Chapter 3 - The Secret Beneath the Floor
The bakery was dark when they returned.
But the upstairs apartment wasn't.
A pale rectangle of light moved behind Anna's bedroom curtains.
Someone was searching her home.
Elias parked the Lincoln half a block away.
"Stay here," he told her.
Anna unbuckled her seat belt.
"No."
"Anna."
"That's my apartment."
"And those men may be armed."
"Then call the police."
"I already have."
She looked at him in surprise.
Elias held up his phone.
"Marco reported a suspected burglary. The police are on their way. We're not going inside until the building is secure."
Anna had expected him to pull out a gun and order his men through the door.
Instead, he waited.
That frightened her in a different way.
He was a man accustomed to danger.
And whatever was happening inside her home was serious enough to make him cautious.
Five minutes later, the bedroom light went out.
Two figures emerged through the bakery's rear service entrance.
They climbed into a gray SUV and disappeared toward Washington Street.
Marco photographed the license plate.
Then the police arrived.
Anna spent forty minutes answering questions while officers searched the property.
The intruders had forced the upstairs lock.
Her bedroom drawers lay scattered across the floor.
The mattress had been overturned.
Her father's desk was broken.
But nothing obvious was missing.
"They weren't burglars," Anna said.
The responding officer, Detective Rachel Mercer, examined the damaged desk.
"What makes you say that?"
"My television is still here. So is my laptop."
Mercer looked at Elias.
"And you are?"
"Elias Romano."
The detective's expression tightened.
"I know who you are."
Anna noticed the change immediately.
Mercer closed her notebook.
"Mr. Romano, I suggest you let us handle this."
"That's the plan."
"Good. Keep it that way."
After the officers finished photographing the apartment, Mercer allowed Anna to collect clothing and essential belongings.
Elias remained downstairs.
Anna was grateful.
She needed a moment without his dark eyes watching every movement.
Her father's bedroom smelled faintly of old books and cedar soap.
She sat on the edge of his bed.
For the first time that night, the enormity of her loss caught up with her.
Three weeks ago, she had still been somebody's daughter.
Now strangers were tearing apart the rooms where she had grown up.
She covered her mouth.
A sob escaped anyway.
"Why didn't you tell me, Dad?"
The silence offered no answer.
Then she remembered the key.
Anna stood.
Her father had kept an old oak cabinet beside his bedroom window.
Its lower drawer had been locked for as long as she could remember.
As a child, she had believed it contained Christmas presents.
She crossed the room and knelt.
The brass key slid into the lock.
It turned.
Inside lay a worn leather notebook, a small envelope, and a flash drive wrapped in wax paper.
Anna's pulse accelerated.
She opened the notebook.
Her father's handwriting filled the pages.
Dates.
Names.
Dollar amounts.
And one sentence underlined three times.
Beatrice knows about the warehouse.
Anna frowned.
What warehouse?
Her father had never owned a warehouse.
She turned another page.
There was a name she recognized.
Victor Sloane.
Beside it, her father had written:
He thinks I kept the original records. He's right.
Anna opened the envelope.
Inside was a photograph of her father standing beside a younger woman.
The woman was not Beatrice.
She had dark hair, a gentle smile, and one hand resting protectively over a pregnant belly.
Anna's breath caught.
Her mother.
She had died when Anna was four.
At least, that was what her father had always told her.
Anna turned the photograph over.
On the back, someone had written:
Boston, September 2001. Before everything changed.
Underneath was another sentence.
If Anna ever asks, tell her I tried.
Anna stared at the words.
A terrible thought entered her mind.
She forced it away.
Then she looked more closely at the photograph.
A second man stood in the background.
Partially obscured by a parked car.
She recognized his face from the news.
Victor Sloane.
A knock sounded.
"Anna?"
Detective Mercer stood in the doorway.
"Are you all right?"
Anna quickly closed the notebook.
"Yes."
Mercer's gaze dropped toward the open drawer.
"Find something?"
"Just some family papers."
The detective studied her.
For a moment, Anna thought she might demand to inspect them.
Instead, Mercer nodded.
"Take what you need. We'll be downstairs."
When the detective left, Anna slipped the notebook and flash drive into her coat.
She hesitated over the photograph.
Then tucked it inside her father's paperback.
Outside, Elias stood beside the Lincoln.
He looked at her face.
"What happened?"
"Nothing."
He didn't believe her.
But he didn't press.
Not until she climbed into the car.
"Anna, whatever you found, don't hand it to me because you think you owe me anything."
She looked at him.
"How did you know?"
"Because you came downstairs holding your father's book like it was worth more than the building."
Anna hesitated.
Then removed the notebook.
Elias read the first page.
His expression darkened.
"Where was this?"
"Locked drawer."
He turned another page.
Then another.
Finally, he stopped.
Anna saw his fingers tighten around the leather cover.
"What?"
Elias looked up.
"Your father kept a record of payments made through Sloane's companies."
"Why?"
"Because he was trying to prove something."
Anna pulled out the photograph.
"And what about this?"
Elias examined it.
For several seconds, he said nothing.
Then he looked at Anna with an expression she could not understand.
"Where did you get this?"
"It was with the notebook."
"Did your father ever tell you anything about your mother?"
"She died in a car accident."
Elias slowly lowered the photograph.
"That's what he told you?"
Anna felt her stomach drop.
"Why?"
He looked toward the driver.
"Marco, take us to my office."
Anna grabbed his arm.
"No more secrets."
Elias met her eyes.
"Your mother wasn't killed in a car accident, Anna."
The words seemed to empty the air from the vehicle.
"Then how did she die?"
Elias's face tightened.
"That's the problem."
May you like
He turned the photograph toward her.
"The last time I saw this woman, she was alive."
