Chapter 2 - The Name Dominic Mercer Wasn't Supposed to Know
“Who is he?”
Dominic's question followed me down the hallway.
I didn't answer.
Not because I wanted to protect Elliot.
Because I suddenly wasn't sure who Elliot was.
The photograph in Dominic's hand showed the same thin man who had hired me.
Same gray hair.
Same narrow face.
Same glasses.
But the name beneath his photograph read:
CALVIN ROOKE.
My mother's hidden photograph had contained the same surname.
Rooke.
I had found it when I was sixteen.
Mom had caught me holding it and ripped it from my hands so quickly that she tore one corner.
There were three people in the picture.
My mother.
A man I didn't recognize.
And another man whose face had been scratched away with something sharp.
On the back were four words.
Daniel Holloway. Calvin Rooke. 1998.
Daniel Holloway was my father.
At least, that was what I had always believed.
He died before I was born.
Mom refused to discuss him.
Now a man named Calvin Rooke had deliberately put me inside Dominic Mercer's home.
Dominic watched my face.
“You know the name.”
“I've seen it.”
“Where?”
“My mother's apartment.”
Vivienne stepped closer.
“You said you'd never met him.”
“I hadn't.”
“Then why did your mother have his name?”
“I don't know.”
Dominic raised a hand.
Vivienne stopped.
“Grace, we're going to your mother's apartment.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“She is in the hospital.”
“And someone who knows her sent you here.”
“I need to see her.”
“You will.”
He looked toward the security guard.
“Car downstairs.”
Then he looked at me.
“And get her shoes.”
I stared at him.
“I can get my own shoes.”
“I wasn't talking to you.”
Twenty minutes later, I was sitting in the rear of a black SUV beside the most feared man in New York.
It was not how I had imagined my morning.
Vivienne did not come.
She and Dominic had argued quietly near the elevator.
I couldn't hear everything.
I heard enough.
“This isn't your problem.”
“She was placed in my home.”
“Then turn her over to security.”
“No.”
“You don't even know her.”
“No,” Dominic had replied. “But someone else clearly does.”
That ended the argument.
Now Manhattan slid past the windows while Dominic sat beside me in silence.
I had put my cleaning uniform back on but kept the gray sweatshirt over it.
My shoes were on.
My pasta had been abandoned upstairs.
For some reason, that bothered me.
I had paid $4.89 for that pasta.
Poverty made you sentimental about stupid things.
Dominic glanced at me.
“What?”
“You keep staring at the floor.”
“My breakfast is in your closet.”
He blinked.
“What?”
“The pasta.”
For the first time, Dominic Mercer laughed.
It was quiet.
Almost disbelieving.
“Someone used a false identity to put you in my penthouse and you're worried about pasta?”
“I was going to eat that.”
“I'll buy you pasta.”
“I don't want billionaire pasta.”
His mouth twitched.
“Crime-lord pasta?”
I looked at him.
He looked back.
“I didn't say that.”
“You thought it.”
“Everybody thinks it.”
“Fair.”
I stared at him.
“You admit it?”
“I admitted nothing.”
The SUV stopped outside my mother's building in Queens.
Dominic looked up.
“This is where you grew up?”
“Yes.”
He stepped out.
I followed.
Two security men stayed outside.
Dominic came upstairs with me.
Mom's apartment smelled exactly as it always had.
Lavender detergent.
Coffee.
Old books.
Dominic stopped inside the living room.
His eyes moved over the furniture.
Not judgmentally.
Carefully.
I went directly to Mom's bedroom.
The photograph wasn't where she used to keep it.
I searched the dresser.
Nothing.
Closet.
Nothing.
Dominic appeared in the doorway.
“Where?”
“She moved it.”
“Where would she hide something?”
“If I knew, it wouldn't be hidden.”
He leaned against the frame.
I pulled open the bedside drawer.
Medication.
Receipts.
A rosary.
Then I noticed the drawer wasn't as deep as it should have been.
I removed it.
Behind it was an envelope.
My name was written across the front.
GRACE.
My hands began shaking.
Dominic saw.
“Want me to open it?”
“No.”
I tore the envelope.
Inside was the photograph.
Mom.
My father.
Calvin Rooke.
But this time I saw something I hadn't noticed at sixteen.
There was a building behind them.
Dominic took the photograph.
His expression changed.
“What?”
“I know this building.”
“Where is it?”
“It doesn't exist anymore.”
“That's not what I asked.”
“Brooklyn waterfront.”
He turned the photograph over.
More writing appeared beneath the names.
MERCER SHIPPING — PIER 17.
I looked at him.
“Your family?”
“My father's company.”
My pulse accelerated.
“Did you know my father?”
“What was his full name?”
“Daniel Holloway.”
Dominic stared at the photograph.
“No.”
“You hesitated.”
“Because I know the name.”
The room seemed to tilt.
“How?”
Dominic walked toward the window.
“My father kept records.”
“Of what?”
“Everyone.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means Daniel Holloway worked for Mercer Shipping.”
I sat on the bed.
Mom had told me my father repaired industrial machinery.
Maybe that part had been true.
“What happened to him?”
Dominic didn't answer.
I looked up.
“What happened?”
“I don't know yet.”
“That's a lie.”
His jaw tightened.
“It's incomplete.”
“Then complete it.”
“My father died twelve years ago.”
“That doesn't answer me.”
“No.”
He looked at the photograph.
“But I know someone who can.”
His phone rang.
He answered.
“Mateo.”
I watched his expression.
“When?”
Silence.
“Was anything taken?”
Another pause.
His eyes shifted toward me.
“What room?”
He hung up.
“Your penthouse?”
“Yes.”
“What happened?”
“Someone entered after we left.”
My mouth went dry.
“Through the service elevator?”
“Yes.”
“What did they take?”
“Nothing.”
“That doesn't make sense.”
“They weren't stealing.”
“What were they doing?”
Dominic looked directly at me.
“Looking for your access card.”
The number 417.
I remembered Vivienne's reaction.
“What does 417 mean?”
Dominic said nothing.
“Dominic.”
His eyes lifted.
“April seventeenth.”
“A date?”
“Yes.”
“What happened?”
He looked at the photograph of my father.
“Twenty-seven years ago, a Mercer Shipping warehouse burned.”
I stopped breathing.
“My father?”
“Three men were reported dead.”
“Reported?”
“One body was never recovered.”
“Whose?”
Before Dominic could answer, my phone rang.
ST. VINCENT'S.
I answered immediately.
“Nina?”
“Grace, your mother is awake.”
Relief hit me so hard I had to sit.
“Can I talk to her?”
“She asked for you.”
“Put her on.”
There was rustling.
Then my mother's weak voice.
“Grace?”
“Mom.”
I shut my eyes.
“I'm coming.”
“No.”
I opened them.
“What?”
“Don't come here.”
“Mom—”
“Listen to me.”
Something in her voice frightened me.
“Did a man named Calvin find you?”
I looked at Dominic.
“Yes.”
My mother's breathing changed.
“Where are you?”
“At your apartment.”
“Are you alone?”
I looked at Dominic again.
“No.”
“With whom?”
“Dominic Mercer.”
The line went silent.
“Mom?”
When she spoke again, she sounded terrified.
“Grace, get away from him.”
Dominic heard.
His expression became unreadable.
“Why?”
“Because his father killed yours.”
The words struck harder than the gun ever could have.
I looked at Dominic.
He didn't move.
“Mom, what are you talking about?”
“Your father tried to expose them.”
“Expose what?”
“I should have told you.”
“Told me what?”
A sound came from her side of the call.
A door.
My mother gasped.
“Mom?”
Someone spoke in the background.
A man's voice.
My mother whispered:
“He found me.”
Then the call ended.
I was already moving.
Dominic caught up before I reached the apartment door.
“Grace.”
“Get out of my way.”
“You're not going there alone.”
“You heard her.”
“Yes.”
“She said your father killed mine.”
“And she also said Calvin found her.”
I stared at him.
“Why should I trust you?”
“You shouldn't.”
The answer stopped me.
Dominic opened the door.
“But right now, I'm the only person standing between you and whoever arranged all of this.”
We ran downstairs.
The SUV tore toward Manhattan.
I called Mom repeatedly.
No answer.
Nina didn't answer either.
Dominic made three calls.
By the time we reached the hospital, two black vehicles were already outside.
I ran through the lobby.
Fourth floor.
Room 417.
I stopped.
My mother's room number.
It couldn't be coincidence.
Dominic saw it too.
The door was open.
The bed was empty.
A nurse lay unconscious beside the wall, breathing but bleeding from her forehead.
“Nina!”
I dropped beside her.
Dominic checked the room.
“She's alive.”
I looked at the empty bed.
“Where is my mother?”
Something white rested on the pillow.
An envelope.
GRACE.
Dominic reached for it.
“No.”
I took it first.
Inside was a single photograph.
My mother, much younger.
My father.
Calvin.
And a fourth man.
This time his face had not been scratched out.
Dominic looked over my shoulder.
All the color left his face.
“Who is he?” I whispered.
Dominic didn't answer.
I turned toward him.
“Who is he?”
He stared at the man standing beside my father.
Then he said the last thing I expected.
“My father.”
A phone began ringing inside the empty hospital bathroom.
Not mine.
Not Dominic's.
He reached for the door.
May you like
The handle moved from the other side.
Someone was inside.
