Chapter 1 - The Men Who Knew My Name
The front window exploded as a man shouted, "Where is Elena Voss?"
Marcus grabbed a broken brass reservation plaque from beneath the bar.
A single number had been scratched into the back.
Marcus went white.
This wasn't a robbery.
The jazz stopped in the middle of a note.
For half a second, Elena Voss couldn't understand what had happened.
She had been standing behind the mahogany bar at Vespers with a white polishing cloth wrapped around the stem of a crystal glass. Miles Carter, the pianist, had been halfway through an old standard. A couple near booth seven had been arguing quietly over dessert. Tasha was carrying two martinis toward the mezzanine.
Then the window became glittering rain.
Elena dropped.
Her knees struck the floor behind the counter.
Glass bounced across the wood above her.
Someone screamed.
Then came three sharp bursts of noise.
The piano went silent.
A bottle shattered.
Elena covered her head.
She could smell bourbon spreading across the floor.
Then footsteps entered Vespers.
Slow.
Measured.
Expensive shoes against broken glass.
"NOBODY MOVE."
The voice wasn't loud.
That made it worse.
Elena lowered her hands.
From beneath the bar, she could see only shoes.
Four pairs.
Maybe five.
One stopped beside an overturned chair.
"We're looking for someone."
Nobody answered.
"Young woman. Late twenties. Dark hair. Works here."
Elena felt something inside her chest collapse.
No.
There were three women working tonight.
Maybe—
"Elena Voss."
Her blood turned cold.
Across the room, Marcus spoke.
"This is a private establishment."
His voice trembled despite his attempt to sound authoritative.
"I can't give you information about my employees."
A dull impact followed.
Marcus fell.
Elena almost stood.
She stopped herself.
"Where is she?"
Tasha began crying.
"I don't know."
"Tasha."
Marcus's voice came from the floor.
"Don't."
The man apparently knew Tasha's name too.
That frightened Elena almost as much as hearing her own.
She crawled toward the service corridor.
Her palm landed on glass.
Pain shot through her hand.
She swallowed the cry.
Three feet.
Two.
One.
Then her elbow brushed a bottle.
Click.
Every footstep stopped.
Elena froze.
A shadow moved toward the counter.
She covered her mouth.
Black shoes appeared directly opposite her.
She stared at them.
The man remained there.
Elena could hear herself breathing through her fingers.
Then sirens screamed outside.
Red light flashed across the ceiling.
Blue followed.
Someone near the entrance cursed.
"Move."
The shoes disappeared.
Men rushed toward the kitchen.
A door slammed.
Elena remained curled against the cabinets.
She didn't move when someone shouted that police were outside.
She didn't move when Tasha called her name.
She didn't move until Marcus crawled behind the bar.
"Elena."
She looked up.
Blood ran from his nose.
"Are you hurt?"
She shook her head.
Then noticed her palm.
A thin red line crossed it.
Nothing serious.
Marcus sat against the cabinet.
For a moment neither spoke.
Then Elena whispered, "Why did they know my name?"
Marcus looked away.
That was the first mistake he made.
Elena saw it immediately.
"You know something."
"No."
"You looked away."
"I've just had my face introduced to the floor, Elena."
"Marcus."
Police flooded the room.
The conversation ended.
For the next two hours, Elena sat beneath a blanket someone had placed around her shoulders and answered questions.
No, she had never seen the men before.
No, she had no enemies.
No, she wasn't dating anyone dangerous.
No, she didn't owe money.
No, she hadn't witnessed anything.
Detective Aaron Bell listened without interrupting.
He was somewhere in his forties, tired-looking, with the patient expression of someone who had spent years listening to people insist they knew nothing.
Finally, he asked, "Anything unusual happen this week?"
"No."
"Last month?"
"I work nights in Manhattan."
"Meaning?"
"Everything is unusual."
He almost smiled.
Almost.
"Did anyone leave something here?"
Elena hesitated.
"No."
"Ask you to hold something?"
"No."
"Give you a package?"
"No."
"Did you overhear a conversation?"
"I overhear hundreds."
Bell leaned closer.
"Maybe someone thinks you heard one that mattered."
"I didn't."
"You might not know you did."
That sentence stayed with her.
Across the room, Marcus was talking to another officer.
He looked toward Elena.
Then immediately away.
Again.
Something was wrong.
At nearly two in the morning, Bell finally allowed her to leave.
A patrol officer drove her home.
Elena watched Manhattan slide past the window.
She kept replaying the same question.
Why me?
She wasn't important.
That wasn't self-pity.
It was simply true.
Elena had moved to New York three years earlier after a relationship ended badly enough that she wanted an entire state between herself and the memories.
She rented a small fourth-floor apartment.
She worked five nights a week.
She sent birthday cards.
She watched cooking competitions she never admitted watching.
Her greatest act of rebellion lately had been keeping an overdue library book.
Nobody shot up a jazz bar for a woman like her.
Unless Detective Bell was right.
Unless she knew something without knowing she knew it.
The patrol car stopped.
"You want me to walk you up?" the officer asked.
Elena considered it.
Then felt embarrassed for considering it.
"I'm okay."
"Lock the door."
"I will."
He waited until she entered the building.
The hallway smelled faintly of curry and laundry detergent.
Normal.
Elena needed normal.
She climbed four flights.
Her hands shook as she found her keys.
Apartment 4B.
She unlocked it.
Darkness.
Elena stepped inside.
The door closed behind her.
A hand covered her mouth.
An arm locked around her waist.
She reacted before thinking.
Her teeth sank into someone's palm.
The man barely moved.
"Don't."
Elena froze.
That voice.
She had heard it only hours earlier.
At Vespers.
"Don't scream."
His voice remained calm.
"Don't fight."
Elena's heart hammered.
"And don't run."
He released her.
Elena spun around.
Darkness hid his face.
She backed toward the wall.
"Who are you?"
"Turn on the lamp."
"No."
"Elena."
Hearing her name from him made everything worse.
"Turn it on."
Her hand found the switch.
Warm light filled the room.
The man standing in front of her was not what she expected.
Mid-thirties.
Tall.
Dark hair.
Sharp jaw.
Charcoal suit.
His white cuff carried a dark stain.
His gray eyes remained fixed on her.
Elena grabbed the nearest weapon.
Unfortunately, it was an umbrella.
The man's gaze moved toward it.
"Seriously?"
"It's metal."
"Mostly plastic."
"Come closer and we'll test that."
Something almost resembling amusement crossed his face.
Then disappeared.
"My name is Dante Rossi."
"I don't care."
"You should."
"You're the man from the bar."
"Yes."
"You came looking for me."
"Yes."
"You destroyed Vespers."
"No."
Elena blinked.
"You were there."
"I was."
"I heard your voice."
"You heard me looking for you."
"After the window exploded."
"Correct."
"That distinction isn't helping."
"It should."
Elena tightened her grip on the umbrella.
Dante glanced toward the window.
"We don't have much time."
"Who is 'we'?"
"You and me."
"There is no you and me."
"Tonight there is."
"Get out."
"Someone knew exactly where you worked."
"I noticed."
"They knew your schedule."
Her grip weakened slightly.
"They knew Marcus."
Silence.
"They knew Tasha."
Elena remembered the man addressing her coworker by name.
Her stomach tightened.
Dante continued.
"They also knew police response time in that neighborhood."
"What does that have to do with you?"
"Everything."
"Explain."
"I will."
"When?"
"When you're somewhere safe."
"I was somewhere safe."
Dante looked around the apartment.
"No, you weren't."
Elena felt anger rise through the fear.
"You broke into my apartment."
"Your lock was already damaged."
She stared at him.
"What?"
"I didn't break it."
Dante pointed toward the door.
Elena looked.
Near the deadbolt, fresh scratches marked the metal.
Her mouth went dry.
"Someone was here before you?"
"Possibly."
"Possibly?"
"I arrived seven minutes ago."
"How?"
"Fire escape."
Elena glanced toward the window.
"That's somehow worse."
Dante ignored that.
"We need to leave."
"I'm calling Detective Bell."
For the first time, Dante's expression changed.
Not fear.
Recognition.
"Bell questioned you?"
"Yes."
"What did you tell him?"
"The truth."
"Which is?"
"I don't know anything."
Dante studied her.
"I believe you."
"Wonderful. Now leave."
"You don't understand."
"Then make me understand."
Dante remained silent.
Elena stepped closer.
"Why are people looking for me?"
His jaw tightened.
"Because four nights ago, you served drinks to two men in booth six."
Elena searched her memory.
"I serve hundreds of people."
"One wore a blue tie."
Nothing.
"The other had a scar near his left ear."
Then something surfaced.
A Tuesday night.
Two men.
Whiskey.
No ice.
One had complained about the music.
Elena slowly lowered the umbrella.
"I remember them."
Dante's eyes sharpened.
"What else?"
"They argued."
"About?"
"I don't know."
"Think."
Elena closed her eyes.
A tray.
Two glasses.
The piano.
A sentence she hadn't understood.
Something about a room.
Something about—
Her eyes opened.
"One said a number."
Dante didn't move.
"What number?"
Elena looked at him.
"Four-seventeen."
The color drained subtly from his face.
It was barely noticeable.
But Elena noticed.
"You know what it means."
Dante didn't answer.
"Marcus found that number tonight."
"Where?"
"On a brass plaque."
Dante crossed the room.
"What plaque?"
"Reservation marker."
"Where is it?"
"Police probably have it."
Dante muttered something under his breath.
Elena stepped backward.
"What is 417?"
Before he could answer, headlights swept across her window.
Dante turned instantly.
A black sedan stopped below.
Elena moved toward the curtain.
Dante caught her wrist.
"Don't."
She looked down.
Three men exited the car.
One looked up toward her window.
Elena's breathing stopped.
Dante switched off the lamp.
Darkness swallowed them.
"Who are they?" Elena whispered.
Dante moved toward the door.
Then Elena's phone vibrated.
Unknown number.
A message appeared.
DON'T TRUST ROSSI.
Elena stared at it.
Dante noticed her expression.
"What?"
She didn't answer.
Another message arrived.
HE IS THE REASON THEY'RE LOOKING FOR YOU.
Elena slowly raised her eyes toward him.
Then someone knocked on the apartment door.
Three slow knocks.
Dante went perfectly still.
A man's voice came through the wood.
"Elena?"
She recognized it.
Detective Bell.
Dante whispered one word.
"Don't."
The doorknob slowly turned.
May you like
It was already unlocked.
And Detective Bell wasn't alone.
