Chapter 4 - A DEAD WOMAN WALKED INTO ROOM 217
Daniel Jenkins was not confused.
That was the first thing Tessa established.
His body had failed him gradually after a stroke two years earlier, but his mind remained irritatingly sharp.
When Tessa and Leo reached the care facility, Daniel was sitting upright in bed.
“You brought the mobster,” he said.
Leo paused.
Tessa stared at her father.
“You know who he is?”
“Sweetheart, I have cable television.”
Leo almost smiled.
Daniel pointed at him.
“Also, your people are terrible at pretending not to carry guns.”
“Dad.”
“What? That one outside has a shoulder holster shaped like Rhode Island.”
Leo looked toward Marco.
“Fire him.”
Daniel laughed.
Tessa did not.
“Who came here?”
Her father sobered.
“A woman.”
“What woman?”
“Late fifties, maybe sixty. Gray hair. Sunglasses.”
“You said Mom.”
“She looked like your mother.”
Tessa sat beside him.
“Exactly?”
“No.”
Daniel’s voice softened.
“Older.”
That word hurt.
Older.
Evelyn had died at thirty-eight.
Tessa had never been allowed to imagine her mother with wrinkles.
“Did she give you a name?”
“No.”
“What did she want?”
“She asked if you still hated cinnamon.”
Tessa froze.
Nobody knew that.
At six, Tessa had eaten nearly an entire tray of cinnamon cookies at a school fair and vomited spectacularly in the back seat of her mother’s car.
For years afterward, Evelyn teased her about it.
“Dad…”
“I know.”
Daniel looked frightened now.
“She also said something else.”
Leo stepped closer.
“What?”
Daniel’s gaze hardened.
“I’m talking to my daughter.”
Leo stopped.
“Fair.”
Tessa almost looked at him.
Almost.
Daniel continued.
“She said, ‘Tell Tess the greenhouse still grows roses.’”
Leo’s face emptied.
Tessa noticed.
“What does that mean?”
“I don’t know,” Daniel said.
Leo did.
She could tell.
Before she could question him, a nurse entered.
“Mr. Jenkins? Security found this in the visitor log.”
She handed Tessa a photocopy.
The woman had signed one name.
Evelyn Gray.
Tessa stared at it.
Her mother’s maiden name had been Gray.
At 2:17 in the morning, Tessa sat in Leo’s kitchen wearing his white dress shirt.
Her burgundy dress had acquired a tear during the frantic trip to the care facility, and Leo had offered clothing without comment.
His shirt reached almost to her knees.
He had very deliberately gone to another room while she changed.
Progress.
Leo made coffee.
Badly.
Tessa watched him take a sip.
He grimaced.
“You own twelve restaurants.”
“Thirteen.”
“And you make coffee like a recently divorced accountant.”
“I employ people for this.”
“Of course you do.”
He placed the mug down.
For the first time since 8:00, the world felt temporarily still.
“Tell me about the greenhouse.”
Leo leaned against the counter.
“My mother grew roses.”
“What kind?”
“White.”
Tessa remembered the message.
“The greenhouse still grows roses.”
“Yes.”
“But it was demolished.”
“So I believed.”
“Where was it?”
Leo hesitated.
“At another Santoro property.”
“You said your father demolished it.”
“I lied.”
Tessa’s expression cooled.
Leo sighed.
“Bad timing?”
“Catastrophic.”
He rubbed his face.
“The greenhouse still exists.”
“Where?”
“Connecticut.”
“And you never thought that mattered?”
“It hasn’t been used in twenty years.”
“Apparently dead women disagree.”
They left before dawn.
The Santoro property sat on seventy wooded acres near the Connecticut border.
The greenhouse appeared abandoned.
Glass panels had cracked.
Vines crawled through ironwork.
Inside, however, roses were growing.
White roses.
Hundreds.
Tessa stopped.
“Someone maintains this.”
“Yes.”
Leo drew his gun.
“Stay behind me.”
“Suggestion or command?”
He glanced at her.
“Desperate request.”
“Accepted.”
They moved between rows of flowers.
At the far end stood an old potting table.
Tessa noticed scratches along the wood.
Initials.
E.G.
Her mother.
Beneath them:
L.S.
Leo touched the carving.
“I did that.”
“How old?”
“Fourteen.”
Tessa looked at the frightening man beside her and briefly saw a lonely boy.
Then she noticed one floor tile was cleaner than the others.
“Leo.”
They lifted it.
Beneath was a metal box.
Inside were photographs, documents, an old cassette tape, and a key.
Leo picked up the key.
A bank logo was stamped into the metal.
“The deposit box.”
Tessa reached for the documents.
A gunshot exploded.
Glass shattered.
Leo tackled her to the floor.
Another bullet struck the table.
“Tessa!”
“I’m fine.”
Leo fired twice toward the trees.
Marco and security rushed from outside.
The shooter disappeared.
Leo’s hands moved over Tessa’s arms and face.
“Are you hit?”
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
His breathing was ragged.
Tessa caught his wrists.
“Leo.”
His eyes found hers.
“I’m okay.”
Something broke across his face.
Fear.
Not for himself.
For her.
Tessa had never seen a powerful man look so helpless.
Without thinking, she touched his cheek.
Leo closed his eyes.
Only for a second.
Then Marco shouted.
“Boss.”
They turned.
He held one photograph from the box.
It showed Evelyn standing beside Antonio Santoro.
Behind them stood several men.
One was Daniel Jenkins.
Tessa’s father.
Tessa took the photograph.
“No.”
The date was nineteen years earlier.
Three years after Evelyn had supposedly died.
Tessa’s fingers went numb.
Her father had lied.
May you like
Her mother had survived the crash.
And somehow Leo Santoro’s dead father had known it.
