Chapter 9 - The Return to the Sound
Spring came to Long Island six months later.
The heavy winter ice that had locked the Sound melted into deep, shimmering blue waters. The high windows of the Moretti estate were thrown wide open, allowing the warm salt breeze to flow through the grand rooms, carrying with it the scent of blooming hydrangeas and fresh-cut grass.
The house was no longer a tomb.
In the mornings, the halls echoed with the sound of running feet, the barking of a three-month-old golden retriever pup named Pirate, and the sound of Clara laughing in the newly renovated kitchen.
Harrison Vance had pled guilty to thirty-two federal counts, receiving a sentence of life imprisonment without the possibility of parole. Dante had taken a plea deal, accepting thirty years in a maximum-security facility in upstate New York.
The Sofia Moretti & David Vance Pediatric Justice Foundation had been officially launched, funded by three hundred million dollars recovered from Vance Pharmaceuticals' liquidated assets.
I sat on the wide stone terrace overlooking the Atlantic Ocean, a fresh cup of coffee sitting untouched on the small glass table beside me.
Clara walked out onto the terrace, wearing a simple yellow summer dress, her dark hair catching the bright morning light. She held a small tray with fresh fruit and two plates of blueberry pancakes.
"Ellie's still asleep," Clara said softly, setting the tray down and sitting in the wrought-iron chair beside me. "She ran around the garden for three hours yesterday chasing that puppy."
"She deserves to run," I said, looking out at the calm, endless horizon.
Clara looked at me, her dark eyes filled with a deep, quiet affection that had grown slowly over the long, dark months of legal battles and public trials.
"Did you visit the third floor today?" she asked gently.
"I did," I replied.
Sofia's room was no longer locked. The dust was gone. The windows were open to the sea air, and on the desk sat a framed photograph of Sofia at six years old, smiling broadly while holding a cardboard pirate hat. Beside it sat a new photograph—a picture of Ellie, Clara, and me sitting on the front lawn under the bright summer sun.
Footsteps sounded on the stone terrace.
Ellie came running out through the French doors, wearing pajamas covered in pink ducks, dragging her one-eyed stuffed bear by its arm.
"Mr. Vincent!" Ellie shouted, scrambling up onto my lap without a moment's hesitation.
I caught her effortlessly, lifting her onto my knee, her small hands instantly reaching for my coffee spoon.
"What is it, little one?" I asked, my voice warm and light.
Ellie reached into her pajama pocket and pulled out three brass-plated coins—the same three coins that had sat on the marble table six months ago.
She placed them carefully in my large palm.
"Three wishes," Ellie declared solemnly, looking up into my face with her hazel eyes.
"And what do you wish for today, Ellie?" I asked, smiling down at her.
Ellie looked at her mother, who was watching us with tears of pure, unadulterated happiness shining in her eyes. Then she looked back up at me.
"I wish," Ellie whispered, "that you would make us pancakes, that Pirate doesn't eat my shoe again, and that you stay home with us today."
I looked at Clara, then down at the three brass coins resting in my hand—the coins my daughter had loved, the coins that had saved a mother and child, the coins that had brought me back from the dead.
May you like
I closed my hand over the metal, feeling its warmth in the morning sun.
"Wish granted," I said.
