Chapter 1 - The Woman Who Was Supposed to Be Dead
The first thing I said when the black SUV stopped outside the restaurant was, “I'm not getting into that.”
My manager, Mr. Klein, looked as though I'd threatened to set the linen closet on fire. He was a small man with an expensive watch and a lifelong habit of smiling at customers while insulting the staff. That morning he had forgotten how to smile.
“Olivia, these are Mr. Moretti's people.”
“I heard you the first time.”
“Then don't make them wait.”
I looked past him. Two men in dark suits stood beside the vehicle. Neither held a weapon, but there was something precise about the way they watched the sidewalk. My stomach tightened. It had been barely twelve hours since I'd scratched an enormous black dog's ears. If someone was going to punish me for that, the world was even stranger than I'd believed.
“Tell them Mr. Moretti can come inside if he wants to speak to me,” I said.
Mr. Klein blinked. “You cannot be serious.”
“I'm very serious. I'm scheduled to start in six minutes, and I need this job.”
One of the men opened the restaurant door. He had dark skin, a close-cropped beard, and the patient expression of someone used to hearing no and waiting anyway.
“Miss Marshall? I'm Gabriel Russo. Mr. Moretti has requested a conversation. You're not under any obligation to come with us.”
Mr. Klein made a strangled noise behind me.
“Then why does everyone look terrified?” I asked.
Gabriel's mouth twitched. “Because they know his reputation.”
“Do you?”
“Better than most.”
“Then I'd prefer a public conversation.”
He studied me for a moment and nodded. “I'll tell him.”
He returned to the SUV. I heard a short phone call, saw him listen, and then watched him nod again.
“He'll be here in ten minutes. May he bring the dog?”
My fear took an absurd turn. “Orion?”
“Yes.”
“Of course he can bring the dog.”
Mr. Klein put a hand over his face. “This is how people disappear.”
“Then maybe you should make us coffee,” I told him.
Dante Moretti entered eight minutes later, carrying no visible weapon and wearing the same charcoal coat I'd noticed the night before. Orion came beside him, walking close enough that the enormous black shoulder brushed Dante's knee. The dog saw me and stopped. His amber eyes fixed on my face. Then he made a sound so painfully hopeful that my throat tightened.
“Hey, handsome,” I whispered.
Orion crossed the restaurant faster than seemed possible for an animal his size. He pressed his forehead against my stomach and leaned until I had to brace myself against a table. His tail struck a chair leg in a steady rhythm.
I rubbed the soft fur behind his ears. “All right. I missed you too.”
Dante watched as if the dog had stood on his hind legs and recited Shakespeare.
“Would you sit with me?” he asked.
It was a request, not an order. I appreciated that, though the two men waiting by the door made the distinction feel delicate.
We took a booth near the front windows. Mr. Klein brought coffee so quickly that he almost spilled it. Orion settled with his broad head on my shoe. Every time I moved my foot, his eyes opened to check that I was still there.
“Is he sick?” I asked.
“His veterinarian examined him this morning. Physically, he's fine.”
“But he hasn't eaten?”
“He refused both meals. When your shift ended, he waited at the kitchen door for twenty minutes. At home, he watched the front entrance all night.”
I looked down at the dog. “That's a lot of trouble for a stranger.”
“Yes,” Dante said. “It is.”
His tone had changed. Something behind his gray eyes was unsettled, even frightened. He slid a folder across the table but kept his hand on it.
“My people ran a background check on you.”
A cold rush went through me. “Without asking?”
“I should have asked. I'm sorry.”
“Why would you do that?”
“Because Orion has been with me for seven years. He has never behaved like this around someone he didn't already know. I wanted to understand why.”
I stared at him. “Maybe he likes my soap.”
“I wish it were that simple.”
He opened the folder. Inside was a black-and-white photograph taken from a security camera. It showed a young woman leaving a brick building with a dark dog on a rope leash. The image was grainy, but I recognized her posture: the slant of the shoulders, the way she tucked loose hair behind her left ear.
I recognized myself.
The date at the bottom read NOVEMBER 14, 2019.
“That looks like me,” I said.
“It is you. We found the photograph in a sealed file connected to a warehouse fire in Red Hook.”
The restaurant seemed to tilt. I reached for my coffee and missed the handle.
“I was in a fire,” I said. “Seven years ago. I don't remember much of it.”
Dante's eyes narrowed. “Tell me what you remember.”
“A clinic. A dog. Smoke. I spent weeks in the hospital afterward. My aunt took me home.”
“What clinic?”
I rubbed my forehead. That entire period existed in fragments: a blue door, a smell of disinfectant, an older woman laughing with a paper cup of tea. Sometimes I remembered a dog barking. Sometimes I dreamed of a woman's voice telling me to run.
“I don't know,” I admitted. “I had a head injury. The doctors said some memories might never come back.”
Dante touched the edge of the photograph. “The woman who ran the clinic was my younger sister, Lucia.”
I looked up.
“She was killed in the same fire.”
Orion lifted his head at the name. He made a soft whine and pushed his nose into my palm.
“I'm sorry,” I said.
Dante did not acknowledge the sympathy. He turned to a second page, then stopped.
“There's something else,” he said. “The city's original casualty list includes two confirmed deaths. Lucia Moretti and a volunteer called Olivia Reed.”
My mouth went dry.
“Reed was my surname before my aunt adopted me. Marshall is hers.”
“I know.”
“I was injured, not killed.”
“Yes. Your current records show that. But the death certificate was never properly withdrawn. Someone entered a second identity for you under Marshall after your recovery. The files contradict each other, and the photograph identifies you as the young woman who left the building with Orion minutes before the fire.”
I looked from the date to the dog's amber eyes. A sensation like ice water passed over my skin.
“I don't remember him,” I whispered.
“I believe he remembers you.”
Orion nudged my hand again. I scratched behind his left ear, using the same two-finger circular motion I had used the night before. The dog sighed and closed his eyes.
Dante stared.
“Lucia taught him to accept that touch,” he said. “She never let anyone else do it.”
I could hear a sound from somewhere inside my memory. Not the restaurant. Not the traffic outside. A tinny radio playing while a young woman sang off-key. A black puppy pressed against my leg.
Then the image disappeared.
“Why would someone make a death certificate for a person who survived?” I asked.
Dante's gaze settled on the folder.
“That is the question I came here to ask you.”
I pulled my hand away from the dog and looked straight at him. “I haven't hidden from anyone. I work double shifts. I pay my rent. My aunt died last year, and I am barely keeping up with bills. Whatever your sister was involved in, I don't know it.”
“I believe you.”
“Why?”
“Because you demanded that I come to your workplace in public, even though you were frightened.”
“That could just mean I'm stubborn.”
“Lucia was stubborn too.”
The resemblance he implied made me uncomfortable. I stood. Orion rose immediately, his claws clicking against the tile.
“I need to work,” I said. “I can't lose my job over a seven-year-old fire.”
Dante stood too. “You won't. I asked Mr. Klein to pay you for the time we've taken.”
“I didn't ask you to do that.”
“No. Consider it a correction for my interruption.”
He handed me a business card with a number written on the back. “If anyone asks you about the fire, call me or the police. Someone may have believed you were dead for seven years. If they learn otherwise, I don't know what they'll do.”
My fingers closed around the card, though I wanted to refuse it.
“Who would want me dead?”
Dante's expression changed almost imperceptibly.
“The person who killed my sister,” he said.
He moved toward the exit. Orion refused to follow. The dog planted all four feet beside my booth, looking between us as if the decision belonged to me.
Dante stopped. For the first time, the man everyone feared sounded helpless.
“Orion. Come.”
The dog did not move.
I crouched. “It's okay, big guy. He needs you.”
Orion leaned into my forehead, holding there for one long second. Then he walked to Dante.
When they disappeared into the SUV, I noticed something on the booth seat beneath the folder's edge. A torn piece of paper had slipped out. On it was the printed name of the officer who signed my death report.
May you like
DETECTIVE ANTHONY BELLINI.
I knew that name. My aunt used to wake from nightmares whispering it.
