Chapter 4 - Alessandra’s death had never been proved
My wife was Alessandra Bellucci.
Thirty-four.
Brilliant.
Difficult.
Funny.
The only person who ever told me:
“You’re being ridiculous”
while six armed men stood behind me.
Eleven months earlier, her SUV was found burning near an abandoned marina warehouse outside Providence.
Blood matching Alessandra was found inside.
Her handbag.
Wedding ring.
Phone.
One shoe.
No body.
The fire destroyed much of the vehicle.
Investigators believed the heat and structural collapse could have complicated recovery.
But officially?
Alessandra was not declared dead immediately.
She was missing.
Presumed dead by nearly everyone around us.
Months later, civil proceedings allowed certain estate matters to move because circumstances suggested death.
I stopped arguing.
Grief makes people accept conclusions simply because continuing uncertainty hurts more.
Clara had not been born yet.
That was another complication.
Alessandra disappeared while sixteen weeks pregnant.
I believed I had lost both of them.
Then, seven months later, a hospital in another state called.
A newborn had been surrendered under emergency circumstances by a woman using an alias.
DNA testing established:
The baby was mine.
Clara.
No mother present.
One handwritten note:
Keep her safe. Do not look for me.
I knew Alessandra’s handwriting.
I still thought she might have written it before dying.
May you like
Grief can make absurd explanations feel orderly.
Now Lucille had just destroyed that order.
