Chapter 8 - THE DEAD MAN
Mom screamed at Naomi.
“That is not my husband!”
I had never heard her scream before.
Naomi stayed calm.
“I didn't say it was.”
“You showed me his face.”
“A similar face.”
“It is him.”
Vincent studied the photo.
“Could Ben have had a brother?”
“No.”
“A cousin?”
“No.”
“Twin?”
“No.”
Mom grabbed the photograph again.
Then froze.
“Wait.”
She zoomed in.
“My husband had a scar.”
“Where?”
“Left eyebrow.”
The man in the picture had none.
Mom sank into a chair.
“It's not Ben.”
Relief hit her.
Then vanished.
“Someone wanted it to look like him.”
Vincent nodded.
Naomi pulled out another document.
“The account required a death certificate.”
Mom stared.
“Ben's?”
“Yes.”
“How did Claire get it?”
“Family members can request copies.”
Mom laughed bitterly.
“Of course.”
Naomi continued.
“The account also received transfers from Sterling Holdings.”
“How much?”
“Four hundred thousand.”
Mom whispered,
“Why use my dead husband's name?”
Vincent answered.
“To make you look involved.”
Mom looked at him.
“If authorities discovered it, they'd think Ben's estate was receiving stolen money.”
“And you were his surviving spouse.”
I stopped eating my cookie.
“Are they trying to put Mommy in jail?”
Nobody answered quickly enough.
I knew.
Mom pulled me into her lap.
“No.”
Naomi corrected gently.
“They tried to create evidence that could.”
I looked at Vincent.
“Can you stop them?”
He looked at me.
“Yes.”
Mom immediately said,
“Don't promise her things.”
Vincent didn't look away.
“I don't make promises I can't keep.”
The room went quiet.
Later, Mom put me to bed in a guest room.
The bed was enormous.
There were six pillows.
I asked,
“Are rich people scared of sleeping flat?”
Mom laughed for the first time in days.
Maybe weeks.
She tucked me in.
“Go to sleep.”
“Is Daddy alive?”
Her smile disappeared.
“No, baby.”
“Sure?”
“Yes.”
“Then why did Aunt Claire use his name?”
“I don't know.”
“Did Aunt Claire hate Daddy?”
Mom sat beside me.
“She thought she loved him.”
“That's weird.”
“Yes.”
“Did Daddy love you?”
Mom's eyes filled.
“Very much.”
“Did he like purple?”
She smiled.
“He hated purple.”
I gasped.
“Then he made bad choices.”
She laughed again.
When she left, I waited.
Then slipped from bed.
Because four-and-a-half-year-olds are excellent investigators when adults underestimate bedtime.
I followed voices downstairs.
Vincent and Mom were arguing in the library.
“You need to leave Chicago,” he said.
“No.”
“Until this is over.”
“No.”
“You have a child.”
“That is exactly why I'm not running.”
“Emily.”
“My daughter watched me beg for money I earned.”
Vincent went quiet.
“She watched me cut an apple in half because I couldn't afford another one.”
His face tightened.
“She thinks being hungry is normal.”
Mom's voice broke.
“I won't teach her that powerful people can take from you and the only smart thing to do is disappear.”
Vincent stared at her.
Then nodded.
“Okay.”
“Okay?”
“You stay.”
Mom seemed surprised.
“That easy?”
“No.”
He stepped closer.
“But you're right.”
Then Marco burst through the door.
“We have movement at Sterling's Bistro.”
Vincent straightened.
“What movement?”
“Fire alarm.”
Mom's face changed.
“The restaurant?”
Marco nodded.
“Someone broke in.”
Vincent grabbed his coat.
Mom said,
“I'm coming.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“Emily.”
“My records are there.”
“Police sealed the office.”
“I have backups.”
“Where?”
Mom hesitated.
“In the basement.”
Vincent stared.
“You never mentioned a basement.”
“David told employees it was storage.”
“And?”
“Three weeks ago, I heard voices under the floor after closing.”
Vincent's expression changed.
“What kind of voices?”
Mom swallowed.
“Men arguing about a ledger.”
Marco looked at Vincent.
Vincent grabbed his keys.
“Let's go.”
Then I stepped into the doorway.
“I want to go too.”
Mom nearly jumped out of her skin.
“Rory!”
I raised both hands.
“I couldn't sleep.”
Vincent rubbed his face.
“How long were you listening?”
“Since the apple.”
Mom closed her eyes.
Vincent murmured,
“Seven guards.”
“I told you.”
Then Marco's phone rang.
He answered.
His face went white.
“Boss.”
Vincent turned.
“The fire isn't an accident.”
“How do you know?”
Marco swallowed.
“Because somebody just texted Emily.”
Mom checked her phone.
One message.
One photograph.
Sterling's Bistro burning.
May you like
Underneath it:
COME GET YOUR RECORDS BEFORE YOUR DAUGHTER BECOMES AN ORPHAN TOO.
