Chapter 4 - THE DEAD MAN’S NAME
Maeve had been eight when her father died.
Patrick O’Donnell.
A mechanic with rough hands, loud laughter, and a habit of bringing home broken things because he believed everything deserved another chance.
A radio.
A bicycle.
A stray dog.
Once, a jukebox.
Maeve remembered him smelling like motor oil and peppermint gum.
She remembered him dancing badly in the bakery kitchen while Nora screamed that customers could see.
She remembered the last morning.
He had kissed the top of Maeve’s head and told her, “Save me a cinnamon roll.”
He never came back.
His truck went through a guardrail outside Bellmere.
Police called it an accident.
End of story.
Until now.
Maeve stared at her mother.
“What did Dad supposedly steal?”
Nora wiped her cheeks.
“Money.”
“How much?”
“Two hundred thousand dollars.”
Maeve almost laughed.
“My father never had two thousand dollars.”
“I know.”
“Then why would Dominic want you to sign that?”
Rocco had gone quiet.
Too quiet.
Maeve noticed.
She turned toward him.
“You know something.”
“No.”
“You’re a terrible liar.”
Rocco looked at Nora.
Nora looked away.
Maeve’s anger rose instantly.
“You both know something.”
Rocco said, “Maeve, this isn’t the time.”
“That means yes.”
She walked toward him.
“You knew my dad.”
“Everybody knew your dad.”
“You knew him better than most people.”
Rocco’s jaw worked.
Maeve remembered being little and seeing Rocco in her father’s garage.
They drank coffee together.
Argued about baseball.
Helped each other fix engines.
She had forgotten how often he had been there.
“Was Dad working for Dominic?”
“No.”
“Did he owe him money?”
“No.”
“Did he steal anything?”
Rocco answered immediately.
“No.”
“Then what are you hiding?”
Silence.
Maeve shook her head.
“Unbelievable.”
She grabbed the eviction papers.
Nora reached out.
“Maeve.”
“I need air.”
“You can’t go out like that.”
Maeve looked down at herself.
Flour-covered dress.
Rocco’s oversized jacket.
Tears drying on her cheeks.
“I’ve looked worse today.”
She walked toward the door.
Rocco followed.
“Where are you going?”
“Away from people who lie to me.”
“You’re not walking around town alone after Vale just threatened your family.”
Maeve spun around.
“He threatened us because of something that happened eight years ago. Something you know about.”
Rocco said nothing.
“That’s what I thought.”
She stepped outside.
Rain had stopped.
The street smelled like wet pavement and exhaust.
Rocco came out behind her.
“Maeve.”
She kept walking.
He caught up.
“Listen to me.”
“Try telling the truth.”
Rocco stopped.
“All right.”
Maeve turned.
For several seconds, he seemed to be fighting himself.
Then he spoke.
“The night your father died, he called me.”
Maeve went still.
“What?”
“At eleven fourteen.”
“What did he say?”
“He was scared.”
“My dad wasn’t scared of anything.”
“That night he was.”
Maeve could hear her pulse.
“Why?”
Rocco glanced toward Dominic’s sedan across the street.
It was empty now.
“He told me he found records. Payments. Names. Property transfers. Enough to put somebody in prison.”
Maeve’s skin went cold.
“Dominic?”
Rocco didn’t answer.
He didn’t have to.
“What happened to the records?”
“Patrick said he hid them.”
“Where?”
“He never told me.”
“Why didn’t you tell the police?”
“I did.”
“And?”
“They searched his truck.”
Maeve’s voice dropped.
“Did they find anything?”
“No.”
A car engine started behind them.
Rocco turned.
The black sedan across the street pulled away from the curb.
Slowly.
Too slowly.
Maeve watched it disappear.
Then her phone buzzed.
Unknown number.
She opened the message.
There was no text.
Only a photograph.
It showed her and Rocco standing outside the bakery.
Taken seconds ago.
Then another message appeared.
YOUR FATHER SHOULD HAVE KEPT HIS MOUTH SHUT.
May you like
Maeve looked up at Rocco.
And somewhere down the street, tires screamed.
