The mysterious phone call in the sewing box proves that Sofia Moretti is still alive

Emily sat on a narrow bench near the service corridor, waiting for Grace’s shift to end because school had closed early for a heating problem. She kept her backpack between her shoes and tried not to swing her feet against the wall.

Under her sweater was the cracked blue phone she had found that morning.

It had been hidden inside Grace’s sewing box beneath three spools of thread and a folded kitchen towel. Emily had not been snooping. She had been looking for a needle to repair the loose button on her backpack.

When she lifted the towel, the phone vibrated. Once. The screen flashed. Battery 1%. One unheard voicemail.

For half a second, Emily saw a name: Sofia M. Then the screen darkened.

Emily knew that name. Everyone in the mansion did. Sofia Moretti’s portrait had been removed from the grand staircase three years earlier, but Emily remembered the woman herself. Sofia had been kind to her when she was little, not with the loud, exaggerated kindness adults sometimes used with children whose parents worked for them. Sofia spoke to Emily normally. She once sat on the laundry room floor in an expensive blue dress and helped a five-year-old Emily build a cardboard castle while Grace folded sheets.

She also hated white roses in winter. Emily remembered that because Sofia had once plucked one from a holiday arrangement, frowned at it, and said, “Some things look beautiful because nobody asks if they belong where they were put.”

Then she had winked at Emily. “White roses in winter are pretending they aren’t cold.”

That afternoon, the ballroom was filled with them. White roses on the signing table. White roses near the fireplace. White roses surrounding a photograph of Vincent and Isabella. Emily had already found that strange.

Then she saw Isabella’s necklace. A small silver pendant shaped like two leaves curled around a blue stone. Emily had seen that before too. She just could not remember where.

“Don’t stare,” Grace whispered when she noticed.

Emily lowered her eyes. “Mom?”

“Not now.”

“The old phone—”

Grace nearly dropped the coffee pot. Her eyes shot to Emily’s sweater. “Where did you get it?”

“Your sewing box.”

Grace set the pot down so carefully that her fear became more frightening than if she had screamed. “Put it back.”

“But it said Sofia.”