Chapter 5 - WHAT MICHAEL TOOK
My mother stood so fast her chair nearly fell backward.
“No.”
Vincent did not move.
“No what?” he asked quietly.
“No more.”
“Mom—”
She pointed at him.
“You stay away from my son.”
“I intend to.”
“You already said that.”
“And I meant it.”
“Then why are we sitting here talking about murder?”
Vincent’s expression tightened.
“Because someone put Michael’s name in Ethan’s locker.”
My mother looked as if she wanted to argue.
She couldn’t.
Neither could I.
Vincent folded his hands on the table.
“I need to be very clear. I do not know who sent the photograph. I do not know whether Anthony is involved now.”
“You said you believe he killed my husband.”
“I said I believe he was responsible.”
“What’s the difference?”
Vincent’s jaw tightened.
“Enough of one that I never had proof.”
I leaned forward.
“Is Anthony alive?”
“Yes.”
“Where is he?”
“Florida, officially.”
“Unofficially?”
Vincent looked at me.
“Do not start thinking like this is a puzzle you are supposed to solve.”
“It is a puzzle.”
“No. It is a danger adults failed to finish.”
That shut me up for maybe five seconds.
“What records did Dad take?”
Vincent looked at my mother.
She shook her head.
“No details.”
I stared at her.
“Rule six.”
Her eyes closed briefly.
We ask questions together.
She hated that rule now.
Vincent seemed almost amused.
“What is rule six?”
“None of your business,” my mother said.
His mouth twitched.
Then he looked at me.
“Your father found financial ledgers. Payments, names, dates. Enough to show where money moved between companies that existed on paper and people who did not want those relationships explained.”
“Illegal money?”
“Yes.”
“How illegal?”
“Enough.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It is the answer you get.”
My mother nodded.
“For once, I agree with him.”
I looked between them.
“Where did Dad hide it?”
“If I knew,” Vincent said, “we would not be having this conversation.”
“Did he tell you he had it?”
“No.”
“Then how do you know?”
“Anthony discovered copies were missing.”
“And blamed Dad.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because Michael had access.”
“How?”
“Driving was not the only thing he did. He delivered envelopes. Collected documents. Waited outside rooms where people assumed he could not hear them.”
I felt something twist in my stomach.
My father had always told me to pay attention when adults ignored me.
I suddenly wondered where he learned that.
Vincent continued.
“When Michael decided to leave, Anthony believed he had taken insurance.”
“Insurance?”
“Evidence.”
“Same thing?”
“In some worlds.”
My mother’s hands tightened.
“Did Michael ever tell you he had those records?”
Vincent shook his head.
“He denied it.”
“Did you believe him?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because he lied badly.”
That sounded like Dad.
He once tried to convince me the burnt pizza was supposed to be black.
He had lasted seven seconds before laughing.
My chest hurt.
“Then why would Anthony still believe he had them?”
“Because the records never resurfaced.”
My mother stared at Vincent.
“And after Michael died?”
“Nothing.”
“So why now?”
Vincent looked at me.
“Because Ethan and I appeared together on television.”
I hated the logic.
Someone who had stopped caring suddenly saw my face beside Vincent’s.
Then remembered my father.
The photo in my locker had not been a threat from a stranger.
It had been a question.
Do you know what your father knew?
My mother asked, “What do you want us to do?”
“Nothing.”
She laughed once.
“You came here to tell us people may think my son has criminal evidence, and your advice is nothing?”
“Yes.”
“That’s insane.”
“It is disciplined.”
“What happens when they come again?”
“I make sure they don’t.”
My mother stood.
“No.”
Vincent looked up.
“No what?”
“No private protection. No men outside our building. No cars following Ethan.”
“That sedan was not mine.”
“I know.”
“Then you understand the problem.”
“I understand exactly. If your people surround him, everyone will think he matters to you.”
Vincent said nothing.
My mother leaned closer.
“He is not leverage.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
Something moved across Vincent’s face.
“Yes.”
I believed him.
I didn’t know why.
Maybe because for the first time, he looked afraid.
Not for himself.
For me.
We left the restaurant with one agreement.
Police first.
School informed.
No Moretti security unless my mother specifically requested it.
Vincent hated that.
My mother enjoyed that he hated it.
For two days, nothing happened.
Then our apartment lost power.
That was not unusual.
Our building’s wiring was ancient.
Normally I would have grabbed my flashlight and complained about exactly the kind of problem GRIDLIGHT was designed to catch.
That night was different.
The hallway lights stayed on.
Only our apartment went dark.
My mother froze.
“That’s not the building.”
I put down my homework.
The refrigerator stopped humming.
Then someone knocked.
Three slow knocks.
My mother grabbed my phone and pulled me toward the bedroom.
“Closet.”
“I’m not five.”
“Closet.”
I went.
She called 911.
The knocking came again.
Then a man’s voice.
“Building maintenance.”
My mother did not answer.
We had not called maintenance.
From the closet, I heard her whisper to the dispatcher.
The front doorknob moved.
Once.
Twice.
Then stopped.
Footsteps.
Silence.
Police arrived seven minutes later.
The breaker box in the basement had been opened.
Only our line had been cut.
No one found the person who did it.
This time, my mother called Vincent herself.
She hated every second of it.
“I need cameras,” she said.
He did not sound triumphant.
“Done.”
“No men in the apartment.”
“Agreed.”
“No one talks to Ethan without me.”
“Agreed.”
“And you are paying because this is your fault.”
A pause.
“Agreed.”
I mouthed, Nice.
She glared at me.
By morning, a licensed security company installed cameras in the hallway, door sensors, and a new lock.
Not Vincent’s men.
An actual company.
My mother checked the paperwork.
Twice.
After they left, I went into my room.
Something bothered me.
The person who cut our power had known exactly which breaker was ours.
Maybe that was normal for someone who entered a basement.
But the phrase “building maintenance” stayed in my head.
My father had been an electrician.
I looked at the old metal toolbox beneath my desk.
It had belonged to him.
My mother kept most of his things in storage, but she had given me the toolbox when I joined robotics club.
I had used the screwdrivers.
The wire strippers.
The voltage meter.
Hundreds of times.
Nothing inside ever seemed unusual.
That day, I emptied everything onto the floor.
Screwdrivers.
Tape.
Pliers.
A packet of wire nuts.
Old receipts.
A pencil sharpened down to two inches.
At the bottom was a removable metal tray.
I lifted it.
Nothing.
Then I noticed one corner sat higher than the other.
I pressed.
The false bottom moved.
My heartbeat exploded.
Beneath it was a key.
Small.
Silver.
And a folded piece of paper wrapped in plastic.
My hands shook.
The paper had my father’s handwriting.
I knew it immediately.
ETHAN — IF YOU EVER FIND THIS, SHOW YOUR MOTHER. NO ONE ELSE.
I yelled.
“Mom!”
She came running.
“What happened?”
I held up the note.
She stopped.
Her face went white.
We opened it together.
Three lines.
Lena knows where I put the red box.
If anything happens to me, do not give it to Anthony.
Do not trust anyone who says Vincent sent them.
My mother sat down on the floor.
I stared at her.
“Aunt Lena?”
She whispered, “Oh God.”
We called her.
No answer.
Again.
No answer.
My mother stood.
“We’re going to Queens.”
“Police?”
“Yes.”
“Vincent?”
“No.”
I looked at the note.
Do not trust anyone who says Vincent sent them.
“Mom.”
She saw what I was thinking.
Then called Officer Kendall.
He told us not to move.
Ten minutes later, he called back.
A patrol car had gone to Aunt Lena’s building.
Her apartment door was open.
She was gone.
No cats.
No phone.
No sign of a struggle.
On her kitchen table sat one object.
A red metal box.
Empty.
Inside the lid, someone had written a message in black marker.
TOO SLOW, MICHAEL.
My mother started crying.
I had never seen her look that frightened.
Then my phone rang.
Aunt Lena’s number.
I answered before anyone could stop me.
“Ethan?”
Her voice.
Alive.
I almost collapsed.
“Aunt Lena! Where are you?”
“I’m okay.”
“Where?”
“I can’t say.”
“Why?”
“Because the man standing next to me would prefer I didn’t.”
My mother grabbed the phone.
“Lena?”
A man spoke.
Calm.
Older.
“Hello, Sarah.”
My mother froze.
Vincent had never told us Anthony’s voice.
He didn’t need to.
We knew.
“Put my sister back on.”
“In a minute.”
“What do you want?”
“The key Michael left.”
I looked down at the silver key in my hand.
My mother saw it.
Her face changed.
Anthony continued.
“And before you call my brother, understand something. Vincent has lied to you longer than I have.”
The line clicked dead.
I stared at my father’s key.
For six years, it had been sitting under my desk.
May you like
Waiting.
And now Aunt Lena’s life depended on finding out what it opened.
