Chapter 7 - NINETY SECONDS
Everything went black.
Mom grabbed me instantly.
“Rory.”
“I'm here.”
Vincent's voice came from somewhere close.
“Down.”
His bodyguards moved.
A crash sounded in the hallway.
Someone shouted.
Then came three sharp pops.
Mom pulled me under the interview table.
Vincent crouched beside us.
I whispered,
“Was that a gun?”
“No.”
Another pop.
I looked at him.
“You're lying.”
“Yes.”
Emergency lights flickered red.
Naomi crawled behind a desk.
One of Vincent's men appeared in the doorway.
“Hall clear.”
“Police?”
“Two officers injured. Alive.”
Mom's face twisted.
“This happened because of that drive.”
Vincent looked at me.
“Probably.”
Mom tightened her arms around me.
“I brought my child into this.”
“No.”
Vincent's voice became firm.
“David did.”
“Don't do that.”
“What?”
“Make me feel better.”
“I'm not.”
He pointed toward the hallway.
“I'm telling you where blame belongs.”
Footsteps thundered.
Real police officers entered.
Weapons drawn.
Everyone shouted at once.
Eventually the lights returned.
Naomi checked the flash drive.
Still there.
Vincent looked relieved.
Then Marco called.
“We found the fake revenue agent's car.”
“Where?”
“Lower Wacker.”
“Anyone inside?”
“No.”
“Blood?”
“None.”
“Phone?”
“Burner.”
Vincent cursed.
Mom looked at him.
He sighed.
“Sorry.”
A detective entered.
“We're transferring Ms. Carter and her daughter.”
Mom stood.
“To where?”
“Safe location.”
Vincent said, “Mine.”
The detective looked at him.
“No.”
“Your station just lost power while armed men walked inside.”
The detective's jaw tightened.
Vincent continued.
“My home has better security.”
“That's not comforting.”
Mom surprised everyone.
“We go with Vincent.”
I looked up.
“So now he's not a gangster?”
She closed her eyes.
“I didn't say that.”
Vincent smiled.
Mom glared at him.
“Don't enjoy this.”
“I wouldn't dream of it.”
Vincent's home wasn't a home.
It was a stone mansion overlooking Lake Michigan.
There were cameras.
Gates.
Men in suits.
A kitchen bigger than our apartment.
I walked in and whispered,
“Wow.”
Mom did not.
She looked furious.
Vincent noticed.
“What?”
“You live like this.”
“Yes.”
“And people are hungry ten blocks away.”
His face changed.
“That isn't entirely my responsibility.”
“No.”
Mom looked at him.
“But it clearly bothers you.”
He didn't answer.
Marco brought food.
Chicken.
Potatoes.
Green beans.
Bread.
I ate so fast Mom told me to slow down.
Vincent sat across from us.
He wasn't eating.
Just watching.
Mom noticed.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“Stop saying nothing.”
He leaned back.
“When did you last have a full meal?”
Mom's fork stopped.
“None of your business.”
“Emily.”
“Yesterday.”
I looked at her.
“No.”
She froze.
I kept chewing.
“You gave me your sandwich.”
Vincent's jaw tightened.
Mom looked embarrassed.
“I wasn't hungry.”
“You were.”
Vincent stood suddenly.
Mom flinched.
He saw it.
That bothered him more than anything.
He slowly sat again.
“I won't hurt you.”
Mom looked down.
“I know.”
“Do you?”
She said nothing.
Later that night, Naomi arrived.
She looked exhausted.
“We traced part of the stolen money.”
Vincent poured coffee.
“To Vale?”
“Some.”
“And the rest?”
Naomi looked at Mom.
“An account under the name Benjamin Carter.”
Mom stopped breathing.
My father's name.
“That's impossible.”
Vincent looked at her.
“Emily.”
“My husband is dead.”
Naomi opened a folder.
“The account was opened six months after his death.”
Mom stared at the paper.
Then another thought hit her.
“Who opened it?”
Naomi slid over a surveillance image.
Mom's hands began shaking.
The woman at the bank was wearing a black wool coat.
A ring.
And my mother's face.
Claire.
But standing beside Claire was a man.
Tall.
Dark-haired.
Turned slightly away from the camera.
Mom dropped the photograph.
“No.”
Vincent picked it up.
“You know him?”
Mom couldn't speak.
I looked at the man.
Then at Mom.
She whispered,
May you like
“That’s Ben.”
My dead father was standing in a photograph taken two years after his funeral.
