She brought them groceries.
Sometimes she came home with bruises.”
“Bruises?”
“She said people were frightened, and frightened people sometimes made mistakes.”
Adrian’s expression darkened.
“Did she ever mention a relocation charity?”
Mara searched her memory.
“There was a place called Harbor House.
She took me there sometimes.
They had blue doors.”
Adrian went utterly still.
Harbor House.
A name he hadn’t heard aloud in years.
He remembered it from a police report his father’s attorneys had buried.
A nonprofit shelter accused of falsifying immigration documents, exploiting undocumented workers, and moving vulnerable families through private shipping facilities.
The accusations had disappeared after the fire.
So had the witnesses.
So had Lucien Vale.
And now Raymond Pike was dead.
Adrian’s phone vibrated.
He glanced at the screen.
It was Rook.
The message contained six words.
THE BODY WAS REMOVED BEFORE POLICE ARRIVED.
A second message followed.
CALDER KNOWS WHERE THE GIRL LIVES.
Adrian looked at Mara.
“Do you have anyone staying at your apartment?”
“No.”
“Anyone who might go looking for you?”
“My friend Tess.
She has a spare key.”
Adrian was already dialing.
“Rook.
Send two men to her address.
Find the friend.”
Mara stepped toward him.
“What happened?”
He didn’t answer immediately.
That was answer enough.
She grabbed his arm.
“Adrian!”
He looked down at her hand.
Then at her face.
“Calder’s people are going to your apartment.”
Mara’s thoughts flashed to her narrow kitchen, the crooked bookshelf, the cat asleep on the radiator.
And the shoebox beneath her bed.
The one containing everything she had left of her mother.
“I have to go home.”
“No.”
“There’s something I need.”
“We can retrieve it.”
“You don’t understand.”
“Then explain.”
Mara’s eyes filled.
“It has her letters.
Her photographs.
The only recording I have of her voice.”
Adrian’s expression softened.
“Mara—”
“She died when I was nine.
I remember less every year.
Sometimes I can’t even remember what her laugh sounded like unless I play that recording.”
His silence changed.
She continued, fighting to keep her voice steady.
“That’s all I have.”
Adrian looked toward the river.
Then he made a decision.
“We’ll get it.”
“You’re coming?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
He met her eyes.
“Because someone who has already taken your mother doesn’t get to take her memory too.”
For one dangerous second, Mara forgot what kind of man he was.
At two seventeen, three black SUVs turned into a narrow street in Queens.
Mara’s apartment building stood between a laundromat and a closed bakery.
A security light flickered over the entrance.
Adrian sat beside her, studying the windows.
“Which floor?”
“Third.”
“Which window?”
“The one with the crooked blinds.”
He looked up.
The blinds were open.
Mara never left them open.
Her stomach dropped.
Adrian touched his earpiece.
“Rook.
Something’s wrong.”
Static crackled.
Then Rook answered.
“We found two men inside.
Both armed.
They’re contained.”
“Any casualties?”
“No civilians.
The cat bit one of them.”
Mara closed her eyes.
“Napoleon.”
Adrian looked at her.
“I’m beginning to respect him.”
They entered the building through the rear stairwell.
Inside the apartment, furniture had been overturned.
Drawers hung open.
Her mattress lay crookedly against the wall.
Napoleon sat on the kitchen counter, looking deeply offended.
Mara scooped him into her arms.
The cat pressed his face beneath her chin.
Adrian remained near the doorway, allowing her to take in the damage.
Someone had ripped open her couch cushions.
Photographs lay scattered across the floor.
Her mother’s favorite blue scarf had been pulled from its drawer.
Mara bent to retrieve it.
A small white envelope slid from the folded fabric.
She frowned.
It wasn’t hers.
There was no stamp.
Only her name.
MARA ELLISON.
Written in careful black ink.
She opened it.
Inside was a single photograph.
A little girl stood beside a woman wearing a pale blue coat outside a warehouse with bright blue doors.
The girl was Mara.
She recognized herself immediately.
But the woman beside her wasn’t her mother.
A man stood several feet behind them.
Raymond Pike.
Twenty years younger.
On the back of the photograph, someone had written:
Your mother was never the person you believed she was.
Beneath it was a second line.
Ask Adrian Vale why his father chose you.
Mara’s throat tightened.
She handed the photograph to Adrian.
He studied it.
“Who gave you this?”
“I don’t know.
It was inside her scarf.”
Rook approached.
“We searched the men.
One had orders to find a blue envelope.”
Adrian’s gaze sharpened.
“From whom?”
“He wouldn’t say.”
Adrian looked at the photograph again.
“Then Raymond got here first.”
Mara stared at him.
“What?”
“This isn’t Calder’s message.
Raymond left it for you.”
“How would Raymond know where I lived?”
Adrian didn’t answer.
He turned the photograph toward the light.
In the corner, almost invisible, was a number stamped in fading blue ink.
Popular Posts
→- 1
- 2
- 3
- 4
Recently Viewed
Stories you read recently will appear here.
