Chapter 2 - The Name From Three Years Ago
Amelia woke to the sound of her own heartbeat.
A monitor pulsed beside the hospital bed.
For several seconds, she did not remember where she was.
Then her jaw hurt.
Her temple throbbed.
And Derek’s face came back.
The grab.
The laugh.
The punch.
She closed her eyes.
A nurse entered.
“You’re awake.”
“What time is it?”
“Almost two.”
Amelia tried to sit up.
“Two in the morning?”
“Yes.”
“I have to call Angela.”
“She already called twice.”
The nurse smiled.
“She also threatened to drive here and personally fight anyone who tried to discharge you without telling her.”
That sounded like Angela.
Amelia relaxed slightly.
The nurse checked the monitor.
“Your scans were clear. Mild concussion, facial bruising, some swelling. Doctor wants to keep you a little longer.”
Amelia touched her left eyebrow.
The old scar.
Still there.
She hated herself for the instinct.
The nurse noticed.
“You okay?”
“Yes.”
It was a lie.
The nurse did not press.
She picked up the clear belongings bag.
“We found this in your apron.”
Amelia saw the folded paper.
Everything inside her went cold.
“What is that?”
“You tell me.”
The nurse handed it over.
Amelia unfolded it.
AMELIA HAYES, 11:00 P.M. FRIDAY.
The address beneath it was in Queens.
Then the final line.
RAYMOND FLETCHER.
Her hand began shaking.
The nurse looked concerned.
“Do you know that person?”
Amelia folded the paper.
“No.”
Another lie.
The nurse hesitated.
“I can get security.”
“No.”
“Police?”
“No.”
“Someone you trust?”
Amelia almost laughed.
Trust.
The word felt strange.
She thought of Angela.
Tony.
Mr. Del Monaco.
People who knew the quiet version of her.
Not the old one.
Not the woman who hid bruises under sweaters.
Not the woman who learned how softly a person could close a door while escaping.
The nurse left.
Amelia stared at the note.
It should not have been in her apron.
She had never seen it.
Someone had put it there during her shift.
Before Derek struck her.
Meaning somebody knew where she worked.
Somebody knew the exact night.
Somebody wanted her at that address.
Her phone buzzed.
Angela.
Amelia answered.
“You alive?”
“Unfortunately.”
Angela exhaled loudly.
“Don’t joke.”
“I’m okay.”
“You’re not okay. You got punched by a walking tire fire.”
Amelia smiled despite herself.
“Is everyone okay there?”
“Everyone except my blood pressure.”
A pause.
“Derek?”
“Arrested.”
“Vincent?”
“Still here.”
Amelia frowned.
“At the diner?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Angela lowered her voice.
“I don’t know.”
Amelia looked again at the note.
“Angela.”
“What?”
“Did anyone go near my apron tonight?”
“Your apron?”
“Before I got hit.”
“I don’t know. Why?”
Amelia said nothing.
Angela’s tone changed.
“What happened?”
“Nothing.”
“That was a terrible lie.”
“I found something.”
“What?”
Before Amelia answered, voices sounded outside the room.
A security guard.
A man asking permission to enter.
Then a knock.
Vincent Castellano stepped inside.
He had removed his suit jacket.
His white shirt sleeves were rolled once at the wrist.
He carried a paper cup of coffee.
Amelia stared.
Angela was still on the phone.
“Who is it?”
Amelia looked at Vincent.
“Someone from work.”
Vincent almost smiled.
Angela clearly heard enough.
“If it’s him, tell him I said not to scare you.”
Vincent heard that too.
This time he did smile.
Barely.
Amelia ended the call.
“What are you doing here?”
“Checking on you.”
“At two in the morning?”
“I keep unusual hours.”
“You don’t have to.”
“I know.”
He placed the coffee on the counter.
“For later. They said caffeine is probably a bad idea right now.”
Amelia looked at him.
“Then why bring coffee?”
“I didn’t know what else people bring to hospitals at two in the morning.”
“Flowers.”
“I don’t seem like a flower man.”
“No.”
That almost made her laugh.
Almost.
Vincent saw the paper in her hand.
“What happened?”
“Nothing.”
“You are worse at lying than Angela suggested.”
Amelia looked away.
Vincent did not move closer.
That mattered.
Raymond used to move closer whenever she pulled away.
He enjoyed taking distance from people.
Vincent seemed to understand that distance could be given.
“Derek mentioned a name before the police took him,” Vincent said.
Amelia looked back.
“What name?”
“Raymond.”
The heart monitor changed rhythm.
Vincent heard it.
He watched her face.
“Who is Raymond?”
“No one.”
“Your heart disagrees.”
“Mr. Castellano—”
“Vincent.”
“I don’t know you.”
“That’s true.”
“And whatever Derek said has nothing to do with you.”
“That might also be true.”
He paused.
“But Derek attacked an employee in my place after telling his girlfriend someone was paying him for something. Then the same girlfriend says he has been using a name that makes you look like you’re about to climb out that window.”
Amelia gripped the blanket.
“I’m not your problem.”
Vincent’s expression changed.
“People keep saying things like that to me as if I need permission to care.”
She stared.
He nodded at the folded note.
“Is his name on that?”
Amelia did not answer.
That was answer enough.
Vincent took one slow breath.
“Did Derek put it there?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did Raymond?”
“He lives in Pennsylvania.”
“You sure?”
“No.”
The truth came out before she could stop it.
Vincent waited.
Amelia felt tired.
Tired in the deep way that had nothing to do with the concussion.
“He was my boyfriend.”
Vincent remained silent.
“Three years ago.”
Still silent.
“He wasn’t always bad.”
Vincent’s jaw shifted slightly.
Amelia noticed.
“That’s what people say when they’re trying to explain why they stayed.”
His voice was quiet.
“I wasn’t explaining.”
“I know.”
Amelia looked down.
“He started controlling small things. Who I talked to. What I wore. Where I worked.”
She rubbed her thumb against the edge of the paper.
“Then one night he hit me.”
Vincent glanced at the scar.
She saw him see it.
She hated that.
“He apologized.”
Vincent said nothing.
“He cried. Bought flowers. Said it would never happen again.”
Her mouth twisted.
“Then it happened again.”
Vincent’s eyes hardened.
“The scar?”
“Yes.”
“How did you leave?”
“Bus ticket. Forty dollars. One bag.”
“And he never found you?”
“Not that I know.”
Vincent looked at the paper.
“Until tonight.”
Amelia unfolded it and handed it to him.
Vincent read the address.
His face became unreadable.
“You recognize it?”
“No.”
That answer was too quick.
Amelia caught it.
“You do.”
Vincent looked at her.
“I recognize the neighborhood.”
“That’s different.”
“Yes.”
“How?”
Vincent placed the note down.
“The address is a warehouse.”
“What kind?”
“Former furniture storage.”
“Former?”
“It has been empty for years.”
“And how do you know that?”
Vincent did not answer immediately.
“My uncle owned it.”
Amelia stared.
“The diner uncle?”
“Yes.”
“What does Raymond Fletcher have to do with your uncle’s warehouse?”
“I don’t know.”
The answer sounded genuine.
That frightened her more.
Vincent took out his phone.
“Marco.”
He stepped toward the doorway.
“Check the Queens address I’m sending you. Nobody enters. Call me first.”
Amelia swung her legs off the bed.
“No.”
Vincent turned.
“What are you doing?”
“Going there.”
“You have a concussion.”
“Somebody put that note in my pocket.”
“Yes.”
“And they expected me at eleven.”
“Yes.”
“I want to know why.”
“No.”
Her eyebrows rose.
“No?”
“You asked what I’m doing. I’m telling you what you are not doing.”
Amelia stood.
The room tilted.
She grabbed the bed rail.
Vincent moved instinctively, then stopped himself before touching her.
Amelia noticed that too.
“I spent three years letting men decide where I could go.”
His face softened slightly.
“Then don’t start again tonight.”
That shut him up.
Amelia sat back down.
Vincent nodded once.
“Fair.”
“Good.”
“But you are still not walking into an abandoned warehouse at two-thirty in the morning while concussed.”
“That sounds suspiciously like deciding where I can go.”
“No.”
He looked at the hospital bracelet.
“That sounds like basic survival.”
She almost argued.
Then his phone rang.
Marco.
Vincent answered.
“What did you find?”
He listened.
His expression changed.
Amelia watched carefully.
“What?”
Vincent raised one finger.
Marco kept talking.
Vincent’s gaze moved to Amelia.
“When?”
Another pause.
“Send it.”
He ended the call.
“What?” Amelia asked.
Vincent looked at his phone.
A photo appeared.
He did not hand it to her.
“What is it?”
“Someone entered the warehouse tonight.”
“Who?”
“We don’t know.”
“Vincent.”
He turned the screen toward her.
The image had been captured by an exterior traffic camera.
A man stood beside the warehouse entrance.
Tall.
Broad shoulders.
Older than Amelia remembered.
But the posture was unmistakable.
Raymond Fletcher.
Amelia stopped breathing.
Then she saw the timestamp.
10:41 p.m.
Two minutes before Derek struck her.
And Raymond was not alone.
A second figure stood beside him.
Vincent zoomed in.
The face was blurred.
May you like
But the black leather jacket was not.
Derek Lawson.
