Chương 8
“Why?”
“Because if my father wanted contact stopped, he would have stopped it directly.”
“That isn't proof.”
“No.”
I waited.
Dominic sighed.
“He also spent the last year of his life accusing people of withholding information from him.”
That caught me.
“What kind of information?”
“Contracts.”
“Which contracts?”
“Warehousing.”
I looked at the letter in my hand.
“Harbor Lane?”
“Yes.”
The apartment suddenly felt too warm.
I walked to the window and cracked it open.
Traffic moved below on wet-looking asphalt even though there had been no rain.
Someone across the street was closing a bodega gate.
Metal rattled downward in short angry bursts.
“Did he know about my letters?” I asked.
“I don't know.”
“Did he ever mention Anna Carter?”
“No.”
That hurt more than it should have.
I had wanted him to say yes.
Not because it would fix anything.
Because some part of me still wanted proof I had existed in Vincent's mind after that conference room.
Dominic continued.
“But he mentioned a woman from Dawson Pike.”
My grip tightened.
“When?”
“A few months before he died.”
“What did he say?”
“He asked whether I had ever audited the old fuel and warehouse accounts.”
“Did you?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“My father asked questions like accusations.”
“That sounds exhausting.”
“It was.”
I heard the edge in his voice.
Not anger at me.
Something older.
“I told him finance had already cleared the accounts.”
“And?”
“He said finance cleared whatever it was paid to clear.”
“That also sounds like him.”
“Yes.”
For a second neither of us spoke.
It was uncomfortable in a way that felt almost intimate.
Two people comparing memories of the same difficult dead man from entirely different worlds.
Then Marco's voice rose sharply in the background.
Dominic said, “Hold on.”
The line muffled.
I heard fragments.
Garage.
Camera.
Badge.
Then Dominic returned.
“The contractor credential belonged to a fire-suppression company.”
“Did they have someone in the building?”
“No scheduled work today.”
“So stolen credential.”
“Possibly.”
“There it is again.”
“What?”
“Possibly.”
“I'm trying not to tell you things we haven't proved.”
“I know.”
“And you're mocking me for it.”
“Yes.”
“Good to know we're communicating.”
I almost smiled.
Then I looked at the photograph of the archive boxes and stopped.
“Can you trace the number that texted me?”
“Marco's working on it.”
“Without police?”
“Police have been notified about the theft.”
“Have you told them about me?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because I didn't have your permission.”
That surprised me.
“You care about permission now?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
A pause.
“Because somebody inside my company has already made decisions about your life without it.”
The answer sat between us.
I didn't know what to do with it.
“Tomorrow,” he said.
“Don't start.”
“Not a meeting.”
“What, then?”
“I want you and Lily somewhere safer for a day or two.”
“No.”
“Anna.”
“She has school.”
“She took two subway lines alone today.”
“I am aware.”
“I think school can survive one absence.”
“That isn't your decision.”
“No.”
He sounded tired.
“But whoever sent that photograph knows where to find you electronically.”
“They texted my phone.”
“Exactly.”
“That does not mean they know my address.”
“Your employee file does.”
I looked toward the front door.
The deadbolt suddenly seemed decorative.
“My current address?”
“If Pike took personnel files, yes.”
I stood.
“Why would my address be in archived records?”
“It wouldn't need to be.”
“Then—”
“HR systems.”
I closed my eyes.
Of course.
Direct deposit.
Emergency contacts.
Tax forms.
Every ordinary piece of employment depended on handing strangers the map of your life.
“I don't want your security people here.”
“Fine.”
“Or men sitting in cars outside.”
“Fine.”
“You're agreeing too quickly.”
“I can be difficult if it helps.”
“Dominic.”
“No.”
“Then stay with someone.”
I thought of Maya's mother upstairs in the next building.
Too close.
My sister lived in Philadelphia.
My husband's parents were in Ohio.
The only friend far enough away was Serena in Queens, and she had two teenagers, a dog with digestive problems, and a husband who believed all inconvenience could be solved by grilling meat.
“I have somewhere,” I said.
“Where?”
“I'm not telling you.”
“That's counterproductive.”
“It is also the point.”
He exhaled.
“Take the letters.”
I looked at the shoebox.
“I was planning to.”
“And the agreement.”
“Yes.”
“Photograph everything first.”
That was good advice.
I resented it.
“Already doing it.”
I wasn't, but I began immediately after we hung up.
Every envelope.
Every postmark.
Every returned stamp.
Every handwritten notation.
The threat.
Elliot's business card.
The agreement.
I uploaded copies to two different cloud accounts and emailed another set to myself because fear had turned me into the kind of person who distrusted even my own phone.
Then I woke Lily.
She opened her eyes and stared at me without moving.
“Are we going somewhere?”
“How did you know?”
“You put shoes on.”
I looked down.
She was right.
At home I never wore shoes after nine.
“Pack pajamas.”
“Is this because I went to Mr. Moretti?”
“Partly.”
“Am I grounded?”
“Yes.”
“How grounded?”
“Very.”
“Can I still have cereal?”
“Grounded people eat breakfast.”
She considered that.
“Can grounded people watch cartoons?”
“We'll negotiate in the morning.”
She accepted this with surprising dignity.
I packed one backpack for her and one old canvas tote for myself.
The shoebox went into the tote beneath two sweaters.
I hesitated over my laptop, then left it.
If someone came looking, I didn't want to carry everything important in one place.
Before leaving, I took a photograph of the apartment exactly as it was.
The childish impulse embarrassed me.
As if a picture could preserve our small life if somebody entered and disturbed it.
Lily appeared wearing her raincoat again.
“It isn't raining.”
“I like the pockets.”
I didn't argue.
At 11:43 we locked the apartment.
I checked the handle twice.
May you like
Lily checked it a third time because children absorbed fear even when adults tried to hide it behind routines.
We took a cab to Queens.
