Chapter 2 - The Door That Wouldn't Open
Tatum stared at Declan's hands.
For several seconds, she couldn't process what he had signed.
He thinks you're going to die with me.
She looked at the door.
Then back at him.
Surely he was exaggerating.
Maybe this was the kind of paranoia powerful men developed after years of being surrounded by enemies.
But Declan wasn't panicking.
That frightened her.
He placed his whiskey down without drinking.
Then he pointed subtly toward the ceiling.
Tatum followed his gaze.
A small black lens sat inside the smoke detector.
A camera.
Declan signed.
Don't look frightened.
Her pulse accelerated.
Why?
Because someone is watching.
Tatum forced herself to breathe normally.
She picked up a cloth and pretended to polish the table.
Declan opened his book again.
To anyone watching through the camera, nothing had changed.
His left hand rested beside the book.
Hidden below the table's edge, his right hand continued signing.
How long has Briggs been here?
Most of the evening.
Who is with him?
Six or seven men. Maybe more.
Declan's jaw tightened.
Anyone you recognize?
Tatum thought.
There had been politicians, businessmen, two men she'd seen around the restaurant before.
Then she remembered someone.
A broad-shouldered man with silver hair.
He hadn't eaten.
Hadn't drunk.
He had spent most of the night watching entrances.
She described him.
Declan stopped moving.
Which hand did he wear his ring on?
Tatum blinked.
What kind of question was that?
She thought back.
Left.
She signed it.
Declan's expression changed.
Not fear.
Betrayal.
He closed his eyes for a moment.
Then reopened them.
His name is Adrian Vale.
Tatum waited.
He's my security chief.
A cold sensation moved through her.
If Declan's own security chief was sitting with Briggs, this wasn't some drunken prank.
This was an ambush.
Tatum looked toward the door.
We need to leave.
The door is locked.
She crossed the room casually and tried the handle.
Nothing.
Her stomach dropped.
She turned.
Declan was watching her.
Can you call someone?
He showed her his phone.
No signal.
Tatum checked hers.
Nothing.
The room was shielded.
Of course it was.
The Vault had been designed so powerful people could have private conversations.
Tonight, that privacy had become a cage.
Tatum thought about Maya.
Seven years old.
Probably asleep beneath the faded purple blanket she'd loved since preschool.
Mrs. Alvarez from downstairs was babysitting.
Tatum had promised she'd be home before ten.
It was nearly midnight.
Her throat tightened.
Declan noticed.
Someone waiting for you?
She nodded.
My daughter.
Something almost gentle appeared in his eyes.
Maya?
Tatum froze.
She had never told him her daughter's name.
Her hands stopped.
Declan immediately understood what he'd done.
Tatum backed away.
How do you know her name?
He didn't answer.
She signed again, sharper.
How do you know my daughter's name?
Declan looked toward the camera.
Then back to her.
Not here.
Tatum's fear turned to anger.
You know my child.
I know of her.
That wasn't better.
She stepped closer.
Why?
Before Declan could answer, the lights went out.
Complete darkness.
Tatum gasped.
A second later, emergency lighting illuminated the floor.
Red.
The elegant room transformed instantly into something sinister.
Declan wheeled himself toward her and caught her wrist.
He couldn't hear what was happening outside.
Tatum could.
And now she heard it.
Footsteps.
Several.
Approaching the Vault.
She crouched beside Declan.
"Someone's coming," she whispered instinctively.
Then remembered.
She signed it.
Declan nodded.
He reached beneath his wheelchair.
Tatum tensed.
He removed—not a gun—but a slim metal tool.
He moved toward the side wall.
There was a decorative panel beside a wine cabinet.
Declan inserted the tool into a nearly invisible seam.
The panel opened.
Behind it was a narrow maintenance passage.
Tatum stared.
Declan signed.
Old buildings always have more doors than architects admit.
Despite everything, she almost smiled.
Then the main door rattled.
Someone was unlocking it.
Declan gestured urgently.
Tatum slipped into the passage.
Declan maneuvered his wheelchair through after her.
The panel closed.
Seconds later, the Vault door opened.
Tatum pressed herself against the wall.
Through tiny ventilation holes, she saw Briggs enter.
His pleasant expression was gone.
Adrian Vale followed.
"Where is he?"
Tatum could hear them.
Declan couldn't.
She began translating into sign language.
Briggs walked around the room.
"The camera showed them right here."
Vale examined the wall.
"They couldn't have vanished."
Briggs swore.
Then he said something that made Tatum's blood freeze.
"Find the waitress first."
Vale looked at him.
"Why her?"
"Because Morrow saw her sign."
"So?"
Briggs turned.
"Because if she told him what she saw at table seven tonight, we're finished."
Tatum's breathing stopped.
What had she seen?
She replayed the evening.
Table seven.
Briggs.
His associates.
Wait—
There had been an envelope.
One of Briggs' men had passed a thick envelope beneath the table to someone.
Tatum hadn't paid attention.
She'd been carrying six plates.
But now she remembered the recipient.
Adrian Vale.
She looked at Declan.
He was watching her face.
He knew she had remembered something.
Briggs continued.
"Vale, once Morrow's dead, the Collective needs to believe the Italians did it. Nobody can know you were involved."
Vale's expression hardened.
"And the waitress?"
Briggs shrugged.
"Wrong place. Wrong night."
Tatum felt sick.
Declan's hands moved.
We leave now.
The maintenance passage descended toward the basement.
It was narrow, dusty, and difficult for the wheelchair.
Tatum moved behind Declan and helped guide the wheels over pipes and uneven concrete.
For ten minutes, neither stopped.
Finally they reached the wine cellar.
Declan pulled out his phone.
One bar.
Then two.
He typed a message.
Before sending it, he paused.
He looked at Tatum.
I owe you an explanation.
About Maya.
He nodded.
Tatum crossed her arms.
Declan typed something into his phone and handed it to her.
It was a photograph.
Tatum's knees almost gave way.
The picture showed Maya outside her elementary school three months earlier.
Beside her stood a smiling woman Tatum recognized immediately.
Dr. Evelyn Shaw.
Maya's audiologist.
And behind them, half turned away from the camera, was Declan Morrow.
Tatum stared at him.
"What is this?"
He couldn't hear her.
Her shaking hands formed the question.
Why were you near my daughter?
Declan's answer came slowly.
Because I paid for her treatment.
Tatum stopped breathing.
The specialized therapy.
The equipment.
The anonymous foundation that had covered bills Tatum couldn't afford.
She had cried when the approval letter arrived.
She had believed it was luck.
It wasn't.
She stared at Declan.
Why?
Before he could answer, footsteps sounded above them.
Tatum looked toward the cellar stairs.
Then Declan's phone vibrated.
A message appeared.
UNKNOWN NUMBER.
Only seven words.
GIVE US THE WAITRESS AND YOU LIVE.
Declan read it.
Then looked at Tatum.
For the first time that night, she saw unmistakable fury in his eyes.
He deleted the message.
His hands moved.
They're going to regret offering me that deal.
But before Tatum could respond, another message appeared.
This one included a photograph.
Maya.
Sleeping in her bed.
May you like
Taken less than five minutes earlier.
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