Chapter 3 - The Man Behind the Camera
Vincenzo killed the hallway lights.
Riley heard Claire gasp.
“Stay behind me,” Vincenzo said.
Riley almost told him where he could put that instruction.
Then she heard a door close somewhere down the corridor.
Soft.
Controlled.
Not kitchen staff.
Vincenzo’s men spread out.
Riley pressed herself against the wall.
Her anger had not disappeared.
Fear had simply joined it.
Vincenzo whispered to one of his men, “East stairs.”
The man nodded and disappeared.
Another covered the loading bay.
Riley studied the corridor.
Metal doors.
Utility carts.
Laundry bins.
Security camera above the intersection.
The camera light was off.
“They killed the camera,” Riley whispered.
Vincenzo looked up.
“Yes.”
“How many exits?”
“Three.”
“You know this hotel well.”
“I own twelve percent of it.”
Riley stared at him.
“Of course you do.”
A faint sound came from the stairwell.
Footsteps.
Riley shifted.
Vincenzo noticed.
“No heroics.”
“You challenged a waitress in front of two hundred people.”
“Worst decision I made tonight.”
“Tonight?”
He almost smiled.
Then the stairwell door opened.
A hotel housekeeper stepped through.
She froze when she saw them.
“Sorry.”
Vincenzo lowered his hand.
“Go back upstairs.”
The woman nodded rapidly and retreated.
Riley let out a breath.
Then Vincenzo’s phone buzzed.
His man.
“Nothing on east stairs,” he said.
Claire touched Riley’s arm.
Riley pulled away.
Claire’s hand fell.
“I’m sorry.”
“Stop saying that.”
“I don’t know what else to say.”
“Try the truth.”
Claire looked toward Vincenzo.
Riley saw it.
Again.
That silent exchange.
“That,” Riley said. “That thing you keep doing.”
Claire frowned.
“What?”
“Looking at him before you answer me.”
Vincenzo rubbed his jaw.
“Riley.”
“No. Whatever this is, I’m done being the only person who doesn’t know.”
The loading door opened.
Two of Vincenzo’s men entered.
“Garage is clear.”
“Vehicle?”
“Ready.”
Vincenzo looked at Riley.
“We go somewhere secure.”
“My apartment.”
“No.”
“My things are there.”
“So is a message from Carlo.”
“I want to see it.”
“Later.”
Riley stepped closer.
“You don’t order me around.”
“Tonight I might.”
“Try.”
For one brief second, they were back in the ballroom.
Challenge.
Control.
Two people who hated surrender.
Claire broke the stare.
“Riley, please.”
Riley looked at her.
Claire seemed exhausted now.
Not mysterious.
Not powerful.
Just a woman carrying something heavy for too long.
Riley hated that she noticed.
“Fine,” Riley said. “But I choose where.”
Vincenzo shook his head.
“No.”
“Then I walk.”
“You won’t make it three blocks.”
“Watch me.”
Vincenzo sighed.
“You’re difficult.”
“You met me fifteen minutes ago.”
“I’ve known about you for nineteen years.”
The corridor went silent.
Riley stared.
“What did you say?”
Vincenzo realized the mistake.
Claire closed her eyes.
Riley laughed.
There was no humor in it.
“Nineteen years.”
“Riley.”
“You knew where I was.”
“Yes.”
“You knew what was happening to me.”
“Not all of it.”
“You knew enough.”
“I was twenty-three when Claire came to me.”
Riley’s anger paused.
Vincenzo continued.
“My father was still alive. Carlo was his rival. I had no authority. No network of my own. Claire needed someone who could hide records, move money, make sure nobody found a child inside the county system.”
“And you did that.”
“Yes.”
“You watched me.”
“Yes.”
“How close?”
Vincenzo hesitated.
Riley’s voice hardened.
“How close?”
“I saw you twice.”
“When?”
“Once when you were twelve.”
Riley searched her memories.
Twelve.
St. Agnes.
A winter fundraiser.
Men in suits delivering donations.
“One of the Christmas donors.”
Vincenzo nodded.
Riley remembered a dark-haired young man standing near the gym doors.
He had watched her longer than the others.
She had thought he looked sad.
“And the second time?”
“Your high school graduation.”
Riley felt sick.
“You were there?”
“In a car across the street.”
“You could’ve said something.”
“No.”
“Because Mom told you not to?”
“Because Carlo still had people looking.”
Riley shook her head.
“All of you keep saying you protected me like it excuses everything.”
“It doesn’t,” Vincenzo said.
That surprised her.
Claire looked at him.
Vincenzo continued.
“You were hurt by the way we kept you alive. Both things can be true.”
Riley stared at him.
No defense.
No excuse.
That made it harder to stay furious.
She preferred excuses.
Excuses were easier to hate.
A horn sounded outside.
Vincenzo’s vehicle.
“Move,” he said.
They exited through the loading bay.
A black SUV waited beside a delivery truck.
Riley hated how predictable it looked.
“Do you own anything that isn’t black?”
Vincenzo opened the rear door.
“Yes.”
“What?”
“A dog.”
Riley paused.
“What color?”
“White.”
She stared at him.
Then climbed inside despite herself.
Claire sat beside her.
Vincenzo took the front.
They drove through underground streets before emerging near the river.
Riley watched reflections slide across the window.
Cleveland at midnight had always felt familiar to her.
Tonight every parked car seemed suspicious.
Every pedestrian looked like someone from a life she had never known.
“Where are we going?”
“My house,” Vincenzo said.
“No.”
“It’s secure.”
“That’s exactly why I don’t like it.”
“You want a hotel?”
“No.”
“Police?”
Claire stiffened.
Riley noticed.
“Why not police?”
Nobody answered.
Riley leaned forward.
“Why not police?”
Vincenzo looked back.
“Because Carlo spent thirty years buying some of them.”
“Some.”
“Yes.”
“Then find one he didn’t.”
“I have.”
“Who?”
“Detective Lena Cross.”
Claire turned sharply.
“No.”
Riley caught it.
“Why no?”
Claire shook her head.
“Nothing.”
“Stop doing that.”
Vincenzo spoke quietly.
“Lena investigated your mother’s disappearance.”
Riley stared at Claire.
“You said you staged your death.”
“I did.”
“Then somebody investigated it.”
“Yes.”
“Did they find a body?”
Claire looked out the window.
“No.”
“What did they find?”
Vincenzo answered.
“Blood.”
Riley swallowed.
“Whose?”
Claire whispered, “Mine.”
“How much?”
“Enough.”
Riley sat back.
The SUV entered a gated property overlooking Lake Erie.
Not a mansion.
Riley had expected one.
The house was large but restrained, stone and glass hidden behind trees.
Security lights activated as they approached.
Two guards checked the vehicle.
Riley noticed cameras mounted at each corner.
“Very normal,” she muttered.
Vincenzo looked back.
“I didn’t claim normal.”
Inside, the house was quieter than Riley expected.
No gold statues.
No armed men lining hallways.
Books.
Dark wood.
Family photographs.
A dog came trotting from the living room.
White shepherd.
Huge.
Riley stared.
Vincenzo pointed.
“Dog.”
The shepherd approached Riley and sniffed her hand.
“What’s his name?”
“Caesar.”
Riley looked at him.
“Of course it is.”
For the first time all night, Claire laughed.
A small sound.
Riley looked at her.
Claire immediately stopped.
That somehow hurt too.
Vincenzo led them into a study.
He opened a wall safe.
Inside were folders.
Many folders.
He removed one.
RILEY MERCER.
Riley’s stomach tightened.
“You really kept records.”
Vincenzo placed it on the desk.
“This is everything I have.”
Riley opened it.
School photos.
Report cards.
Placement records.
Medical forms.
Copies of certificates.
A newspaper clipping from when Riley had won a regional amateur boxing tournament at nineteen.
“You knew about boxing.”
“Yes.”
“You kept the clipping.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Vincenzo looked almost embarrassed.
“I was proud of you.”
Riley stared at him.
The sentence landed somewhere she wasn’t prepared to touch.
She looked back down.
Near the bottom of the file was a sealed plastic evidence bag.
Inside lay half of a photograph.
Riley removed it.
Claire gasped.
“What?”
Riley turned it over.
The image showed Claire holding baby Riley.
The other half had been ripped away.
On the back, someone had written a date.
October 14, 2007.
The day Claire disappeared.
Under the date:
ASK VINCENZO WHAT HAPPENED IN WAREHOUSE 9.
Riley slowly looked up.
Vincenzo had gone pale.
Claire stood.
“No.”
Riley’s eyes locked on him.
“What happened in Warehouse 9?”
Vincenzo didn’t answer.
“What happened?”
A security alarm sounded.
One short pulse.
Then another.
Vincenzo grabbed his phone.
A guard’s voice came through.
“Sir, we have someone at the south gate.”
“Who?”
Pause.
“He says his name is Detective Cross.”
Riley looked toward the window.
Vincenzo didn’t move.
The guard continued.
“He’s not alone.”
Headlights appeared beyond the trees.
Three vehicles rolled through the open gate.
Claire whispered, “That isn’t Lena.”
Then Riley saw the man stepping out of the first car.
Gray hair.
Black coat.
And a face she recognized from an old social services photograph hidden in her file.
May you like
Carlo Vescari.
Her father had found her.
