Chương 6
Vincent opened the box.
Old photographs rested on top.
Carlo with politicians.
Carlo beside Vincent's father at a baptism.
Carlo smiling at Coney Island in a bathing suit that should have been destroyed on moral grounds.
Beneath them were envelopes bundled with rubber bands.
Marco crouched beside him.
"There."
The envelope was cream colored.
ELENA RUSSO had been written across the front in Carlo's blocky handwriting.
It was still sealed.
Vincent's hand remained above it.
"Open it," Marco said.
Vincent picked it up.
The paper had yellowed slightly around the edges.
Something heavier than a letter shifted inside.
He tore the seal.
A folded page came out first.
The handwriting belonged to Elena.
Vincent recognized it before he read a word.
She wrote in narrow, slanted lines because she had always hated wasting paper.
Vincent,
I don't know whether you'll read this, but I need to know that I tried.
I am pregnant.
He stopped.
Marco looked away.
Vincent forced himself to continue.
I found out after we ended.
I am not writing because I expect you to change what you said or because I want money.
I am writing because this is your child too, and I cannot decide for both of us that you should never know.
I am angry with you.
I am also afraid of you.
Those things can both be true.
Vincent's thumb pressed into the page.
He read on.
I don't know what kind of father you would be.
I don't know whether you even want to be one.
I only know I cannot spend the rest of my life wondering whether I kept this from you because I was protecting the baby or because I was protecting myself.
If you want no part of this, tell me yourself.
Don't send someone.
Don't make me guess.
The letter ended with a phone number and an address.
No declaration of love.
No accusation.
No plea.
That was Elena.
Even frightened, she had refused to beg.
Marco touched the second item inside the envelope.
It was a smaller folded sheet.
Carlo's handwriting.
Spoke with E.R.
Handled.
No further contact necessary.
Vincent read those six words three times.
Something beneath the note slipped from the envelope and landed on the concrete.
Marco picked it up.
A photocopy of a bank withdrawal.
Twenty thousand dollars.
The date matched Elena's story.
Marco's face hardened.
"He kept proof."
"He kept trophies."
"No."
Vincent looked at him.
Marco turned the note over.
There was writing on the back.
If V asks, she chose to leave.
For several seconds, neither man spoke.
Then Vincent threw the envelope across the room.
It hit a shelf and fluttered uselessly to the floor.
Marco remained still.
"Don't," he said.
"Don't what?"
"Break something."
Vincent looked around at the boxes.
"I own everything in this room."
"That's why I'm telling you."
Vincent kicked the metal chair instead.
Pain shot through his foot.
Marco winced.
"Better?"
"No."
"Good."
Vincent pressed both hands to his face.
The portable monitor under his shirt vibrated.
Marco pointed.
"That thing keeps doing that."
"I noticed."
"You need to sit."
"No."
"Vincent."
"No."
The basement lights buzzed overhead.
A pipe knocked somewhere behind the wall.
Vincent picked up Elena's letter again.
The fold lines were worn despite the fact that Carlo had sealed it away.
He imagined his uncle reading it first.
Maybe twice.
Maybe with coffee.
Then deciding what Vincent would know about his own child.
The thought was almost unbearable.
But another thought came behind it.
Carlo had been able to do it because Vincent had built a life in which cruelty was believable.
Elena had heard his uncle claim Vincent wanted nothing to do with her baby, and she had believed him.
That part belonged to Vincent.
He slid the letter carefully into his jacket.
Marco watched.
"What now?"
Vincent looked at Carlo's note.
"Nothing stupid."
"That answer concerns me."
"Carlo is dead."
"Dead men can still make you stupid."
Vincent almost smiled.
Then his phone rang.
The caller ID showed a number he did not recognize.
He answered.
"Moretti."
For a moment, there was only breathing.
Then Sophie's voice said, "Mr. Vincent?"
He stood straighter.
"Sophie?"
Marco's head snapped up.
"Mommy won't wake up right."
Vincent's body went cold.
"What does that mean?"
"She's talking funny."
"Is she breathing?"
"Yes."
"Is Mr. Chen there?"
"No."
"Call 911."
"I did."
"Good."
Her voice trembled.
"They said they're coming."
"I'm coming too."
He ended the call and moved.
Marco was already grabbing the keys.
The drive from Brooklyn to Queens felt obscene in its length.
Vincent called Sophie back and kept her on speaker.
The dispatcher had told her to unlock the apartment door and stay beside Elena.
Sophie whispered updates as if speaking loudly might make things worse.
"She's cold."
"Cover her with the blanket."
"I did."
"Good."
"Her eyes are open but she's not looking."
"Ambulance is almost there."
"How do you know?"
"Because I'm choosing to believe New York traffic is afraid of me."
Sophie made a tiny sound.
"What?"
"Mom says you're not funny."
Marco glanced at Vincent from the passenger seat.
"Your mother has been wrong before."
"She says not about you."
Vincent closed his eyes briefly.
"That sounds more accurate."
Sirens came through Sophie's phone.
"I hear them," she said.
"So do I."
There was pounding.
Then adult voices.
Sophie began crying only after the paramedics arrived.
Until then, she had held herself together.
Vincent listened as someone took the phone from her.
"This family?"
A male paramedic.
Vincent hesitated.
"Yes."
The word came out before he could examine it.
"Patient has altered mental status, fever, low blood pressure."
"She has cancer."
"We got that from the meds."
"I'm five minutes away."
"We're transporting to Elmhurst."
Vincent gave his name.
There was a pause.
The paramedic's tone changed slightly.
Vincent hated that his name could still do that.
"We'll be moving now."
May you like
When they reached the building, the ambulance was pulling away.
Mr. Chen stood on the sidewalk in slippers and a white undershirt, holding Sophie against his side.
