Chapter 7 - The Stranger Watching From Across the Street
Dante waited until morning to tell her.
Clare knew something was wrong the moment she entered the dining room.
Dante stood beside the window.
Nico waited near the fireplace.
A folder sat on the table.
“No coffee first?”
Dante turned.
“Sit down.”
“That sentence has never preceded good news.”
“Clare.”
She sat.
Dante placed a photograph in front of her.
An older man.
Silver hair.
Heavy coat.
Walking from a grocery store.
The picture was grainy.
But Clare knew.
Not from memory.
From the photograph in the old Caruso file.
The eyes.
Her eyes.
Her father's eyes.
Clare stopped breathing.
“When?”
“Three months ago.”
Her fingers trembled.
“Where?”
“New Jersey.”
“He's alive.”
“It appears so.”
“Appears?”
“We need confirmation.”
Clare stood so quickly the chair moved backward.
“Take me there.”
“Not yet.”
She stared.
“Dante.”
“We do not know why this photograph was among Moretti's documents.”
“I don't care.”
“You should.”
“He's my father.”
“And Moretti knows that.”
Clare paced.
“Seventeen years.”
“I know.”
“No, you don't.”
She stopped.
“You don't know what it was like.”
Dante remained silent.
“My mother cried exactly once about him where I could see.”
Clare's voice shook.
“I was eight. I woke up because I heard something in the kitchen. She was sitting on the floor holding one of his shirts.”
Dante lowered his eyes.
“The next morning she acted like nothing happened. After that, whenever I asked, she said my father chose another life.”
Clare pointed at the photograph.
“He was forty minutes away.”
“We don't know how long.”
“He could have called.”
“Yes.”
“Written.”
“Yes.”
“Found us.”
“Yes.”
Her anger became grief.
“Why didn't he?”
“I don't know.”
Clare pressed both palms against the table.
For once Dante did not try to solve anything.
He simply stood there.
Present.
Clare looked at him.
“I need to see him.”
“I know.”
“When?”
“When we confirm the location is safe.”
“How long?”
“Hours, not days.”
She nodded.
“Okay.”
Dante seemed surprised.
“What?”
“You expected a fight?”
“Yes.”
“I'm tired.”
His expression softened.
“Eat something.”
“Don't parent me.”
“Suggestion.”
“Better.”
Rosa arrived with clothes from Clare's apartment.
She took one look at Clare and wrapped her in a hug without asking questions.
Clare stiffened.
Then melted.
“You knew him,” she whispered.
“Michael?”
“Yes.”
Rosa sighed.
“He loved your mother very much.”
“Then why did he leave?”
“I never believed he left willingly.”
“You didn't tell her?”
“I tried.”
“What happened?”
“Your mother refused to discuss it.”
“Why?”
Rosa hesitated.
“Fear.”
Clare pulled back.
“Of Moretti?”
“Yes.”
Rosa sat beside her.
“Your mother was not weak, Clare. She was terrified for you.”
“What did she know?”
“Enough to understand that asking questions could attract the wrong attention.”
Clare laughed bitterly.
“And now here I am.”
Rosa glanced toward Dante.
“Because someone else brought the past back.”
By afternoon, Nico confirmed the address.
A small town in New Jersey.
Michael Murphy lived under the name Michael Moran.
Worked part-time repairing furniture.
No criminal record.
No obvious connection to Moretti.
“Then we go,” Clare said.
Dante nodded.
No argument.
That scared her more than resistance.
They used an ordinary SUV.
Clare sat beside Dante.
Nico drove.
The trip took just over an hour.
Clare barely spoke.
At one point Dante's hand rested on the seat between them.
Not touching.
Available.
Clare looked at it.
Then placed her fingers over his.
He turned his hand palm-up and held hers.
Nothing more.
They stopped two blocks from the address.
Nico checked first.
Then returned.
“He's there.”
Clare's entire body went cold.
“Alone?”
“Yes.”
She opened the door.
Dante followed.
“No.”
He stopped.
“I need to do this alone.”
His instincts fought visibly.
Then he nodded.
“I'll be here.”
Clare walked.
Every step became heavier.
A small white house appeared.
Blue shutters.
Wind chimes.
Ordinary.
How could seventeen years of questions live behind something so ordinary?
She climbed three steps.
Knocked.
Nothing.
Again.
Footsteps.
The door opened.
An older man stood there.
Silver hair.
Weathered face.
Brown eyes.
Her eyes.
He looked at Clare.
At first confusion.
Then recognition struck with such force he physically gripped the doorframe.
“Clare?”
Her knees nearly failed.
He knew her.
She could not speak.
Michael Murphy whispered her name again.
“My God.”
Clare's voice finally came.
“You're alive.”
Tears filled his eyes.
“Yes.”
“You're alive.”
“Yes.”
“You let me think you abandoned us.”
His face collapsed.
“No.”
“My mother died believing—”
“No.”
“You weren't there.”
“I couldn't be.”
“You could have called!”
“They threatened you.”
Clare froze.
“Who?”
Michael looked past her.
Down the street.
He saw the SUV.
Saw Dante standing beside it.
Fear transformed his face.
“Caruso.”
“He helped me find you.”
“You don't understand.”
Michael grabbed Clare's arm.
“We have to go inside.”
She pulled free.
“Don't touch me.”
“Clare, please.”
Dante had already moved halfway up the sidewalk.
Clare lifted one hand.
He stopped.
Michael stared at him.
“You're Vittorio's son.”
“Yes.”
“You look like him.”
Dante's expression remained controlled.
Michael's voice shook.
“If Moretti knows she's here, none of us are safe.”
“He already knows about Clare.”
Michael went pale.
“Then we're too late.”
“For what?” Clare demanded.
Michael looked at his daughter.
“There is something your mother never told you.”
Clare's heart pounded.
“What?”
Michael opened the door wider.
“Come inside.”
This time Clare did.
Dante remained outside at her request.
Michael locked the door.
Pulled the curtains.
Then retrieved an old metal box from beneath a floorboard.
Inside were documents.
Photographs.
A cassette tape.
And a small brass key.
Michael placed the key in Clare's hand.
“Your mother thought the secret died with her.”
“What secret?”
Michael looked toward the closed door.
Then back at Clare.
“Your mother wasn't simply afraid of Salvatore Moretti.”
His voice dropped.
“She had evidence that could destroy everything he built.”
“And for seventeen years, he believed I had it.”
Clare stared at the key.
Michael's next words turned fear into something far worse.
“He was wrong.”
“You have it?” she asked.
Michael shook his head.
“No.”
He looked directly into Clare's eyes.
May you like
“You do.”
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