags a chair closer to the bed, the scrape of it grating across the floor and right through my skull. He settles in, pulling out a notepad. His voice is calm, even, but the weight behind it makes my pulse stutter.
“Ms. Matisse. How are you feeling?”
I try for humor, but it comes out cracked. “Like I got hit by a bus.”
He lets out a low chuckle, almost kind. “That tracks. Let’s talk about what you remember.”
I force myself to breathe, to steady my voice, and repeat the same story I gave the doctors—meeting Sophie and Patrice, the peach margaritas that tasted stronger than they should have, walking to the restroom. The shove. The wall. Cold tile. Blackness.
My voice falters at the end, the memory jagged and unfinished, and shame burns in my chest. I should have noticed something. I should’ve fought harder.
Lenning leans forward slightly. “Do you recall anyone removing your jewelry?”
The question jolts through me like a shock. My hands fly to my ears before I can stop them. Bare. My stomach flips. “No,” I whisper. My skin prickles like I’ve been stripped bare in front of everyone in the room.
“Has anyone commented on it recently?” he asks. “Anyone who might’ve wanted it?”
My eyes go instinctively to Matteo. His presence steadies me, but his expression is tight, guarded.
“She wouldn’t,” I whisper, shaking my head. But even as I say it, my heart kicks hard against my ribs. Wouldn’t she? The doubt coils sharp and sickening in my gut.
Matteo clears his throat, voice rough. “Willow Jackson—my daughter’s mother—thought I bought the earrings for her. She’s staying at the Fairmont. We’re in the middle of a…tense custody negotiation.”
Lenning’s gaze sharpens. “Tense how?”
“She’s demanding money,” Matteo says. His hand tightens around mine, and I can feel the tremor in him he won’t let show on his face. “What she’s asking for borders on extortion.”
Jim steps forward from the shadows, his presence grounding but grim. “We know Mr. Marino is being followed. His brothers, his sister, their nanny, possibly Ms. Matisse as well. One of her security team raised concerns.”
The detective exhales, rubbing at his jaw. “We’ll talk more later, Jim.” His eyes flick back to me. “Anyone else have a grudge?”
My gaze shifts to my father, his shoulders rigid at the foot of my bed. My voice comes out raspier than I intend. “How’d it go with Heather?”
His jaw clenches. “Not great. But she was with me when I got the call about you.”
Lenning flips open a clean page in his notepad. “Name?”
“Heather Brooke,” Dad says, his tone clipped. “We just bought a place in Marin.”
The words slice into me, sharp as glass. Pain stabs behind my eyes, and not all of it’s from the injury. “That’s news.”
He swallows, guilt flashing in his eyes. “We were going to tell you over lunch today.”
I blink at him, stunned. The room tilts again, not from drugs or the concussion this time, but from betrayal. “Did she know you were pulling her out of the business?”
“We didn’t get that far,” he admits. His voice drops, quieter now. “But she never left the table. Not even to use the restroom.”
I nod slowly, though the knot in my chest won’t ease. I still don’t trust her. Not for a second.
“What jewelry were you wearing?” the detective asks, flipping another page.
I wince, lifting my hand carefully to my ears, the motion tugging against the bandage on my head. My voice cracks with each word. “Three-carat diamond studs. Round cut. A platinum tennis bracelet with twenty-five half-carat diamonds. A Bubble ring. And my Olivier Tanker watch.”
The list feels obscene on my tongue, as if naming each piece makes me complicit in losing them.
“I have all the serial numbers and certs at home,” Dad adds quickly, stepping into the silence.
But I can’t shake the sickening thought circling in my head. I wasn’t just pushed. I was hunted. And stripped. And I don’t know who to blame.
Lenning’s eyebrow lifts. “Bubble ring?”
“It’s a cocktail piece,” my father explains smoothly, as though the word cocktail can dull the edge of a theft that feels so raw. “And the watch has a mother-of-pearl face, steel casing, sapphire cabochon.”
“Cabochon?” Lenning repeats, tone edging on rookie.
“The little knob to set the time,” Matteo supplies quietly, steady even when I can feel the storm gathering in him.
Lenning’s eyes flick up. “That’s not just jewelry. That’s motive.”
My chest tightens. I force a shrug, trying for nonchalance I don’t feel. “I own a major stake in one of the world’s luxury jewelry and timepiece companies. Wearing the brand comes with the job.”
The detective makes a note, pen scratching loud in the silence. Then he looks up. “How’s your relationship with your father?”
The question lands heavy. My stomach knots.
Beside me, Dad stiffens.
“It’s good,” I say carefully, each word slow, deliberate. “We had lunch today. Talked about the company.”
Lenning doesn’t flinch. “How’d that go?”
I glance at Dad, my pulse skittering. I don’t know what he’ll admit to, how much truth he’s willing to bare.
He speaks first. “She pitched an idea I wasn’t initially on board with. There was some disagreement. That’s what triggered tension between us…and between me and Heather.”
And then his gaze slides—straight to Matteo.
My pulse spikes.
Dad’s voice hardens, sharp and sudden. “Frankly, you should be looking at him.”
The words slice through the room like a blade.
“What?” The protest bursts out of me before I can stop it.
“He’s the one with criminal ties,” Dad says flatly.
Matteo goes still, every muscle locking. His eyes widen, stunned. “What are you talking about?”
“I’ve known about your family for years,” Dad snaps, rising to his feet. His shadow looms across me. “Your father’s mafia connections. That’s who was behind your parents’ accident. Everyone knows!”
The color drains from Matteo’s face. He looks gutted, sucker punched. “That’s not true. Just because we’re Italian doesn’t mean we’re criminals.”
“Papa.” My voice rises, shaking with outrage and disbelief. “Apologize. Right now. You’re accusing him based on rumors. That’s slander.”
But he only doubles down, standing taller, his eyes cold as steel. “I won’t apologize. The detective deserves the truth. I’d bet my company the Marinos are behind this.”
“Papa!” My throat burns.
His gaze locks on mine, unrelenting. “Everyone knows Stefano Marino used dirty money to buy his businesses. He laundered money for the Caruso family. That’s what got him killed. Your mother was just collateral damage.”
The air rushes out of me. The room tilts—not from the drugs, not from the head injury, but from betrayal. My father’s words crush down with more force than the shove into the wall ever could.
“Papa.” My voice is tight, shaking, but I force the words out. “I don’t believe it was Heather, and I don’t think it’s mob-related. But you owe Matteo an apology.”
“I won’t apologize for telling the truth.”
I turn to Matteo, my chest aching. He looks shattered, blindsided. And I hate my father for putting that look on his face.
I reach for Matteo’s hand, squeezing hard, trying to anchor him. To remind him I’m still here. With him.
“Inspector Lenning,” I say, forcing steadiness into my voice even though I feel anything but steady, “please investigate whoever you need to. But make sure you look closely at Heather Brooke—and Willow Jackson.”