Page 50 of Ruined By Protection (Feretti Syndicate #5)

FOUR WEEKS LATER

Hazel

I take a deep breath, my hand hovering inches from the door knocker. The modest suburban house looks exactly like the photos in the news articles—white siding, blue shutters, potted geraniums flanking the entrance.

One more breath. I can do this. I raise the old brass knocker. For a moment there's nothing but silence, and I wonder if I’m crazy, or self-indulgent, being here.

Then the door swings open and there stands Sandra Winters, Melissa's mother. Her gray-streaked hair is pulled back in a simple bun, deep lines frame her eyes—eyes the same warm brown as her daughter's in the photographs I've seen.

Recognition dawns on her face as she looks at me. Her hand flies to her mouth.

"Hazel," she whispers.

Before I can explain myself, she steps forward and pulls me into her arms. Her body heaves with sobs and I find myself holding her just as tightly.

"They found her," she cries into my shoulder. "They found my baby girl."

The events of the past month churn through my mind—the police excavation beneath the oak tree, the media frenzy when they discovered Melissa's remains, Elliott's suicide note confession plastered across every newspaper.

The endless questioning, the statements, the photographs of me leaving the police station with my face hidden behind sunglasses.

Sandra's sadness pours out of her. A mother’s raw grief for her lost baby. I can only imagine.

"I'm so sorry," I whisper. "I didn't know."

She pulls back, cupping my face in her weathered hands. "How could you have known, sweetheart? You were one of his victims."

I close my eyes, overwhelmed by her forgiveness, her gratitude.

"Come inside," she says, finally releasing me. "I'll make tea."

I follow her into the homely living room, where framed photos of Melissa cover every surface—Melissa as a toddler, as a teenager with braces, as a young woman in a graduation cap. Smiling, always smiling. Never knowing that the devil waited for her.

Sandra leads me into the kitchen—cozy, with yellow curtains and a wooden farmhouse table. The kettle whistles on the stove and she moves to silence it, her hands trembling slightly as she pours hot water into a flowered pot.

"Chamomile," she says, placing one in front of me.

"It helps to calm the nerves. I can't tell you what it means to see you here, safe.

" Sandra settles across from me, her eyes never leaving my face.

"When I saw your picture in the papers, standing beside him at those charity events, I worried for you. I saw an expression in your eyes—the same one my Melissa had just before he told her it was over. Which I have to say was a relief to me. If only she hadn’t gone ba… "

I reach across the table and squeeze her hand, not knowing what else to do for her. "I'm so sorry, Mrs. Winters. I can't imagine what you've been through."

"Sandra, please. And thank you but you’re the one who lived with that monster for two years."

I stare down at our joined hands, unable to meet her gaze. "I should have known. There were signs..."

"No." Her voice turns firm. "Don't you dare blame yourself. Elliott fooled everyone—police, friends, our whole community."

"But not you," I say softly.

Sandra's eyes cloud with memory. "No, not me. A mother knows." She withdraws her hand and wraps it around her mug. "Would you like to hear what happened after she disappeared?"

I nod and raise the cup to my lips. The tea scalds my tongue but is a distraction from this sorrow.

"For nearly three years I’ve searched for her.

" Sandra's gaze drifts to the window, looking beyond the tops of the trees into the big empty sky.

"At first the police took my claims seriously.

They questioned Elliott but he had excuses for everything.

Said they'd broken up weeks before, that she was upset but accepted his decision.

He even produced text messages from her phone saying she needed space. "

"He sent those himself," I murmur.

"Of course he did." Sandra nods. "But they believed him—the golden boy of Austin, with his family connections and charming smile."

The same smile that had seduced me at the bar, I think, my stomach tying knots.

"When the police investigation stalled, the local community stepped up.

" Pride mingles with grief in her voice.

"Melissa's friends organized search parties every weekend for months.

We combed parks, abandoned buildings, drainage ditches.

Her old high school teacher made a website.

The ladies from my church made snacks to keep everyone going. "

She pauses, sipping her tea.

"The second year, that all flipped. People started avoiding me at the grocery store.

They'd see me coming and turn down another aisle.

I became the crazy mother who couldn't accept that her daughter had run away.

" Her mouth twists. "But I knew. I knew from the first day that she was dead.

I felt it inside—like someone had cut out part of my heart. "

I blink back tears, imagining her endless days of searching while Elliott and I exchanged vows and acted out a family tradition beneath that oak tree.

"I never gave up the search and I still had a couple of people helping me.

Melissa's college roommate organized fundraisers to pay for a private investigator.

" Sandra's hands tighten around her mug.

"We had our theory about Elliott, but no proof.

His family closed ranks and his father made all kinds of veiled threats to anyone who suggested he might be involved. "

"I remember his father," I say. "Howard Montgomery was... intimidating."

Sandra nods grimly. "When Elliott married you I tried to warn you. Do you remember? At the grocery store?"

The memory flashes back—a distraught woman approaching me in the produce section, Elliott firmly steering me away, dismissing her as hysterical and delusional.

Shame heats my cheeks. "He said you'd been harassing all his girlfriends."

"I certainly did." She reaches for my hand again. "But now we know the truth. My girl is coming home and you got free of him."

"Did you know..." I hesitate, unsure if I should continue. My hand going instinctively to my own stomach.

"That she was pregnant?" Sandra finishes for me. "Yes. She called me the night before she disappeared. But I already knew. I could see it written across her face."

My throat tightens as I imagine Melissa's final moments—confronting Elliott, his hands around her throat, her fear for her unborn child.

"I'm sorry I couldn't save her," I whisper.

"Without you, we might never have found her," Sandra says. She opens a drawer in an antique dresser behind her and pulls out some AirBuds. "They found these ear thingies lying on her grave. They’re yours right?”

I’m about to deny it but she goes on: “At least the police detective said they weren’t Melissa’s as they’d only found your prints on them. I said you must have left them after tending your little tree."

My heart lurches at my throat - my god, if Matteo’s prints had been found on them it would have been my fault. Realisation dawns on Sandra, “Did you leave them for her, dear?”

“It was a song I used to dance to with my mother. Dog Days Are Over . I thought she might…”

“I’d like to hear it,” Sandra breathes. Swallowing my surprise I take out my phone and pull up the music app.

Matteo

I tap my fingers on the leather steering wheel of my new Maserati Quattroporte, watching Sandra Winters' modest house from down the block. Hazel's been inside for forty minutes. I told her I'd wait here in the car, giving the two women privacy. Some conversations aren't supposed to have witnesses.

The last month has been a blur of airports and highways as I split my time between New York and Austin.

Damiano needed me to handle the casino expansion meetings with all those political assholes in Manhattan, while Hazel needed my support through the aftermath of Elliott's ‘suicide’ and the media circus that followed.

I've been running on fumes, grabbing sleep on the private jet between the two cities, working eighteen-hour days to keep everything moving forward as a rival family tries to threaten our sovereignty in New York City. The bags under my eyes have bags of their own.

Last night, Damiano finally cornered me in his office.

"You look like shit," he said, pouring us each a single malt whiskey.

"Thanks, boss. Always appreciate the compliments."

He didn't smile. "Why didn’t you take that vacation like I told you to after the Montgomery situation?"

"Been busy."

"Too busy taking care of someone else's problems instead of your own." He leaned forward. "I don’t like mistakes, Matteo. The security protocol for the VIP entrance had three gaps."

I couldn't argue. I'd been distracted, stretched too thin between Feretti business and watching over Hazel.

"Figure out what you want," Damiano said, his tone making it clear this wasn't a suggestion.

"What I want?"

"With the girl. With your life." He knocked back his scotch. "You've been living with one foot in each city. It's time to step up and commit to a decision."

I shift in the leather seat, Damiano's words still echoing in my head. He's right—I can't keep this up. Something has to give. But commit has always been a concept scarier than death.

The door of Sandra's house opens and Hazel steps out, exchanging final words with Sandra before heading toward me. Even from here I can see her eyes are swollen but she’s also smiling with real happiness. Has she finally found resolution for that night we neutralised her husband?

"You okay?" I ask when Hazel slides into the passenger seat. Stupid fucking question.

She turns to look at me, eyes still glassy with threatening tears. "I will be."

I reach for her hand. There's nothing I can say that will make this better. Nothing that will bring Melissa back or erase what Montgomery did.