Chapter 6 – The Blue Teacup
Leo led me down the winding stairs into the basement. We bypassed the laundry room and the staff quarters, walking all the way to the end of a dark, stone-walled corridor.
There was a heavy oak door at the end. It was always locked. Maria told us it was the old wine cellar and that we were never to go near it.
Leo reached into his pocket and pulled out a heavy brass key.
“Where did you get that?” I asked, stunned.
“Mommy drops it sometimes when she drinks her sleepy juice,” Leo said matter-of-factly.
He unlocked the door and pushed it open. I fumbled for the light switch on the wall.
When the fluorescent bulbs flickered to life, I gasped.
It wasn’t a wine cellar. It was a shrine.
The room was filled with boxes of medical supplies, hospital records, and photographs pinned to corkboards. But they weren’t just any photographs. They were pictures of my mother. Pictures of me walking to high school. Pictures of our small apartment.
Victoria had been watching us for years.
In the center of the room sat a small wooden table. On it rested a blue teacup with gold trim, sealed inside a clear plastic evidence bag.
She kept the murder weapon. She kept it as a trophy.
“Claire?”
I spun around.
Standing in the doorway was Roman.
He wasn’t looking at me. He was staring at the corkboard covered in photos of my face.
“What is this?” Roman asked, his voice echoing in the damp room.
“Mr. DeLuca, I—”
“I asked you a question, Claire!” He stepped into the room, his eyes scanning the horrifying display. He walked over to the table and picked up the plastic bag containing the teacup.
He stared at it. Then, he looked at Leo.
“Leo,” Roman said, his voice instantly softening. “Go upstairs and find Maria. Ask her for some ice cream.”
Leo nodded and ran off, leaving Roman and me alone in the basement.
Roman turned to me. The anger in his eyes was completely gone, replaced by a profound, terrifying sadness.
“You found it,” he whispered.
“Sir?”
“The teacup,” Roman said, holding the bag up to the light. “The police searched this house for weeks after Isabella died. They never found the cup she drank from. Victoria hid it.”
“She kept it as leverage,” I realized aloud. “In case someone ever turned on her.”
Roman looked at the photos of my mother on the wall.
“Why was she watching Madeline?” Roman asked. He turned to me, searching my face. “Why was she watching you?”
I had to tell him. If Victoria was coming back, if she was going to hurt my mother, Roman was the only one powerful enough to stop her.
“Because my mother was the nurse on duty the night Isabella died,” I said, my voice trembling. “Victoria threatened to kill me if my mother didn’t switch the IV bags.”
Roman didn’t move. He didn’t blink.
“Madeline Bennett,” he whispered.
“Yes.”
Roman slowly reached into his suit jacket. He pulled out a worn, leather-bound wallet. He opened it and took out a folded, faded photograph.
He handed it to me.
It was the exact same photograph I had in my pocket. My mother, the little girl Maya, and Julian DeLuca.
“I know who you are, Claire,” Roman said softly. “I’ve known since the day I hired you.”
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