"Mr. | vantanews

Rachel gave him twenty minutes.

Then she pulled a second chair next to his and sat down.

"I need you functional," she said.

"Not later.

Now."

Lorenzo lifted his head.

His eyes were dry.

Whatever had broken open in that folding chair had sealed itself again, the way old wounds do — not healed, just closed.

"Talk to me about the crash investigation," he said.

Rachel's expression shifted.

"That's my question for you."

"The identification.

Walk me through what you accepted."

"Mr.

DeLuca—"

"I buried a sealed casket.

Someone told me the evidence was sufficient.

I want to know who told me that and what they based it on."

Rachel opened her notebook again.

"The original identification relied on the jewelry, the vehicle registration, the dental records, and the security footage of your wife leaving the estate alone that evening."

"DNA."

"Was not completed."

"Why."

"Thermal damage to the remains was significant.

The forensic team at the time determined the available physical evidence was sufficient for identification."

"Who supplied the dental records?"

Rachel paused.

"A Dr.

Calvin Rusk.

Listed as the DeLuca family's private dentist."

"I've never heard that name."

The notebook stayed open.

Rachel did not write anything for a moment.

"He's listed in the estate's administrative files as the family dental provider.

Added approximately fourteen months ago."

Lorenzo looked at her.

"I did not add him."

"Who manages the estate's administrative records?"

"Executive operations.

Under my COO."

The name sat between them like something neither of them wanted to pick up first.

Rachel picked it up.

"Vincent Moreau."

"Yes."

She wrote it down.

"I'll need full access to the administrative files.

Tonight."

"You'll have it."

Lorenzo stood.

His legs were steady.

He was grateful for that.

"There's something else."

He told her about Isabella's old tablet.

The partially synced email thread.

The subject line: PORT FILES.

The body text naming Vincent and eighteen months of irregular vendor payments through North Pier Logistics.

Rachel's pen did not stop moving.

"She was investigating him," she said.

"Quietly.

Without telling me."

"Why without telling you?"

Lorenzo looked at the frozen frame still on the technician's screen.

Isabella's face.

Those eyes.

"Because Vincent has been like a brother to me for twenty-two years.

She wanted proof before she said his name to me."

Rachel set her pen down.

"Mr.

DeLuca.

I have to ask you something directly."

"Go ahead."

"Is there any version of this where you already knew what Vincent was doing?"

The question landed without softening.

That was why he trusted her answer, whatever it would be.

"No," he said.

She watched him.

Then picked up her pen.

"All right."

"You believe me."

"I believe you're angry enough to be telling the truth.

Guilty men perform grief differently." She stood.

"I need the tablet.

I need access to the administrative files.

And I need you to not contact Vincent Moreau before I tell you to."

"And if he contacts me?"

"Answer normally.

Say nothing about tonight."

Lorenzo thought of the landline call.

Vincent's warm, practiced concern.

*I just — after everything that's happened, I worry.*

"He already has," Lorenzo said.

Rachel's eyes sharpened.

"When?"

"Shortly after the vehicles were photographed outside my gate.

He called the estate landline.

Said he'd heard there was a disturbance."

"Who told him?"

"That's the right question."

She wrote for a long moment.

Then looked up.

"How many people in your household knew about the vehicles before Moreau called?"

"Mason.

Sophia.

Emma.

Myself."

"And none of you contacted him."

"No."

Rachel closed the notebook.

"Then someone else is watching your estate.

Someone who reports to Moreau."

Lorenzo had already arrived at that conclusion forty minutes ago.

Hearing it spoken aloud by a detective who did not like him and had no reason to protect his feelings made it real in a different way.

He looked at the frozen image one more time.

Isabella's eyes.

*Don't trust—*

She had known.

Hiding in a warehouse with a h*ngry dog and a ripped coat, she had found a burner phone and called him, and the first thing she had tried to tell him was not *I'm alive* or *come find me.*

It was *don't trust.*

Because she already knew that finding her was the easy part.

The dangerous part was who might find out he was looking.

"Rachel."

She turned at the door.

"The woman in the casket.

You need to identify her."

Rachel's face did something complicated.

"Yes.

We do."

"She has a family."

"I know."

"Find them before the press does."

She nodded once.

Then left.

Lorenzo stood alone in the freight district command post, the camera footage still frozen on the screen, his wife's eyes looking back at him from eight days ago.

He pressed the intercom on his mobile.

"Mason."

"Here."

"Vincent has a source inside the estate.

Someone who saw the camera footage from the gate and reported to him within the hour."

A pause.

"I'll find them."

"Quietly."

"Always."