Chapter Three

“Who?”

Elena was on her feet. She didn’t remember standing. Her knees had made the decision without her.

Alexander hadn’t moved from the leather chair. “I don’t know.”

“The letter says you do.”

“The letter says I know who did it. It doesn’t say I’ll say it in a room where a man is taking notes.”

Kessler took off his glasses. “I’m not taking notes.”

“You’re memorizing. Same thing.” Alexander looked at her. “Sit down, Elena. Let him finish.”

“Don’t tell me what to do.”

“Then stand. But let him finish.”

She stood. Kessler put his glasses back on and found his place.

“’I married you to him for three reasons. The first is that he’s the only man alive who can keep you breathing. The second is that his family owes mine a debt they’ll never admit to. The third I’ll leave for you to work out, because you’re better at that than I ever was.’”

A debt. Her father had never lent anybody a dollar. He’d once made her return a birthday card because the sender spelled his name wrong.

“You’ll want to hate me. Do it fast. You have things to do.”

A sound came out of her, short and ugly, almost a laugh. That was him exactly. He had never said one warm thing in his life without attaching a deadline to it.

“Don’t go back to the house tonight. Don’t trust any phone call that tells you to hurry. And remember Sunday nights, Elena. Remember what we played. You always won because you counted.”

Kessler lowered the pages. “That’s everything. There’s a line at the bottom, in pencil.” He turned the second page toward her and squinted. “It says ‘tighter.”

Elena took the letter out of his hand before he finished the word.

The handwriting was her father’s, small and square, the pencil pressed so hard it had dented the paper. ‘Tighter’. He had edited his own goodbye. She put her thumb on the word and pushed until the paper bent. Her eyes went hot, and she looked at the ceiling and counted the tiles until they cleared. Fourteen across.

A folded handkerchief appeared at the edge of her vision. Navy blue, a small ‘M’ stitched in the corner. Alexander held it out without looking at her.

“I’m fine.”

“I know.”

“I don’t need that.”

“I know that too.” He didn’t lower his hand.

She took it. She did not use it. She held it in her fist like she’d confiscated it.

“Sunday nights,” Alexander said quietly. “What did you play?”

“None of your business.”

“It might be.”

“Then it’s still none of your business.” She folded the letter into her bag and met Kessler’s eyes. “Thank you, Harold. Send me everything in writing. Every page, every clause.”

“Elena, the ninety days—”

“I read it. I’ll deal with it.”

She walked out. She heard the leather chair creak behind her and knew he’d stood.

The elevator was empty. Alexander stepped in anyway, just before the doors closed, and stood at the far wall with his hands in his pockets.

“There’s a car downstairs,” he said.

“I have my own.”

“Yours is on the other side of the building. I had it moved.”

She turned her whole body toward him. “You had my car moved.”

“I had it parked somewhere safer.”

“Safer than a public street in broad daylight?”

“Your father is dead, and nobody will tell you how. I’d say the street has lost some credibility.”

“Give me one reason I shouldn’t take my phone out right now and call the police.”

“Which department? The one that closed his death as natural before the paramedics left the house?” He said it flatly. “I’m not guessing, Elena. I made calls. The report was typed before the coroner arrived.”

Her stomach dropped again, the same drop as at the funeral. She didn’t let her face move. “Why would you tell me that?”

“Because you’d find out eventually. I’d rather you hear it from me than from someone who wants something.”

“What do you want?”

“For you to not die this week.”

The doors opened on the lobby.

A man in a dark suit stood by the revolving door holding a paper cup, and he stepped forward with the careful smile of someone who had been told what to expect. He was about thirty-five, with a good haircut and kind eyes, and he looked like he’d rather be anywhere else.

“Mrs. Moretti. Enzo Greco. I work for your husband.” He held out the cup. “Oat milk, one sugar, extra hot.”

Elena stared at the cup. She stared at Alexander. “Why does your driver know how I take my coffee?”

“I’m not the driver,” Enzo said, helpfully.

“He’s my consigliere,” Alexander said.

“I’m mostly the driver.”

“You said you’d be honest with her.”

“I’m being honest. I do drive.”

“I take it black,” Elena said.

Enzo looked at the cup. Then at Alexander. “She takes it black.”

“It was in the file,” Alexander said.

“There’s a file,” Elena said.

“There was a file.” Alexander’s jaw tightened a fraction. “It’s not the same one anymore.”

“That’s not the reassurance you think it is.”

“It’s the only one I have.”

Enzo took a long, slow sip of the coffee himself. “I’m going to go warm up the car.”

The car was black and long and smelled like leather and something faintly expensive. Elena sat as far from Alexander as the back seat allowed, her bag in her lap, the letter pressed flat under both hands. She read the first paragraph again. Then the second. She was looking for the part she’d missed, and there was always one.

Remember what we played. You always won because you counted.

Sunday nights. Her father’s study. Two chairs, a deck of cards he’d cut down to just the court cards, and a game he’d invented, called Senators. She’d been seven. The rules changed every week and he’d never explained why. She’d never told anyone about it. Not Sofia, not Paul, not a single ex-boyfriend.

Nobody alive knew about Senators except her.

“You’re looking at me like I’m a locked door,” Alexander said.

“You are.”

“I’d rather be a window.”

“That’s the worst line anyone has ever said to me.”

“I’m out of practice.”

A laugh nearly got out. She stopped it by biting the inside of her cheek. ‘Don’t. He’s not funny. He’s a man who knew my father was dead before I did’.

Her phone rang.

Sofia’s name filled the screen, and the relief of it loosened something in her shoulders. She picked up. “Please tell me you’ve found a loophole.”

It wasn’t Sofia.

“Hello, Elena.”

A man’s voice. Quiet. Calm, almost kind, the way a doctor sounds when the news is bad and he’s said it before.

“Who is this?”

“Someone who’s very sorry about your father. He was a careful man, wasn’t he?” A pause. “You read his letter. I’d like to know where he hid the rest.”

Her blood went cold. Across the seat, Alexander’s head turned toward her. She put the phone on speaker without thinking.

“You have the wrong number.”

“Your friend Sofia is fine. She’s sitting right next to me.” Another pause, and a faint sound, someone breathing hard through their nose. Sofia. “I’d hate for that to change. Now. I need you to hurry. Come to the house yourself, alone, with whatever Kessler gave you, and we’ll—”

Don’t trust any phone call that tells you to hurry.

Her father’s pencil mark floated up behind her eyes. ‘Tighter’.

“No,” Elena said.

“I’m sorry?”

“I said no. You want something from me, you’ll wait. I don’t do business on the phone, and I don’t do business with men who won’t tell me their names.”

Silence. Then, still calm, still kind: “Look out the rear window, Mrs. Moretti.”

Alexander was already turning. Elena turned with him.

A grey van sat fifty feet behind them. Its headlights were off. Its side door was open.

And a man was standing in the doorway, aiming a rifle straight at the back of their car.