Chapter 3 - The Woman Who Learned to Disappear
Arthur did not go to the address.
Not immediately.
Three years earlier, he would have.
He would have taken 6 armed men, broken down the door, and trusted fear to solve whatever remained.
Norah's letter had taught him what rage could cost.
So Arthur sat inside his car outside Clara's house and studied the message until dawn.
The address belonged to an abandoned motel outside Providence.
A trap.
Obviously.
The question was who had sent it.
At 6:10 a.m., Anthony called.
"I found something."
"Already?"
"You told me yesterday."
Arthur almost smiled.
Almost.
Anthony continued.
"Vincent has been moving money through a construction company called Bellmere Holdings. Small amounts at first. Then millions."
"Marino?"
"Possibly. But here's the strange part. Bellmere made payments to private investigators in 3 states."
Arthur tightened his grip on the phone.
"What were they investigating?"
"I don't know."
"I do."
Norah.
Arthur drove to the motel alone but parked half a mile away.
He approached through woods behind the property.
Room 17 had curtains drawn.
The door was unlocked.
Arthur entered with his gun raised.
Empty.
A table stood beneath a buzzing fluorescent light.
On it sat a cardboard box.
Arthur opened it.
Photographs.
Dozens.
Norah leaving a grocery store in Vermont.
Norah boarding a bus in Albany.
Norah serving coffee inside a small diner.
Norah standing outside a medical clinic.
Her hair was shorter.
Her clothes inexpensive.
She looked thinner.
But alive.
Arthur's knees nearly failed him.
He touched one photograph.
Norah was smiling at an elderly waitress.
He had forgotten her smile.
Or perhaps he had forced himself to forget.
On the back was a date.
Eleven months earlier.
Arthur searched the other photographs.
They documented almost 2 years of her life.
Someone had been hunting her.
The newest photograph was only 6 weeks old.
Norah stood outside a bookstore in a small Massachusetts coastal town called Bellhaven.
Arthur closed his eyes.
Alive.
She was alive.
A floorboard creaked behind him.
Arthur spun.
Gun raised.
Nobody.
Then the motel door slammed.
Smoke began pouring beneath the bathroom door.
Arthur lunged toward the exit.
Locked.
He fired twice into the latch and kicked it open.
Flames climbed the wall behind him.
Arthur escaped seconds before the room erupted.
Someone had expected him.
Someone wanted the photographs destroyed.
But Arthur had taken one.
Norah outside the bookstore.
He drove to Bellhaven that afternoon.
He told nobody.
Not Vincent.
Not Clara.
Not even Anthony.
Bellhaven looked like the kind of place Norah once said she wanted to disappear into.
Small houses.
Salt air.
A main street where people knew each other's coffee orders.
Arthur parked 2 blocks from the bookstore.
He sat behind the wheel for 41 minutes.
The man feared by half the East Coast suddenly could not open a car door.
What would he say?
Sorry I accused you of betrayal.
Sorry I threatened to kill you.
Sorry I let you spend 3 years believing the man you loved would murder you if you came home.
There was no apology large enough.
Finally, Arthur entered the bookstore.
A bell chimed.
An elderly woman looked up.
"Can I help you?"
Arthur placed the photograph on the counter.
"Have you seen this woman?"
The woman's expression became guarded.
"No."
Arthur knew immediately she was lying.
"I don't want to hurt her."
"Men who say that usually do."
Arthur lowered his eyes.
"You're right."
That answer surprised her.
He removed Norah's letter.
"I was her husband."
The woman stared at him.
Then recognition came.
Not of his face.
His name.
"Costello."
Arthur said nothing.
The woman's friendliness vanished.
"Get out."
"Please."
"You threw her away."
Arthur froze.
"You know."
"I know enough."
"Is she alive?"
The woman looked at him for a long moment.
"She was when I saw her last."
Arthur's eyes closed briefly.
"When?"
"Six weeks ago."
"Where did she go?"
"I wouldn't tell you if I knew."
Arthur nodded.
He turned toward the door.
"Mr. Costello."
He stopped.
The woman softened slightly.
"She came here every Thursday."
Arthur looked back.
"She always bought the same book."
"What book?"
"Children's stories."
Arthur frowned.
"Why?"
The woman looked toward the window.
"Because of Eli."
Arthur felt something shift inside his chest.
"Who's Eli?"
Before she could answer, glass exploded.
Arthur moved instinctively.
He pulled the woman behind the counter as bullets tore through the front windows.
People screamed outside.
Arthur fired toward a black SUV.
It accelerated away.
Silence returned in fragments.
Broken glass.
A car alarm.
The old woman's breathing.
Arthur rose.
"Who is Eli?"
She stared at him.
Then she whispered:
"Norah's son."
Arthur stopped moving.
The entire room seemed to tilt.
"How old?"
The woman hesitated.
Arthur already knew why.
Still, he needed to hear it.
"Almost 3."
Arthur's hand slowly lowered.
Three.
Norah had disappeared 3 years ago.
He remembered the night in the rain.
Her pale face.
The oversized winter coat.
The way she had held the satchel against her stomach.
Arthur had believed she was protecting stolen ledgers.
What if she had been protecting something else?
His phone rang.
Vincent.
Arthur stared at the name.
Then answered.
"Boss," Vincent said casually, "where are you?"
Arthur looked through the shattered bookstore window.
"Home."
A pause.
Tiny.
Almost invisible.
"Good," Vincent replied. "Because we've got a problem."
Arthur's eyes darkened.
"No, Vincent."
May you like
He stared at the bullet holes surrounding Norah's photograph.
"We've got several."
