Chapter 6 - The Waters of Geneva Lake
The mountain stream was fifty yards east of our hollow—a churning, dark torrent of snowmelt and rainwater rushing violently down the granite rocks toward the wide, black expanse of Geneva Lake below.
I waded ankle-deep into the freezing water, my feet instantly going completely numb.
I took the micro-SD card out of the false compartment, wrapping it carefully inside a piece of plastic wrapping I pulled from my coat pocket, and tucked it deep inside the inner lining of my bra. Then, with a heavy, aching heart, I lowered Sofia’s white swan music box into the center of the current.
The white porcelain caught the rushing water, turned twice in the dark foam, and disappeared downstream, swirling toward the deep, bottomless waters of the lake where no scent hound would ever follow.
We walked in the freezing water for half a mile, using the rocky bed of the stream to wash away every trace of our footprints.
I carried Ellie on my back, her little arms hooked around my neck, while Isabella walked directly in front of me, holding onto the belt of my coat so she wouldn't be swept away by the pulling current.
By five o'clock in the morning, the sky in the east was turning a pale, bruised purple.
The stream opened up into a wide, marshy inlet at the northern tip of Geneva Lake. Nestled along the shoreline, surrounded by tall weeping willows and private wooden docks, sat a cluster of dark, silent summer estates—boarded up for the winter season.
"There," Isabella whispered, pointing through the mist toward a large, two-story cedar log cabin with a wide stone chimney and a private boathouse extending over the water. "That’s Uncle Mateo’s house."
The cabin was pitch black. No lights burned in the windows; no smoke rose from the stone chimney.
We scrambled up the muddy bank, dragging ourselves across the wide lawn toward the rear kitchen entrance. I reached into my coat pocket and pulled out the heavy brass key Vincent had given me in the nursery six hours ago.
My hands were shaking so violently from hypothermia that I couldn't align the key with the brass deadbolt. I dropped it twice onto the wet wooden deck, my blue fingers refusing to obey my brain's commands.
"Let me," Isabella said quietly.
She picked up the heavy key, slid it smoothly into the tumbler, and turned it.
The heavy oak door clicked open with a soft, smooth slide.
We tumbled inside into a warm, dark mudroom that smelled comforting of cedar wood, dry wool, and old leather. I slammed the door shut behind us, threw the deadbolts, and collapsed onto the braided rug, pulling both little girls into my lap, sobbing uncontrollably into the darkness.
"Who’s there?!" a rough, sharp voice barked from the top of the stairs.
A blinding beam of a tactical flashlight snapped on, catching us square in the eyes, followed by the metallic clack-clack of a shotgun being racked in the dark.
"Don't shoot! Please don't shoot!" I shrieked, throwing my hands over Ellie and Isabella. "Vincent sent us! Vincent Moretti!"
The flashlight beam flicked down from my face to the floor, illuminating seven-year-old Isabella sitting in my lap, covered in black mud, her pale blue dress torn to ribbons, her dark eyes staring unblinkingly up into the light.
The shotgun barrel lowered instantly.
A tall, broad-shouldered man with Vincent’s dark hair and a heavy, graying beard stepped down the stairs, tossing his weapon onto the wooden bench near the door. He dropped to his knees in front of us, his massive hands reaching out to pull Isabella into his arms.
"Sweet Mary and Joseph," Mateo Moretti breathed, his voice cracking with emotion as he held his niece against his chest. "Bella... little Bella... you're alive."
Isabella didn't pull away. She wrapped her small, muddy arms around her uncle's neck, leaning her head against his flannel shirt.
"Uncle Mateo," Isabella whispered into his shoulder, her voice clear, calm, and resonant in the quiet house. "Dominic killed Mommy. But Daddy has the card now."
Mateo went completely rigid. He pulled back, looking into his niece’s face, then turned his gaze onto me—sitting on the floor, shivering, bleeding, holding my four-year-old daughter like a shield.
"She spoke?" Mateo whispered, his eyes wide with utter disbelief. "She's speaking?"
"She spoke yesterday, Mr. Moretti," I gasped out, my vision beginning to blur around the edges as the warmth of the house hit my hypothermic body. "Frank and Tony are dead... Valenti’s men ambushed us on Highway 120... they have dogs... they're searching the lake..."
Mateo stood up in a single, fluid motion, his face hardening into the exact same terrifying mask of lethal authority I had seen on Vincent in the library.
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"They won't get within a mile of this house," Mateo said, turning toward the kitchen counter where a satellite phone sat charging in a cradle. He picked it up, dialed a single short-code, and set it to his ear.
"Vincent," Mateo said into the receiver. "They're here. The girl spoke. Get the fleet down to Chicago. It's time to end the Valentis."
