Chapter 13 - The Last Enemy
Detective Lena Brooks almost laughed when Roman Vale asked for police protection.
“You realize the irony?”
“Yes.”
“Years ago my unit couldn't get within a block of you.”
“I remember.”
“Now you're reporting graffiti?”
Roman nodded.
“Because threats become violence when everyone pretends they're harmless.”
Brooks studied him.
“You really changed.”
Roman shook his head.
“I changed some things.”
That answer earned her respect.
Police investigated Charles Venn.
The mortgage acquisition involved fraud.
Walter's underground tunnel turned out to contain no hidden fortune.
Only old printing equipment.
Venn didn't believe it.
He thought Roman had found something valuable.
The truth was almost funny.
There was nothing left.
No ledger.
No cash.
No secret criminal treasure.
Victor's obsession had consumed years chasing power that had already vanished.
Venn repeated the pattern.
Roman refused.
For weeks, harassment continued.
Broken windows.
Anonymous calls.
A fire started behind the kitchen but was extinguished quickly.
Nobody was hurt.
Renley became frustrated.
“You could stop him.”
Roman understood what she meant.
Old Roman could have.
One phone call.
One threat.
One beating.
Problem solved.
Or delayed.
“Maybe.”
“Then why don't you?”
“Because every time you use fear to solve today's problem, you create tomorrow's.”
Renley remembered Walter.
“Did he teach you that?”
Roman smiled.
“No.”
“You did.”
Venn eventually made a mistake.
He tried bribing a city inspector.
The inspector recorded the conversation.
Police arrested him.
No gunfight.
No warehouse.
No burning mansion.
Just evidence.
Procedure.
Law.
Roman was almost disappointed by how boring justice looked.
Then he laughed at himself.
Boring was good.
The community kitchen won its property case.
Renovations resumed.
One afternoon Renley found Roman in Walter's old apartment.
He had kept one item.
Walter's chair by the window.
Roman sat there holding a bowl of soup.
“Is it good?” she asked.
“Terrible.”
“You made it?”
“Yes.”
“That explains it.”
He laughed.
Renley sat across from him.
“I got accepted.”
Roman stopped.
“Where?”
“University of Michigan.”
His face lit up.
“Social work?”
She nodded.
Then hesitated.
“It's far.”
“You should go.”
“The kitchen—”
“Will survive.”
“Mom—”
“Will survive.”
“You?”
Roman smiled.
“I've survived worse than Michigan.”
She laughed.
Then became emotional.
“What if things change while I'm gone?”
“They will.”
“I don't like that.”
“Nobody does.”
Renley looked toward Walter's empty apartment across the hall.
“Sometimes leaving feels like abandoning people.”
Roman understood.
Walter had stayed away twelve years because he confused distance with protection.
Roman leaned forward.
“Leaving isn't abandoning someone if love still knows the way back.”
Renley smiled through tears.
Graduation came.
Roman sat beside Elena.
When Renley's name was called, he stood too quickly and shouted.
She glared from the stage.
He shouted louder.
Afterward she handed him her diploma for a picture.
“Walter should be here.”
Roman nodded.
“He is.”
She rolled her eyes.
“You're becoming sentimental.”
“Prison ruined me.”
That summer the Thursday Table officially opened.
The building had bright windows.
A renovated kitchen.
A children's reading room.
A pantry.
A small counseling office.
And one long wooden table.
Walter's old chair sat at one end.
Nobody reserved it.
Anyone could sit there.
The first Thursday, sixty-three people came.
At seven forty, an elderly man arrived alone.
Renley greeted him.
“First time?”
“Yes.”
“Nervous?”
“A little.”
She smiled.
“Sit anywhere.”
He chose Walter's chair.
Roman watched from the kitchen.
Something inside him settled.
But late that night, after everyone left, Roman received a letter without a return address.
Inside was an old photograph of Evelyn.
On the back someone had written:
YOU STILL DON'T KNOW WHO ORDERED HER DEATH.
Roman stared.
Victor had confessed involvement.
Walter's tapes blamed Victor.
But the message suggested another hand.
A final betrayal.
May you like
And this time, Roman wasn't sure whether pursuing the truth would heal him—or destroy everything he'd rebuilt.
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