Chương 10
“Parenting badly.”
The answer was so dry and so much like her that my anger slipped for a second.
Then Dominic knocked again.
“Something happened downstairs.”
I moved toward the bedroom door.
Mom caught my sleeve.
“No.”
“What happened?”
Dominic answered through the apartment.
“The building entrance.”
I looked back at Mom.
Her jaw set.
“Do not let him in.”
I went to the front door and spoke through it.
“What happened?”
“Someone tried the exterior door.”
I looked at the chain.
“Who?”
“We don’t know.”
“Your security?”
“They saw a man cross the sidewalk and leave when they got out of the car.”
My stomach tightened.
“Same man?”
“Couldn’t confirm.”
Mom was behind me now.
I could hear her breathing.
Dominic continued.
“I’m moving the car directly outside.”
“Fine.”
“And I think you should consider leaving the apartment for tonight.”
Mom whispered, “No.”
He heard her.
“Mrs. Carter, I understand why you don’t trust me.”
Mom stepped closer to the door.
“You don’t understand anything.”
Silence from the hall.
Then Dominic said, “You’re right.”
Mom looked at me as if that answer annoyed her more than an argument would have.
“We’re staying here.”
I said, “Mom.”
“This is my home.”
“That doesn’t make it safe.”
“It was safe until you started delivering to those people.”
The words came out hard.
She regretted them immediately.
I felt them anyway.
“Those people?”
Mom rubbed both hands over her face.
“I didn’t mean you caused this.”
“You said it.”
“I know.”
“You knew the name Moretti before tonight.”
She lowered her hands.
“Yes.”
Behind the door, Dominic said nothing.
I almost forgot he was there.
“How?”
Mom walked back toward the kitchen.
I followed.
She opened the junk drawer beneath the counter.
Pens.
Rubber bands.
A dead flashlight.
Coupons.
A screwdriver with a blue handle.
She dug beneath all of it and pulled out an old metal key attached to a plastic tag.
The tag was yellowed with age.
There were three numbers written on it in faded black ink.
214.
She placed it on the table.
“Your father gave me this the night he burned the papers.”
I picked it up.
The key was small.
Not a house key.
Maybe a locker.
“Where does it go?”
“I don’t know.”
“You kept it eight years without knowing?”
“He told me not to ask.”
“And you listened?”
“For once.”
I stared at her.
She looked toward the front door.
“Daniel was terrified.”
Mom almost never called Dad by his first name when talking to me.
The sound of it changed the room.
“He came home after midnight,” she said.
“His shirt was torn at the shoulder.”
“Was he hurt?”
“He had blood on his lip.”
I felt something tighten behind my ribs.
“You never told me.”
“You were nineteen.”
“I was living in the same house.”
“You were asleep.”
“I could have helped.”
“No.”
Her voice sharpened.
“You could have gotten involved.”
“I’m involved now.”
“I know.”
She looked at the key.
“That’s what I spent eight years trying to prevent.”
I sat down.
“What did he say?”
“He said people had been stealing.”
“Money?”
“Not exactly.”
“Medication?”
Mom’s eyes lifted.
That was enough.
“He told you.”
“He said shipments were being redirected.”
“Where?”
“He didn’t say.”
“Who was doing it?”
“He wouldn’t name anyone.”
“Did he say Whitmore?”
“No.”
“Moretti?”
She hesitated.
Then nodded.
My hand tightened around the key.
“What exactly?”
“He said a man named Vincent had gotten involved.”
Behind the apartment door, something shifted in the hall.
A shoe.
A breath.
Dominic was still there.
“Did Dad say Vincent Moretti?”
“No.”
“Just Vincent?”
“Yes.”
“How do you know it was Moretti?”
Mom looked toward the door again.
“Because after Daniel died, a man came to the funeral.”
I went still.
“He didn’t come inside.”
“Who?”
“Dominic’s father.”
A silence settled over the apartment.
Even the television seemed suddenly too loud.
I turned it off.
Mom continued.
“He stood across the street by a black sedan.”
“How did you know who he was?”
“Daniel had shown me a newspaper clipping months before.”
“What clipping?”
“Something about organized crime.”
The words sat between us.
Not surprising exactly.
Everyone in Chicago had heard stories about the Morettis.
Most were exaggerated.
Some were probably not.
“What did Dad say about him?”
“That he was dangerous.”
I glanced at the door.
Dominic still did not speak.
Mom noticed.
“He can hear this.”
“I know.”
“Then why are we talking?”
“Because hiding didn’t work.”
Her expression hardened.
“You think I don’t know that?”
I regretted it.
Again.
This night was becoming a collection of things I wished I had said differently.
I touched the key.
“Did his father ever approach you?”
“No.”
“Did anyone?”
“Yes.”
My head snapped up.
Mom looked toward the window.
“Two days after the funeral.”
“Who?”
“A lawyer.”
“For whom?”
“He wouldn’t say.”
“What did he want?”
“He offered money.”
I stared at her.
“How much?”
“Enough.”
“That isn’t a number.”
“Two hundred thousand dollars.”
My stomach dropped.
Eight years ago, two hundred thousand dollars would have paid off the house we lost.
It would have kept me in school.
It would have paid for Mom’s treatment when her kidneys started failing.
“What did you do?”
“I told him to get out.”
The answer came with no pride.
No dramatic pause.
Just exhaustion.
“Why?”
“Because he wanted me to sign something.”
“What?”
“A statement saying Daniel had been stealing inventory.”
My throat tightened.
“You have it?”
“No.”
“You didn’t keep a copy?”
“I threw it in his face.”
I stared at her.
She gave a tired shrug.
“I was grieving.”
“That’s your excuse?”
“It’s the truth.”
I rubbed my forehead.
“What did the lawyer say?”
“That I would regret refusing.”
“Did you get his name?”
“Yes.”
“Mom.”
She looked at me.
“Richard Vale.”
From the hall, Dominic swore softly.
I stood.
“You know him?”
He answered through the door.
“Yes.”
Mom whispered, “I told you.”
May you like
I unhooked the chain.
She grabbed my arm.
