Chapter 2 - The Letter From a Dead Man
Nick had spent seven years imagining the man responsible for his brother’s death.
He had never imagined that man might be alive.
“Show me the letter.”
Rachel laughed bitterly.
“Absolutely not.”
“If Anthony Adams contacted you—”
“He’s my father.”
“And he may know who killed my brother.”
Rachel stopped.
“What?”
Nick watched her carefully.
“You heard me.”
Rachel’s expression changed.
The anger disappeared.
“What does my father have to do with your brother?”
“That’s what we’re going to find out.”
“We?”
“Yes.”
“There is no we.”
The sedan appeared again at the end of the block.
Nick looked toward it.
Rachel followed his gaze.
This time she didn’t argue.
“Where’s your car?” she asked.
“Three blocks away.”
“You came to a diner while people were hunting you and parked three blocks away?”
“Yes.”
“That’s either extremely smart or extremely stupid.”
“Depends how tonight ends.”
They moved.
Nick led Rachel through narrow side streets until they reached an old black SUV parked beneath an elevated train line.
Rachel stopped.
“I’m not getting in.”
“Then go back.”
“To the diner?”
“Your choice.”
Rachel looked behind them.
The dark sedan turned onto the block.
She opened the passenger door.
“I hate you.”
“You don’t know me.”
“I’m learning quickly.”
Nick drove.
For fifteen minutes, neither spoke.
Finally Rachel said, “Your brother.”
Nick’s hands tightened slightly around the steering wheel.
“Daniel.”
“What happened?”
“He was killed seven years ago.”
“The night my father disappeared?”
Nick looked at her.
“Yes.”
Rachel stared through the windshield.
“That can’t be coincidence.”
“No.”
“Did you think my father did it?”
“I thought he helped arrange it.”
Rachel turned sharply.
“My father wasn’t a killer.”
“You don’t know what people become when money is involved.”
“And you don’t know my father.”
Nick didn’t answer.
They reached an old warehouse near the East River.
Rachel looked at him.
“This is where you bring women after terrible first dates?”
“It’s safe.”
“That wasn’t an answer.”
Inside, the warehouse was unexpectedly clean.
A small office had been converted into a temporary apartment.
Nick locked the door.
“Letter.”
Rachel remained standing.
“No.”
Nick leaned against the desk.
“Rachel, someone followed you from your job.”
“Because I helped you.”
“They were there before you warned me.”
She knew he was right.
That was the worst part.
Rachel opened her tote bag.
From the lining, she removed a folded envelope.
Nick noticed the hiding place.
“You stitched a pocket inside your bag?”
“My father taught me.”
She handed him the envelope.
No return address.
Inside was a single page.
Rachel watched Nick read.
Rach,
If this reaches you, then someone finally found me. Do not trust anyone who says they knew me. Especially anyone connected to Salvatore Russo.
I never stole the money.
I moved it because I discovered what it was paying for.
The proof still exists.
You already have the key.
I’m sorry I left you. I thought disappearing was the only way to keep you alive.
Dad
Nick read it twice.
“You already have the key.”
Rachel nodded.
“I don’t know what he means.”
“Think.”
“I have been thinking for three days.”
“What did he give you before disappearing?”
“Nothing unusual.”
“Jewelry?”
“No.”
“Documents?”
“No.”
“Keys?”
Rachel stopped.
Nick saw it.
“What?”
“My eighteenth birthday.”
“What happened?”
“My father gave me an old safety-deposit key.”
“Where is it?”
“I threw it away.”
Nick stared at her.
Rachel rolled her eyes.
“I was eighteen. My father disappeared two weeks later. I was angry.”
“You threw away a safety-deposit key?”
“I thought he abandoned me!”
Nick said nothing.
Rachel sat down.
Then her expression changed.
“Wait.”
“What?”
“I didn’t throw it away.”
Nick straightened.
“I gave it to my mother.”
“Where is she?”
Rachel looked down.
“She died four years ago.”
“I’m sorry.”
“She kept everything.”
Rachel stood.
“Her storage unit.”
An hour later they arrived at a storage facility in Brooklyn.
Rachel opened unit 317.
Boxes filled the narrow space.
Nick stood watch while Rachel searched.
Twenty minutes became forty.
Then Rachel found an old wooden jewelry box.
Inside was a brass key.
Stamped into the metal were three numbers.
614.
Nick stared at it.
“That’s not a bank key.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I’ve seen one before.”
“Where?”
Nick reached inside his shirt.
Around his neck hung a thin chain.
He removed it.
Attached was another brass key.
Rachel stared.
Stamped into Nick’s key were three numbers.
615.
Neither spoke.
Rachel finally whispered, “Where did you get that?”
“My brother.”
The air seemed to disappear from the storage unit.
“He gave it to me the week before he died.”
Rachel held her key beside Nick’s.
Identical manufacturer.
Consecutive numbers.
614.
615.
Their fathers’ secrets were connected.
Nick turned his key over.
There was a tiny symbol scratched into the back.
Rachel looked at hers.
The same symbol.
A crown surrounded by three lines.
“What does that mean?” she asked.
“I don’t know.”
A noise came from outside.
Nick raised one finger.
Silence.
Then footsteps.
Rachel’s breathing stopped.
Nick turned off the storage-unit light.
They waited.
The footsteps passed.
Nick slowly looked outside.
Nobody.
When he returned, Rachel had opened another compartment in her mother’s jewelry box.
“There’s something else.”
She pulled out a photograph.
Nick took it.
Four men stood outside a restaurant.
Anthony Adams.
Daniel Santoro.
Salvatore Russo.
And a fourth man.
Nick stared at him.
Rachel noticed his expression.
“Who is that?”
Nick didn’t answer immediately.
Because the fourth man wasn’t an enemy.
He was someone Nick had trusted for twenty years.
Someone currently running Nick’s organization while Nick remained underground.
His closest friend.
His second-in-command.
Vincent Moretti.
Rachel whispered, “Nick?”
Nick turned the photograph over.
Someone had written a date on the back.
The night Daniel Santoro died.
And underneath it, four words:
May you like
VINCENT KNOWS THE TRUTH.
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