"Sir...!"
My voice came out much quieter than I intended.
"This photograph... where did you get it?"
"When Emily Reynolds handed me the case files, she included that photograph as well. She thought it might help with the investigation."
I stared at the picture.
No, stared wasn't the right word. I was frozen.
Every person standing in that photograph was familiar to me. Every single one.
"This can't be right..." I whispered, more to myself than to him. "It's possible Matthew worked in the same company as my father, but my father never mentioned him. Not once. How is that even possible? How does my father have a photograph with him and never tell me? And Matthew never mentioned it either?"
Confusion wasn't even the right word anymore. It felt like someone had taken a puzzle I had spent my entire life completing and suddenly informed me that half the pieces belonged to a different box.
"Sir, this doesn't make sense. When my father was working there, the California branch didn't even exist yet. So how could they have met?"
Vincent nodded. "That was my exact reaction when I first saw your father's photograph."
A frown immediately appeared on my face.
"Wait... how do you know that's my father?"
I distinctly remembered never showing him any photograph. I had only spoken about him.
Vincent simply gestured toward the picture. "Turn it over."
Slowly, I flipped it.
And then I stopped breathing.
Written neatly on the back were six simple words.
ME AND MY BEST FRIEND VITTORIO VALE
My eyes locked onto the handwriting.
For a second, my brain refused to process what I was reading.
Then everything hit at once.
My heart slammed painfully against my chest. My fingers tightened around the photograph as if letting go would somehow make it disappear. The room seemed distant, almost unreal.
Vittorio Vale.
My father.
Not a colleague.
Not a business associate.
Not someone he occasionally met.
His best friend.
The words echoed inside my head again and again.
My father had a best friend.
And somehow, I never knew.
Instinctively, I looked up at Vincent. I wanted an explanation. I wanted him to tell me there was some mistake. But judging by the look on his face, he was just as certain as the photograph itself.
I looked down again and reread the note.
Then again.
And again.
As if the handwriting would magically change.
It didn't.
It remained exactly the same.
Real.
Painfully real.
"But after all that..." I swallowed hard. "How did you know it was my father?"
"I didn't," Vincent answered immediately. "I thought you might recognize the person because your father worked in the company. Your reaction confirmed my assumption."
I sank into the chair.
Nothing made sense anymore.
"Okay, leave that aside for a second." I rubbed my forehead. "How? I mean... how? My father told me everything."
The words came out sharper than I intended.
Everything.
At least, I thought he did.
A horrible thought suddenly crossed my mind.
Maybe he didn't.
Maybe there were parts of his life I never knew.
Parts he carried to the grave with him.
Maybe I wasn't as close to him as I had always believed.
And for some reason, that possibility hurt more than the photograph itself.
"Maybe," Vincent said carefully, choosing his words with unusual caution, "you were young, and he simply didn't think it was important enough to mention."
The reaction was immediate.
"Important enough?" I looked straight at him. "Sir, he was my father."
My voice cracked despite my efforts to control it.
"He was my father."
The frustration wasn't directed at Vincent. We both knew that.
But I couldn't stop it.
"I knew everything about him."
The moment the sentence left my mouth, I regretted it.
Because clearly, I didn't.
Vincent's expression softened.
"Aurelia."
The way he said my name immediately grounded me. Not completely, but enough to stop my thoughts from spiraling further.
"I'm sorry," he said quietly. "I didn't mean to upset you."
I looked away.
He was right.
I was reacting to possibilities instead of facts.
Taking a deep breath, I forced myself to think.
Think.
Think.
Think.
Then suddenly, a memory surfaced.
My eyes widened.
"Oh."
I sat upright.
"Oh!"
Vincent immediately looked up from the desk. "What?"
"Sir, I remember."
"Remember what?"
"The last trip."
My brain finally started connecting the pieces.
"The last business trip my father made here. He mentioned meeting clients and discussing future operations. He said he was helping establish partnerships for the company."
I paused.
Then everything clicked.
"Oh my God."
Vincent frowned. "What?"
"That was the trip."
"What trip?"
"The trip where the CEO and several employees traveled together."
Realization crossed Vincent's face.
"Meaning?"
"Meaning that's probably where they met."
For the first time since entering his office, relief flooded through me.
A possibility.
A logical explanation.
Something that actually made sense.
"Good," Vincent said, nodding slightly. "Now think carefully. Did you discuss work with your father every day?"
I opened my mouth to answer.
Then stopped.
"Actually..."
My eyebrows furrowed.
"No."
A painful realization surfaced.
"I didn't talk to him during the last two days before he died."
Vincent didn't interrupt.
He simply waited.
"Not because we fought," I added quickly. "I was studying late. Then sleeping. Then school."
A bitter laugh escaped me.
"I kept saying I'd talk to him tomorrow."
Tomorrow.
What a cruel word.
I lowered my eyes.
"I think my mother probably knew more."
"See?" Vincent said gently. "A calm mind solves things."
I nodded.
Then glanced at the photograph again.
One question still bothered me.
"But how does this photograph help the case?"
Vincent stared at me for several seconds.
The kind of stare a teacher gives a student who has somehow missed the most obvious answer.
"Aurelia."
"What?"
"Your father's best friend died under circumstances remarkably similar to your father's."
I blinked.
Once.
Twice.
Then finally—
"Oh."
Vincent closed his eyes.
I swear he looked physically disappointed.
"Oh?" he repeated.
"I get it now."
"You didn't get it before?"
"No."
He pinched the bridge of his nose.
"Aurelia..."
"Sorry."
His chair scraped against the floor as he stood up.
Immediately, the lawyer replaced the patient mentor.
"That means the officer you spoke to was right. If both deaths follow the same pattern, then we're not dealing with isolated incidents."
I stood as well.
"A chain."
"Exactly."
"Which means there are probably more victims."
"Exactly."
"And if my father's death happened first..."
Vincent's eyes met mine.
"The chain may have started with him."
The room fell silent.
Neither of us liked that possibility.
Not one bit.
Because if we were right...
Then somewhere out there, someone had been getting away with murder for years.