Chapter 9 – THE ROSARY FROM THE GRAVE

The antique rosary lay heavy in Vincent’s palm, the silver cross tarnished by time.

“If she was buried with it,” I said slowly, “how did it get on the front table?”

Vincent’s jaw tightened. “Someone brought it here. Someone who had access to the family crypt.”

Diane walked out of the parlor, drawn by the tension in our voices.

“Is everything alright, Vincent?” she asked.

Vincent held up the rosary. “Diane, did you see anyone come through the front doors this morning?”

Diane shook her head. “No, just the police wrapping up their investigation. The officers left an hour ago.”

Vincent stared at the wooden beads.

“My mother died when I was twelve,” Vincent murmured, his mind racing. “She gave this to me before she passed. But my father insisted it be buried with her. He said it was a sin to keep it.”

“Why would it be a sin?” I asked.

Vincent looked up. “Because my mother didn’t die of natural causes, Caroline. She took her own life.”

A chill ran down my spine.

The Russo family legacy was drenched in tragedy.

“But if your father locked the crypt thirty years ago,” Diane reasoned gently, “who else has a key?”

Vincent’s eyes narrowed.

He walked swiftly to his study, and I followed close behind.

He opened a hidden safe behind a painting and pulled out a heavy, leather-bound ledger. It was the family’s burial registry.

He flipped through the yellowed pages until he found the entry for his mother, Clara Russo.

“Here,” Vincent pointed to the bottom of the page.

Key duplicated by order of M. Russo. Given to Father Thomas.

“Marcus,” Vincent spat. “My uncle had a duplicate key made.”

“But Marcus is in jail,” I pointed out. “He couldn’t have placed it on the table this morning.”

“No,” Vincent agreed. “But he could have ordered someone else to do it as a warning.”

He turned to me.

“We’re going to the crypt.”

The Russo family crypt was located in a private cemetery just outside the city. It was a massive, gothic stone structure, covered in ivy and shadows.

Vincent unlocked the heavy iron gates. The air inside was cold and smelled of damp earth and old stone.

We walked down the central aisle, our footsteps echoing loudly.

Vincent stopped in front of a marble tomb marked Clara Russo.

The heavy stone lid was slightly ajar.

Vincent shoved the lid back with a harsh grating sound.

Inside, the casket was untouched. But resting on top of the velvet lining, right where the rosary should have been, was a single, folded piece of paper.

Vincent picked it up.

He unfolded it and read it silently. His face went pale.

He handed it to me.

The note was written in neat, elegant cursive.

“She didn’t jump, Vincent. He pushed her. Find the coat.”

I looked at Vincent. “Find the coat?”

Vincent didn’t speak. He turned and sprinted out of the crypt.

I chased after him, my heart pounding in my chest.

When we got back to the mansion, Vincent ran straight to the attic. It was a massive, dusty space filled with old trunks and forgotten furniture.

He tore through three heavy trunks before he found it.

A beautiful, moth-eaten gray wool winter coat.

“This was my mother’s,” Vincent said, his breathing heavy.

He searched the pockets frantically.

Nothing.

He checked the lining.

And then, he felt something stiff sewn into the hem.

Vincent pulled out a pocketknife and sliced the lining open.

A small, sealed envelope fell to the wooden floor.

Vincent picked it up. He tore it open.

Inside was a photograph, much older than the ones we had seen before.

It showed Vincent’s mother, Clara, standing next to a man.

But it wasn’t Vincent’s father.

It was my adoptive mother, Mary Parker.

And Mary was holding a baby.

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