Chapter 2 - The Black Sedan
Harper slept for exactly forty-three minutes.
Not consecutively.
By six the next morning, she had convinced herself of three things.
First, she should have called the police immediately.
Second, kissing mysterious wounded men was not an acceptable conflict-resolution strategy.
Third, the silver key marked 317 was going to leave her possession before breakfast.
She had called the police after the threatening phone call.
By the time officers arrived, the man across the street was gone.
Harper explained everything except the kiss.
Then, because the story made absolutely no sense without the kiss, she explained that too.
The officers checked the block.
Nothing.
The key didn't correspond to anything obvious.
One officer suggested turning it in.
Harper agreed.
Then she'd received another message.
No number.
Just six words.
DO NOT GIVE THEM THE KEY.
That was when Harper stopped thinking the previous evening had been random.
At 7:12 a.m., she unlocked Ellison Flowers.
Her employee and closest friend, Lena Ortiz, arrived eight minutes later carrying coffee.
Lena took one look at Harper.
“You look terrible.”
“Thank you.”
“I mean medically.”
“Still thank you.”
Lena set down the cups.
“What happened?”
Harper handed her the key.
Lena examined it.
“317?”
“Apparently this tiny piece of metal has ruined my life.”
Harper told her everything.
Lena listened without interrupting.
When Harper reached the kiss, Lena slowly lowered her coffee.
“You kissed him?”
“I was improvising.”
“With your mouth?”
“That's generally how kissing works.”
“And he was hot?”
“That is irrelevant.”
“That means yes.”
“Lena.”
“Fine. Continue.”
Harper described the three men retreating when Damian spoke.
The sedan.
The call.
The stranger across the street.
Lena's amusement disappeared.
“You need police.”
“I called them.”
“You need more police.”
The bell above the shop door chimed.
Both women jumped.
A delivery driver entered carrying a white box.
“Harper Ellison?”
Harper raised her hand cautiously.
He placed the box on the counter.
“Delivery.”
“From whom?”
“No name.”
“Of course.”
The driver left.
Lena stared at the box.
“I'm voting bomb.”
“Please stop helping.”
Harper opened it carefully.
Inside lay a bouquet.
Not roses.
White peonies.
Rare this time of year.
Perfectly arranged.
Harper recognized professional work immediately.
Beneath them was a small card.
Thank you for yesterday.
—D
Lena read over her shoulder.
“Okay.”
“No.”
“I didn't say anything.”
“Your face did.”
“He sent peonies.”
“He nearly got me threatened by mysterious men.”
“He sent expensive peonies.”
“Still threatened.”
“Very expensive.”
Harper pulled the card away.
Then she noticed something beneath it.
A phone number.
She stared.
Lena smiled.
“Call your husband.”
“He isn't my husband.”
“Your lips filed contradictory paperwork.”
Harper was about to answer when a vehicle stopped outside.
Black sedan.
Same shape.
Same tinted windows.
Her stomach dropped.
The driver's door opened.
The same man from the previous night stepped out.
He wore a dark suit and walked toward the shop.
Harper grabbed the nearest object.
Floral scissors.
Lena looked at them.
“Terrifying.”
“Quiet.”
The driver entered.
“Ms. Ellison?”
“Depends who's asking.”
“My name is Elias Ward.”
“Is Damian in that car?”
“No.”
That surprised her.
Elias reached inside his jacket.
Harper lifted the scissors.
He stopped.
Then very slowly removed an envelope.
“Mr. Vale asked me to deliver this.”
Harper lowered the scissors.
“Vale?”
“Damian Vale.”
Finally.
A last name.
Lena had already typed it into her phone.
Her face changed.
“Harper.”
“What?”
Lena turned the screen toward her.
Search results filled it.
DAMIAN VALE.
Vale Holdings.
Property.
Hotels.
Nightclubs.
Shipping.
Private security.
Pictures showed Damian leaving luxury buildings, attending charity galas, standing beside mayors, athletes, CEOs.
One headline described him as the city's “most feared private power broker.”
Another mentioned allegations surrounding associates of Vale Holdings but noted no charges against Damian.
Harper looked at Elias.
“What exactly does your boss do?”
“Many things.”
“That answer somehow made it worse.”
Elias offered the envelope.
Harper opened it.
Inside was a handwritten note.
The key is connected to something that happened seventeen years ago. Please don't give it to anyone until I know why it was left beside me.
Underneath was an address.
And another sentence.
If you want no part of this, give the key to Elias and you'll never hear from me again.
Harper reread that line.
It was unexpectedly considerate.
She looked at Elias.
“If I hand it over, that's really it?”
“Yes.”
“No men outside my store?”
“Mr. Vale didn't send the man you saw.”
“No mysterious calls?”
“No.”
“No surveillance?”
Elias paused.
Harper narrowed her eyes.
“That pause was unacceptable.”
“We checked the street after you contacted Mr. Vale.”
“I didn't contact him.”
“He knew about the call.”
“How?”
Elias didn't answer.
Harper sighed.
“Of course.”
She reached beneath the counter.
Her fingers touched the key.
This was the sensible moment.
Give it away.
Return to flowers.
Pretend Damian Vale had never existed.
Harper pulled the key out.
Then noticed Elias staring at it.
Not with greed.
With recognition.
“You've seen it before.”
Elias's expression remained controlled.
But she'd caught it.
“Where?”
“Ms. Ellison—”
“Where?”
He hesitated.
“Years ago.”
Harper closed her fist around the key.
“On what?”
“A locker.”
“Where?”
“I can't answer that.”
“Then you can't have it.”
Elias looked almost impressed.
“You understand keeping it may be dangerous.”
“Apparently giving it to people who refuse to tell me the truth isn't exactly safe either.”
Lena whispered, “I support this terrible decision.”
Elias sighed.
“Mr. Vale said you might respond that way.”
“He knows me after one kiss?”
“I believe his exact words were, ‘She'll ask the question you don't want to answer.’”
Harper hated that this pleased her.
“Tell Damian I'll meet him.”
Elias nodded.
“Tonight. Eight.”
He left.
The day passed slowly.
At seven thirty, Harper sent Lena home.
At seven fifty-eight, the black sedan returned.
Damian was inside.
He wore a charcoal coat over a black shirt.
No blood.
No disheveled clothing.
No vulnerability.
He looked every inch like the man in the photographs.
Harper climbed in.
“Hello, husband.”
Damian glanced at her.
“You've been talking to Lena.”
“How do you know Lena?”
“I know who works in the building where someone threatened you.”
“That sounded disturbingly normal to you.”
“To me? Yes.”
The sedan moved.
“Where are we going?”
“To find out what 317 opens.”
Twenty minutes later, they entered an old private railway terminal that had been closed for decades.
Elias unlocked a side entrance.
Inside were rows of abandoned storage lockers.
Harper stared.
“You knew.”
“I suspected,” Damian said.
They reached the third corridor.
Locker 317 stood at the end.
Harper inserted the key.
It turned.
Damian moved slightly in front of her.
“Stay behind me.”
She rolled her eyes.
“I'm six inches away.”
“Make it twelve.”
Harper pulled the door open.
Inside was a single envelope.
Her name was written across it.
HARPER ELLISON.
Her blood turned cold.
Damian reached for the envelope.
Harper stopped him.
“No.”
“Harper.”
“My name.”
She opened it.
Inside was an old photograph.
A young woman stood outside Ellison Flowers.
Beside her was a teenage boy.
Harper recognized the woman instantly.
Her mother.
Damian took the photograph.
May you like
For the first time since Harper had met him, all color disappeared from his face.
Because the teenage boy standing beside Harper's mother was Damian.
