Chapter 2 - ONE HUNDRED SUVs AND A VERY BAD MORNING
“Because of the accountant?” Roman repeated.
Harper stared at him. “No. The accountant was the coffee stain on a very large, very expensive pile of reasons.”
“You're leaving over a rug?”
“I'm leaving because you just tried to fire a twenty-three-year-old man for having human reflexes. I'm leaving because I can't remember the last time I did something that wasn't designed to prevent you from having a minor inconvenience.”
Roman's expression went cold.
“You're emotional.”
“And you're proving my point.”
She had expected anger. A threat. Perhaps an offer large enough to buy a small island.
Instead, Roman looked at her resignation letter and asked, “What would it take?”
Harper blinked.
“To what?”
“To stay.”
“An entirely different personality.”
“Be serious.”
“I am. You should try it sometime.”
He stepped around his desk.
“Double your salary.”
“No.”
“Triple.”
“Roman.”
“Name your number.”
Harper picked up her bag.
“My number is a life where I don't have to explain to a grown man why firing someone over spilled coffee makes him look like a sociopath.”
His jaw flexed.
“You'll regret this.”
“Possibly. But at least the regret will belong to me.”
She walked out.
By Monday morning, Harper had returned her security badge, signed the exit paperwork, and blocked three numbers belonging to people who had attempted to convince her that Roman was merely misunderstood.
By Monday afternoon, she'd bought groceries with her own money and cooked dinner without checking whether anyone had reserved a table.
By Monday night, she'd slept eight uninterrupted hours.
It was the best sleep she'd had in two years.
Then Tuesday arrived.
At 6:18 a.m., Harper watched a man in a black coat step into the street and raise his hand.
Every SUV stopped simultaneously.
A second man approached her building carrying a leather folder.
Harper backed away from the window.
Her phone rang.
UNKNOWN NUMBER.
She answered. “If this is about the resignation paperwork, I mailed the final copy.”
“Miss Lane?” a male voice asked.
“Yes.”
“This is Deputy Director Samuel Price, FBI.”
Harper stopped breathing.
Price continued. “We need to speak with you regarding Roman Vale.”
“Then you should call Roman Vale.”
“We've tried.”
“That sounds like a you problem.”
“Miss Lane, there are a hundred vehicles outside your residence.”
“I have eyes.”
“They weren't sent to intimidate you.”
Harper looked through the blinds at the men gathering beneath her window.
“Then why are they there?”
A pause.
“Because Mr. Vale believes you're in danger.”
She almost laughed.
“From whom? His interior decorator?”
“From a man named Victor Sloane.”
The humor evaporated.
Harper knew that name.
Sloane was a former Vale associate who had disappeared eighteen months earlier after a shipment of weapons vanished along with several million dollars. Roman had spent weeks investigating the theft, and Harper had once overheard a private conversation suggesting that Sloane had sold information to federal authorities.
She had never learned what happened next.
“Why would Victor Sloane care about me?”
“That's what we'd like to establish.”
“Ask him.”
“We can't. He was found dead last night.”
Harper's fingers tightened around the phone.
Price lowered his voice.
“His body was discovered in a vehicle registered to a company connected to Mr. Vale. Before he died, Sloane sent a message to someone. Your name was in it.”
A knock sounded at her apartment door.
Harper jumped.
“Miss Lane,” Price said, “do not open that door until you know who's outside.”
The knocking came again.
Three measured taps.
Then a familiar voice.
“Harper. Open the door.”
Roman.
Of course.
She glanced at the window, where the black SUVs gleamed beneath the wet morning sky.
“You have six seconds to explain why you've brought an entire motorcade to Queens.”
“I need you to open the door.”
“Five.”
“Someone is trying to kill you.”
“Four.”
“Harper.”
“Three.”
“I'm not asking you to come back to work.”
That stopped her.
She approached the door and looked through the peephole.
Roman stood in the hallway without an umbrella, wearing a dark overcoat over yesterday's suit. Rainwater darkened his hair. Two security men waited behind him, and a third stood by the stairs.
Roman Vale looked as if he'd spent the night fighting a war.
Harper unlocked the deadbolt but kept the chain attached.
“Prove it.”
He held up a photograph.
It showed Harper leaving a coffee shop on Sunday afternoon.
Someone had circled her face in red.
On the back, written in black marker, were five words.
SHE KNOWS WHAT HAPPENED IN BOSTON.
Harper stared at the photograph.
She had never been to Boston for Roman.
At least, she didn't think she had.
Roman's eyes searched hers.
“Do you recognize the handwriting?”
“No.”
“Do you recognize the photograph?”
“It's me leaving a coffee shop.”
“Look at the reflection in the window.”
She took the photograph.
Behind her reflected image stood an older woman with silver hair, holding a red umbrella.
Harper's stomach dropped.
Her mother had been dead for eleven years.
Yet the woman in the photograph had her mother's face.
“That's impossible,” Harper whispered.
Roman's expression changed.
“You recognize her.”
Harper looked up.
“Who is she?”
Roman didn't answer immediately.
Then he said, “Someone I was told had died.”
“Who?”
“My mother.”
Harper stared at him.
Roman Vale had spent two years employing her, trusting her with his schedule, his business secrets, and the smallest details of his life.
He had never mentioned that his mother was alive.
And now, apparently, someone was willing to kill Harper to keep that secret buried.
Roman glanced toward the stairwell.
“We have to leave. Now.”
Harper tightened her grip on the photograph.
“I'm not going anywhere until you tell me what Boston has to do with my family.”
Roman's face hardened.
“Because eleven years ago, Harper, your mother saved my life.”
Before she could respond, a gunshot shattered the hallway window.
Roman grabbed her and dragged her to the floor.
May you like
Glass exploded across the entryway.
And from the street below came the unmistakable sound of a hundred car doors opening at once.
