Chapter 2 - The Blue Dress
I did not stay for the wedding cake.
There was not much cake left anyway.
My first mistake that night had already happened.
I had struck Renata after Dahlia was safely behind me.
Whatever else came later, I would not rewrite that.
But in the immediate aftermath, I had one job.
My daughter.
I carried Dahlia upstairs.
The hotel manager, Victor Ames, tried to follow.
“Mr. Marcelli—”
“Later.”
“Sir, I need to explain—”
“Later.”
My security chief, Nolan Reese, took one look at my face and stopped everyone else.
Dahlia’s suite was on the fourth floor.
Or was supposed to be.
Her key card did not work.
That was the second thing.
I looked at Nolan.
He tried his master access.
Nothing.
The hotel system showed Dahlia’s room had been reassigned.
“To whom?”
Nolan checked.
“Mr. and Mrs. Pritchard.”
“Who?”
“Guests of Mrs. Beatrice Marcelli.”
My jaw tightened.
“What room is registered to Dahlia?”
Nolan looked again.
“None.”
There.
I used my own suite.
Inside, I helped Dahlia out of the torn dress.
My jacket stayed around her until she had one of my undershirts on.
It reached her knees.
She looked tiny.
“Where’s your blue dress?”
Her eyes dropped.
“Grandma said no.”
“Where is it?”
“Aunt Renata put it away.”
“Where?”
“Closet room.”
Storage.
“Why?”
“She said girls working don’t wear party dresses.”
The sentence sat in the room.
Working.
I crouched.
“Dahlia, what work?”
Her lip trembled.
“Serving.”
“How long?”
“Since Wednesday.”
It was Saturday.
I had arrived that afternoon.
That mattered.
I had been in Chicago from Tuesday through Friday finalizing a warehouse acquisition.
Dahlia was with my parents at Marcelli House because her mother, Mara Ellison, was at a conservation conference in Denver.
Mara and I had been divorced four years.
Joint custody.
Functional.
Not warm.
Not hostile.
Dahlia was supposed to spend the wedding week with my family and nanny.
The nanny, Claire Benton, had called me Thursday and said Beatrice told her she was no longer needed because:
“the family had Dahlia covered.”
I had approved Claire taking two paid days off.
That was my decision.
I remembered Dahlia calling Wednesday night.
“Dad, Grandma says I help wedding.”
I answered:
“That could be fun.”
Fun.
Now:
“Where did you sleep last night?”
She pointed toward the floor as though the kitchen were beneath us.
“Back there.”
“By the kitchen?”
She nodded.
“Why?”
“I got sleepy.”
That did not answer.
“Did someone make you?”
“Aunt Renata said service girls sleep where service starts.”
I closed my eyes.
Then opened them.
“Did Grandma know?”
“Yes.”
There.
I took my phone out.
I did not call Beatrice.
I called Mara.
She answered on the second ring.
“What happened?”
She heard it in my voice.
“I need you to come back.”
A pause.
“Is Dahlia safe?”
“Yes.”
“Then tell me everything.”
I did.
Mara said nothing for almost a minute.
Then:
“Enzo, I told you your mother was getting strange with her.”
I knew.
That was going to become one of my failures.
But not yet.
“Come back.”
“I’m already looking at flights.”
Then:
“Do not leave Dahlia alone with any of them.”
“I won’t.”
“You said that last year.”
The line cut.
May you like
Because she was right.
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