Chapter 4 - The Man Behind the WallFor three days, Reed moved us into a guest apartment above the restaurant.
I hated needing him.
He hated admitting he wanted us there.
Our relationship became strange.
He bought Ava a stuffed rabbit.
I complained it was too expensive.
He bought another.
I complained again.
He bought a third.
Eventually, I stopped complaining.
Every night, Reed came upstairs.
Sometimes he stayed ten minutes.
Sometimes an hour.
He learned Ava's bedtime routine.
He learned which song made her laugh.
He learned that she hated peas.
And I learned things about him too.
He didn't sleep much.
He hated thunderstorms.
He kept an old photograph of his mother in his wallet.
And whenever he thought I wasn't watching, he touched the photograph with his thumb.
One night, I found him standing alone by the window.
“You okay?”
He looked at me.
“I don't know.”
That honesty surprised me.
I stood beside him.
“Neither do I.”
He smiled faintly.
Then his phone rang.
His expression changed instantly.
“Tommy?”
A pause.
“Lock the building.”
My stomach dropped.
“What happened?”
“Someone tried to enter the apartment downstairs.”
“Who?”
“Security caught him.”
“Was he armed?”
“Yes.”
Reed looked at me.
“Stay here.”
He left.
Ten minutes later, I heard shouting downstairs.
Then a gunshot.
I grabbed Ava.
I locked the door.
My hands shook.
Another shot.
Then silence.
The door opened.
Reed entered.
Blood covered his sleeve.
I gasped.
“Are you hurt?”
“Not mine.”
He looked at Ava.
Then me.
“Are you okay?”
I nodded.
He walked toward us.
For the first time, I saw fear in his eyes.
Not fear for himself.
Fear for us.
He stopped inches away.
“I can't lose you.”
The words escaped before he could stop them.
Neither of us moved.
I whispered:
“Reed…”
He touched my cheek.
Then he kissed me.
It was gentle.
Nothing like the man people feared.
When we separated, his forehead rested against mine.
“I shouldn't have done that.”
“I don't think you regret it.”
“I don't.”
Then someone knocked.
We jumped apart.
Tommy entered.
“Boss.”
“What?”
“We found something.”
He placed a small metal box on the table.
Inside was a letter.
The handwriting was mine.
Except I had never written it.
It was dated fifteen years earlier.
And the first line said:
Dear Reed, if you're reading this, my father is dead and I need you to remember what happened that night.
I looked at Reed.
“I never wrote that.”
He unfolded the second page.
There was a signature.
My father's.
And beneath it:
The Callaway family did not kill me. Someone else did.
Reed looked up.
“Your father knew.”
“Knew what?”
He turned the page.
At the bottom was a name.
Victor Moretti.
Reed's face went pale.
May you like
“Who is he?”
“The man who started the war that killed my father.”
