Chapter 4 - The Price of One More Week
The next morning, someone knocked on our apartment door at seven o’clock.
Mom froze in the kitchen.
I sat at the table eating reheated bread from Sterling’s Bistro. The refrigerator was fuller than it had been in months, but Mom had barely slept.
The knock came again.
Three slow taps.
“Stay here,” she told me.
She approached the door without making a sound and looked through the peephole.
Her shoulders relaxed slightly.
“It’s Dana.”
She opened the door.
Dana entered holding her phone and wearing sunglasses even though the hallway was dark.
“You’ve seen the news?”
“We don’t have cable.”
“It’s everywhere.”
She handed Mom the phone.
A video from the restaurant had been posted online. Someone had recorded me standing at Vincent’s table. The clip showed the guards rising, Vincent lifting one finger, and me placing the work log in front of him.
The caption read:
LITTLE GIRL CONFRONTS CHICAGO POWER BROKER OVER HER MOTHER’S UNPAID WAGES.
Millions of people had already watched it.
Comments appeared faster than I could read.
Some called me brave.
Some called Vincent a hero.
Some called Mom irresponsible for bringing me to work.
Others accused the entire thing of being staged.
A news station had obtained a photograph of David Sterling beside his Porsche. Another displayed images of employees carrying boxes of payroll records from the restaurant.
Dana removed her sunglasses.
“Sterling was arrested last night.”
Mom stared at her.
“For wage theft?”
“Fraud, evidence tampering, tax violations. They say there may be more.”
“How much more?”
“Hundreds of thousands.”
Mom sat down.
Dana continued.
“The labor department wants all of us at the office this afternoon. A lawyer is offering to represent the staff.”
“Whose lawyer?”
“Vincent Kane’s.”
Mom shook her head immediately.
“No.”
“Evie, we need help.”
“We need independent help.”
“Independent costs money.”
“Then we find a nonprofit.”
Dana sighed.
“You think he’s trying to control this?”
“I think men like Vincent Kane do not suddenly become generous.”
I raised my hand.
Both women looked at me.
“He gave me soup.”
Dana smiled.
Mom did not.
“That proves nothing.”
My mother spent the morning calling legal aid organizations. Most had waiting lists. One agreed to review the case but could not promise representation.
At noon, a black sedan parked outside our building.
Mom looked through the blinds.
Two men stepped out. Neither was Vincent. One carried a briefcase.
Mom took my hand and moved us away from the window.
The buzzer sounded.
She did not answer.
Her phone rang.
Unknown number.
Mom declined the call.
A message appeared.
Mrs. Carter, my name is Rebecca Sloan. I represent Vincent Kane’s legitimate business holdings. I would like to speak with you regarding unpaid wages and a matter involving your late husband.
Mom’s face changed when she read the final words.
My father, Daniel Carter, had died before my third birthday.
Mom told me he had been an accountant. She said he loved old movies, terrible jokes, and adding too much cinnamon to pancakes. I remembered only pieces of him: a deep voice, warm hands, a blue coffee mug.
I knew he had died in a car accident.
I did not know what he had to do with Vincent Kane.
Mom called the number.
“This is Evelyn Carter.”
The woman outside looked at her phone, then up at our window.
“Mrs. Carter, I’m sorry to arrive without an appointment. Mr. Kane asked me to deliver documents.”
“What documents?”
“Your husband’s.”
Mom gripped the phone.
“My husband has been dead for two years.”
“Yes. That is why Mr. Kane believes you should see them.”
“I don’t want anything from him.”
“Then I will leave the envelope with the building manager.”
“There is no building manager.”
The lawyer looked at the broken buzzer panel.
“I see.”
Mom closed her eyes.
“Come up alone.”
Five minutes later, Rebecca Sloan sat at our table. She was in her late thirties, with dark red hair and a charcoal suit. She did not look dangerous.
The briefcase did.
She placed a sealed envelope in front of Mom.
“Mr. Kane has not opened this.”
“He had a folder with my name last night.”
“That contained a background report. Once he learned who you were, he located this envelope in a secured archive.”
“Who am I?”
Rebecca paused.
“Daniel Carter’s widow.”
Mom pushed the envelope away.
“You knew my husband?”
“I did not. Mr. Kane did.”
“What kind of business did Daniel conduct with him?”
Rebecca looked toward me.
Mom understood.
“Rory, take your crayons to the bedroom.”
“No.”
“Rory.”
“The bedroom doesn’t have a door.”
Our apartment had once been a studio. Mom had hung a curtain to create a sleeping area.
Rebecca gave a tired smile.
“I can speak carefully.”
Mom folded her arms.
“Speak.”
“Daniel Carter worked as a forensic accountant. Several years ago, he discovered that one of Mr. Kane’s former partners was stealing from legitimate companies and laundering money through construction contracts.”
Mom’s expression hardened.
“Vincent’s former partner?”
“Yes.”
“Was his name Anthony Vale?”
Rebecca stopped.
Mom stood.
“Get out.”
“Mrs. Carter—”
“Now.”
I had never heard the name Anthony Vale before, but it frightened Mom more than Sterling had.
Rebecca remained seated.
“Anthony Vale is dead.”
“I know.”
“He died six months after Daniel.”
“I know that too.”
“Then you know Daniel’s accident may not have been an accident.”
The room became silent.
Mom’s face lost all color.
“You were told never to say that name near my daughter.”
“No one told me anything about what you were told.”
Mom stared at her.
Rebecca slowly opened the briefcase and removed a photograph. It showed my father standing beside a younger Vincent Kane outside an office building. Dad looked serious. Vincent looked angry.
The date printed in the corner was three weeks before my father died.
“Daniel came to Mr. Kane with evidence,” Rebecca said. “Mr. Kane agreed to help him deliver it to federal investigators.”
“Help?”
“Yes.”
“Or use it against Vale?”
“Both may be true.”
Mom picked up the photograph.
Her fingers trembled.
“After Daniel died, Vincent disappeared.”
“He believed your family had entered witness protection.”
“We didn’t.”
“Mr. Kane was told that you had.”
“By whom?”
“We don’t know.”
Mom laughed once, bitterly.
“You expect me to believe the most informed man in Chicago couldn’t find a waitress and a toddler?”
“He did not search because he believed searching would expose you.”
Rebecca pushed the envelope closer.
“Daniel left this with Mr. Kane in case anything happened.”
Mom stared at her husband’s handwriting on the front.
For Evie.
She did not open it.
“Why now?”
“Because Mr. Kane saw your name on the work log.”
“He recognized it?”
“Not immediately. Carter is common. Evelyn Carter is less common. Daniel’s daughter was named Aurora.”
Everyone looked at me.
My full name was Aurora Carter.
Rory was easier.
Rebecca continued.
“Daniel once told Vincent that his daughter’s nickname would be Rory because she arrived in the world roaring.”
Mom covered her mouth.
That was a story Dad used to tell.
No stranger should have known it.
Rebecca stood.
“The legal representation for the Sterling employees comes with no conditions. You may decline. The envelope is yours regardless.”
At the door, Mom asked, “Why does Vincent care what happens to us?”
Rebecca considered her answer.
“Because Daniel Carter saved his life.”
Then she left.
The envelope remained on the table for three hours.
Mom walked around it as if it were a live wire.
At last, she sat down and broke the seal.
Inside was a letter, a key, and a memory card.
The letter began:
My Evie,
If you are reading this, then I failed to come home.
Mom stopped.
She pressed the page to her chest and wept.
I climbed into her lap.
She tried to continue reading, but the words blurred.
“Read it to me,” I said.
“You’re too young.”
“I’m four and a half.”
She laughed through her tears.
Then she read only the parts she thought I could understand.
Dad said he loved us.
He said he had uncovered dangerous financial records.
He said Vincent Kane was not his friend, but had kept his word when others had not.
He said the key opened a safe-deposit box containing enough evidence to finish what he started.
And at the bottom, he wrote:
Do not spend your life hiding from men whose power depends on your silence.
Mom read that sentence three times.
Her phone rang.
It was the state labor investigator.
They had found something in Sterling’s payroll files.
Sterling had not chosen Mom randomly.
Two years earlier, a shell company connected to Anthony Vale’s old network had placed her name on a monitoring list.
David Sterling had been sending reports about her.
Where she lived.
Where she worked.
Whether she spoke to investigators.
Whether she appeared to know anything about Daniel’s files.
The unpaid wages had not begun because Sterling lacked money.
They had begun because someone wanted to pressure Mom into leaving Chicago.
Someone was still watching us.
That evening, Vincent Kane called.
Mom answered on speaker.
“Did you read Daniel’s letter?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Then you understand why Sterling’s records matter.”
“I understand my husband trusted you once.”
“Once was all he had.”
Mom looked at me.
“What do you want?”
“To keep you alive long enough to open that box.”
“And after that?”
“To finish what Daniel began.”
A loud crack sounded from the front window.
Glass exploded across the room.
Mom threw herself over me.
A bullet struck the wall above the table.
On the phone, Vincent’s voice became sharp.
“Evelyn?”
Mom crawled toward the kitchen, pulling me with her.
“Someone shot through the window.”
“Stay down.”
Footsteps thundered in the hallway.
Mom grabbed a knife from the counter.
The apartment door shook beneath a heavy impact.
I clung to her coat.
Then a man shouted from outside.
“Kane security!”
Mom did not move.
“Give me the verification,” Vincent ordered through the phone.
The man outside responded loudly, “Purple stars become sunflowers.”
Mom looked at the work log lying beneath the broken glass.
The door opened.
Vincent’s men rushed inside.
Across the street, a motorcycle sped away into the night.
Vincent spoke again.
“You cannot stay there.”
Mom stared at the bullet hole.
“Where do we go?”
May you like
There was a pause.
“To the last place anyone would dare touch you.”
