Chapter 5 - THE SEAM OF THE STUFFED RABBIT
The entire ballroom seemed to tilt on its axis.
Adrian’s breath caught in his throat. He remained motionless on his knee, his hand resting on his daughter’s shoulder, terrified that even a single breath might shatter the fragile reality forming before him.
Before the rainy night.
Six months ago, on the evening Sofia had disappeared, Adrian had been in Detroit finalizing a multi-million-dollar shipping conduit. He had spoken to Sofia on the phone at six in the evening; by midnight, the police were pulling burning metal from the river. For six months, he had believed his wife had died in a tragic, solitary accident while driving to their summer cottage in Lake Geneva.
Rosie had been home with her nanny. Or so everyone had sworn under oath.
“What secret, Rosie?” Adrian whispered, his voice trembling so violently that the cuffs of his black shirt shook.
Rosie did not answer with words immediately.
She took a half-step back, shifting her weight onto the balls of her patent-leather shoes, the pink tulle of her princess gown rustling like dry autumn leaves.
She turned the cream-colored stuffed rabbit around in her small hands.
The toy was ancient by a child’s standards—purchased in Milan when Rosie was barely six months old, carried across three continents, slept on every single night. The fur was worn flat in patches around the ears, and the pale pink satin ribbon around its neck was frayed at the edges.
Rosie reached behind the rabbit’s neck, her small, delicate fingers parting the thick plush fur directly beneath the pink ribbon.
There, hidden completely beneath the fold of the collar and masked by the seam of the fabric, was a tiny, concealed nylon zipper, no longer than two inches, dyed the exact color of the rabbit’s fur.
A collective, stunned silence fell over the room as the guests watched the five-year-old work the microscopic zipper with practiced, childish ease.
Zzzzzzt.
The sound was tiny, but to Adrian’s ears, it sounded like an iron vault door swinging open.
Rosie reached two small fingers inside the hollow polyester stuffing of Bunny’s back. She felt around the interior, her brow furrowing with solemn concentration, before her fingertips closed around a stiff, flat object tucked deep within the lining.
She pulled her hand out.
Held between her small fingers was a rectangular piece of heavy photographic paper, folded neatly into quarters. The edges were worn, softened by months of resting against the toy’s batting, but the paper was dry, pristine, and entirely preserved.
Rosie extended her arm, holding the folded paper out toward Adrian.
“Mommy said if that lady came back,” Rosie whispered, her hazel eyes looking directly into her father’s tormented gaze, “I should show you what’s inside.”
At the head table, Vivienne saw the folded photograph.
Her breath hitched in a sharp, strangled shriek. The champagne heiress bolted upright from her chair, her glittering gown rustling violently, her hands slamming against the table as she leaned forward, her face twisted in pure, unadulterated panic.
“No! Adrian, don't!” Vivienne screamed, her voice cracking across the ballroom. “It’s a lie! She doesn't know what she’s doing!”
Adrian did not flinch. He did not turn to look at Vivienne.
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His eyes were locked on the paper in his daughter’s hand.
Moving with agonizing slowness, his hands shaking with an emotion he had never allowed another living soul to witness, Adrian Moretti reached out. His scarred, tattooed fingers closed around the folded photograph.
