Page 137 of Ruined By Protection
She pauses, sipping her tea.
"The second year, that all flipped. People started avoiding me at the grocery store. They'd see me coming and turn down another aisle. I became the crazy mother who couldn't accept that her daughter had run away." Her mouth twists. "But I knew. I knew from the first day that she was dead. I felt it inside—like someone had cut out part of my heart."
I blink back tears, imagining her endless days of searching while Elliott and I exchanged vows and acted out a family tradition beneath that oak tree.
"I never gave up the search and I still had a couple of people helping me. Melissa's college roommate organized fundraisers to pay for a private investigator." Sandra's hands tighten around her mug. "We had our theory about Elliott, but no proof. His family closed ranks and his father made all kinds of veiled threats to anyone who suggested he might be involved."
"I remember his father," I say. "Howard Montgomery was... intimidating."
Sandra nods grimly. "When Elliott married you I tried to warn you. Do you remember? At the grocery store?"
The memory flashes back—a distraught woman approaching me in the produce section, Elliott firmly steering me away, dismissing her as hysterical and delusional.
Shame heats my cheeks. "He said you'd been harassing all his girlfriends."
"I certainly did." She reaches for my hand again. "But now we know the truth. My girl is coming home and you got free of him."
"Did you know..." I hesitate, unsure if I should continue. My hand going instinctively to my own stomach.
"That she was pregnant?" Sandra finishes for me. "Yes. She called me the night before she disappeared. But I already knew. I could see it written across her face."
My throat tightens as I imagine Melissa's final moments—confronting Elliott, his hands around her throat, her fear for her unborn child.
"I'm sorry I couldn't save her," I whisper.
"Without you, we might never have found her," Sandra says. She opens a drawer in an antique dresser behind her and pulls out some AirBuds. "They found these ear thingies lying on her grave. They’re yours right?”
I’m about to deny it but she goes on: “At least the police detective said they weren’t Melissa’s as they’d only found your prints on them. I said you must have left them after tending your little tree."
My heart lurches at my throat - my god, if Matteo’s prints had been found on them it would have been my fault. Realisation dawns on Sandra, “Did you leave them for her, dear?”
“It was a song I used to dance to with my mother.Dog Days Are Over. I thought she might…”
“I’d like to hear it,” Sandra breathes. Swallowing my surprise I take out my phone and pull up the music app.
Matteo
I tap my fingers on the leather steering wheel of my new Maserati Quattroporte, watching Sandra Winters' modest house from down the block. Hazel's been inside for forty minutes. I told her I'd wait here in the car, giving the two women privacy. Some conversations aren't supposed to have witnesses.
The last month has been a blur of airports and highways as I split my time between New York and Austin. Damiano neededme to handle the casino expansion meetings with all those political assholes in Manhattan, while Hazel needed my support through the aftermath of Elliott's ‘suicide’ and the media circus that followed.
I've been running on fumes, grabbing sleep on the private jet between the two cities, working eighteen-hour days to keep everything moving forward as a rival family tries to threaten our sovereignty in New York City. The bags under my eyes have bags of their own.
Last night, Damiano finally cornered me in his office.
"You look like shit," he said, pouring us each a single malt whiskey.
"Thanks, boss. Always appreciate the compliments."
He didn't smile. "Why didn’t you take that vacation like I told you to after the Montgomery situation?"
"Been busy."
"Too busy taking care of someone else's problems instead of your own." He leaned forward. "I don’t like mistakes, Matteo. The security protocol for the VIP entrance had three gaps."
I couldn't argue. I'd been distracted, stretched too thin between Feretti business and watching over Hazel.
"Figure out what you want," Damiano said, his tone making it clear this wasn't a suggestion.
