Chapter 2 - The Man in the Photograph
I stared at the photograph.
“Where did you get this?”
“Tessa gave it to me.”
“When?”
“Three years ago.”
I looked up sharply.
“You've known?”
“I knew who her father was.”
My chair moved backward.
“Her father?”
Dorothy nodded.
The man in the photograph was Samuel Callaway.
For twelve years, Samuel had been an accountant for my father and later for me.
But calling him an accountant was like calling a surgeon a man with a knife.
Samuel knew everything.
Money.
Shell companies.
Payoffs.
Names.
Then six years ago, he discovered someone stealing from us.
My uncle, Victor Moretti.
Samuel came to me.
“Victor is moving money through Providence,” he had said.
“How much?”
“Millions.”
“Can you prove it?”
“Yes.”
I told him to bring me everything the next morning.
He never arrived.
His car went off a bridge before sunrise.
Police called it an accident.
I never believed them.
Three months later, Victor disappeared.
I had spent years assuming Samuel's death had been part of Victor's betrayal.
Now I stared at Samuel's daughter.
“Tessa knew who I was when she applied?”
Dorothy nodded.
“Of course.”
“Why would she work here?”
“You'll have to ask her.”
“Where is she?”
“I don't know.”
I stood.
“You expect me to believe that?”
Dorothy didn't move.
“You can frighten everyone else in this house, Luca. Not me.”
Very few people used my first name that way.
She continued.
“Tessa never told me where she was going.”
“Why did she leave?”
Dorothy hesitated.
That was enough.
“Tell me.”
“Three weeks ago, a man came to the service entrance.”
“What man?”
“He asked for her.”
My pulse slowed.
That was always dangerous.
“What did he look like?”
“Sixties. Gray hair. Expensive coat.”
“What did he say?”
“Samuel Callaway had left something behind.”
I reached for my phone.
“Brendan.”
He entered seconds later.
I handed him the photograph.
“Find her.”
He studied it.
“Who is that?”
“Samuel Callaway.”
His face changed.
“Tessa is his daughter?”
“Yes.”
Brendan swore.
“Find the man who visited her too.”
He nodded and left.
Dorothy remained.
“There's something else.”
“Of course there is.”
“Tessa was scared after that.”
“Of me?”
“No.”
The answer came immediately.
“That's what bothered me.”
I looked toward the window.
“Did she say anything?”
“One thing.”
“What?”
Dorothy looked directly at me.
“She said, ‘If Luca learns the truth, he'll try to fix it.’”
I frowned.
“And?”
“I asked why that frightened her.”
Dorothy's voice softened.
“Tessa said, ‘Because fixing it might get him killed too.’”
For several seconds, neither of us spoke.
Then my phone rang.
Brendan.
“That was fast.”
“We found something faster than Tessa.”
“What?”
“The visitor.”
“Name?”
“Arthur Vane.”
I knew the name.
Former attorney for my uncle Victor.
I grabbed my jacket.
“Where?”
“South Boston.”
“I'll meet you downstairs.”
Dorothy stepped in front of me.
“Luca.”
“What?”
“Tessa spent four years trying not to become part of your world.”
“She already was.”
“No. Her father was.”
I stopped.
Dorothy continued.
“There's a difference.”
I looked at Samuel's photograph again.
“Someone threatened her inside my house.”
“And that makes this your problem?”
“No.”
I slipped the photograph into my jacket.
“It makes it personal.”
Twenty minutes later, Brendan and I entered a small office above a closed insurance agency.
Arthur Vane was packing.
He looked at me and froze.
“Mr. Moretti.”
“Going somewhere?”
“No.”
I glanced at the suitcase.
“Then you're extremely organized.”
He swallowed.
I sat opposite him.
My sleeve pulled slightly upward, exposing the dark tattoos across my wrist and forearm.
Arthur's eyes dropped to them.
Good.
“Where's Tessa?”
“I don't know.”
“Wrong answer.”
“I swear.”
“Why did you visit her?”
Arthur looked toward Brendan.
“Because Samuel left instructions.”
“What instructions?”
“To contact Tessa if Victor Moretti ever returned to Boston.”
The room became silent.
I leaned forward.
“Victor is dead.”
Arthur shook his head.
“No.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I saw him.”
“When?”
“Last month.”
A cold pressure settled behind my ribs.
“Why contact Tessa?”
Arthur opened a drawer.
Brendan immediately reached inside his jacket.
Arthur froze.
“Easy.”
He slowly removed a small brass key.
“Samuel gave me this six years ago.”
He placed it on the desk.
“He said if Victor ever returned, I should give it to his daughter.”
“What does it open?”
“I don't know.”
“Where is Tessa?”
“I gave her the key. That's the last time I saw her.”
I stared at him.
“You're lying.”
“No.”
“You're sweating.”
“Because you're Luca Moretti.”
Fair point.
My phone vibrated.
Brendan checked his.
His expression changed.
“What?”
He turned the screen toward me.
Security footage from South Station.
Tessa.
She wore a brown coat and carried one small suitcase.
The timestamp was from that morning.
But she wasn't alone.
A gray-haired man stood several feet behind her.
Brendan enlarged the image.
I recognized him instantly.
Victor.
My supposedly dead uncle.
May you like
Watching Tessa.
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