Only slightly.
But I heard it.
“Her father knew something about my family.”
The room changed again.
I stared at the phone.
“What?”
“My family.”
“What about them?”
“I don’t know.”
“You keep saying that.”
“Because I don’t know!”
It was the first time he had raised his voice.
Not angrily.
Desperately.
He caught himself.
When he spoke again, he sounded exhausted.
“The letter mentioned my grandfather.”
I looked at Evelyn.
She looked as confused as I felt.
“Your grandfather?”
“Yes.”
“Dad never knew your grandfather.”
“That’s what I thought.”
“What was his name?”
“Antonio Moretti.”
I knew the name.
Barely.
Luca had told me his grandfather died when he was young.
An immigrant.
Construction work.
Quiet man.
Few photographs.
“What did Dad write?”
Luca’s answer came slowly.
“He wrote that Antonio once saved the Vale family from losing everything.”
I stared at the floor.
“That makes no sense.”
“I know.”
“What else?”
“He said there was a debt that had never been properly repaid.”
Phoebe sat down.
Not a good sign.
My father did not believe in unpaid debts.
Financial or otherwise.
He paid people early.
Returned favors obsessively.
Sent handwritten thanks for minor kindnesses.
If he believed our family owed someone something, he would have resolved it.
Unless he couldn’t.
“What kind of debt?”
“I don’t know.”
“And you thought the trust was meant for you?”
“At first.”
The admission was quiet.
Painful.
