Chapter 2 - Warehouse 417
Edmund moved before Vivian could turn.
He caught the closing door with one hand and pulled her behind him.
“Who’s there?”
Silence.
Marcus entered from the hallway.
The lights flickered.
Then the room went completely dark.
Vivian heard Edmund’s breathing.
Steady.
Close.
A hand found hers.
“Me,” he whispered.
She squeezed once.
Something moved near the bathroom.
Marcus switched on a flashlight.
The beam cut across the room.
Empty chair.
Table.
Victor’s jacket.
Photograph.
Bathroom door.
Closed.
Marcus approached it.
Edmund kept Vivian behind him.
Marcus opened the door.
Nobody.
The window inside was cracked open.
Four floors above the street.
“Fire escape,” Marcus said.
Edmund crossed to the window.
“Recently used?”
Marcus examined the sill.
“Looks like it.”
Vivian returned to the recorder.
“Play it again.”
“Not here,” Edmund said.
“My father left that message for me.”
“And whoever arranged this expects us to listen.”
“Exactly.”
Edmund looked at her.
“That is not the argument you think it is.”
Vivian picked up the recorder anyway.
“We take it with us.”
Marcus bagged it.
They searched the room.
No Victor.
No attacker.
No explanation.
Only the photograph.
And the words on the back.
THE DEBT NEVER BELONGED TO VICTOR.
Vivian stared at her mother’s younger face.
Elena Moretti had died when Vivian was seventeen.
Cancer.
At least that was what Vivian had always believed.
Her mother had been gentle, private, and stubbornly protective of Victor.
Vivian had never known she had any connection to Edmund’s father.
“What was Warehouse 417?” she asked.
Edmund looked toward Marcus.
Marcus answered.
“An archive facility.”
“For what?”
“Shipping manifests. Insurance records. Contracts.”
“Why would my mother be there?”
“I don’t know.”
Edmund took the photograph.
His father, Lorenzo Costa, looked perhaps forty.
Victor stood beside him.
Elena between them.
All three were smiling.
On the wall behind them was a metal sign.
“This wasn’t taken at the warehouse,” Edmund said.
Marcus looked closer.
“You’re right.”
Vivian frowned.
“How can you tell?”
“The walls. Warehouse 417 had concrete interiors. That’s wood paneling.”
“Then what is 417?”
Edmund looked at the brass key.
“Maybe not a room.”
They returned downstairs through a private service corridor.
The wedding continued.
That seemed impossible.
Vivian could hear music through the walls.
People laughing.
Someone making a toast.
Her life had split into two realities.
In one, she was a beautiful bride at a spectacular wedding.
In the other, someone had placed a red targeting light on her husband, her father had vanished, and a twenty-year-old photograph suggested their families shared a secret nobody had bothered to tell her.
Edmund stopped before they reached the ballroom.
“You need to decide.”
“What?”
“Whether you want to go back inside.”
“You’re serious?”
“Yes.”
“Pretend nothing happened?”
“For ten minutes.”
“Why?”
“Because whoever orchestrated this is watching.”
Vivian understood.
“If we disappear, they know we’re investigating.”
“Yes.”
“And if we return—”
“They may make another move.”
She hated the logic.
She also knew it was good logic.
“Fine.”
Edmund looked surprised.
“What?”
“You expected an argument?”
“Yes.”
“Enjoy the disappointment.”
They returned to the ballroom.
Applause erupted.
Vivian nearly laughed at the absurdity.
Someone announced that the bride and groom had briefly stepped away for photographs.
A lie.
A useful one.
Edmund’s hand rested against Vivian’s back.
Not possessively.
Protectively.
Her father’s chair remained empty.
Vivian noticed something else.
A woman was sitting beside it.
She had never seen her before.
Late sixties.
Silver hair.
Black dress.
No jewelry.
She looked directly at Vivian.
Then she lifted a champagne glass.
One small salute.
“Who is that?” Vivian whispered.
Edmund followed her gaze.
His body stiffened.
“You know her.”
“Yes.”
“Who?”
“My father’s former attorney.”
The woman stood.
“She disappeared fifteen years ago.”
Vivian’s stomach dropped.
“What’s her name?”
“Rebecca Vale.”
Rebecca walked toward them.
Guests moved aside naturally.
She stopped several feet away.
“Congratulations.”
Edmund did not respond.
Rebecca looked at Vivian.
“You have Elena’s eyes.”
“Where is my father?”
Rebecca’s smile faded.
“Victor made many mistakes. Leaving tonight wasn’t one of them.”
“Where is he?”
“Trying to keep you alive.”
Edmund stepped closer.
“You arranged the light?”
“No.”
“You switched the key?”
“No.”
“Then why are you here?”
Rebecca glanced around the ballroom.
“Because Lorenzo Costa made me promise that if his son ever married Elena Moretti’s daughter, I would come.”
Vivian felt cold.
“My mother knew his father.”
Rebecca looked almost sad.
“Your mother knew everyone.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means this marriage was not created by Victor’s debt.”
Vivian turned toward Edmund.
He looked genuinely confused.
Rebecca continued.
“Victor’s debt merely gave someone the excuse to make it happen.”
“Who?”
Rebecca reached into her purse.
Marcus moved immediately.
Rebecca stopped.
“Relax. It’s paper.”
She withdrew an envelope.
Old.
Yellowed.
Vivian’s name was written across it.
In her mother’s handwriting.
Vivian recognized it.
Her knees nearly weakened.
“My mother wrote that?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“Three days before she died.”
Vivian took it.
Her hands trembled.
Edmund noticed.
He covered one hand with his.
She did not pull away.
Inside was a single sheet.
Vivian read silently.
My darling Vivian,
If you ever receive this letter, then the agreement has been activated.
Do not blame your father.
Do not trust the debt.
And before you decide what kind of man Edmund Costa is, ask him whether he knows what his father died protecting.
Vivian looked up.
Edmund’s face had lost color.
“How did your father die?”
“Car accident.”
Rebecca gave a humorless laugh.
“No.”
Edmund stared at her.
“You represented my family.”
“I represented your father.”
“What happened?”
Rebecca looked toward the eastern windows.
“Not here.”
She turned.
Edmund caught her arm.
“Where?”
“Warehouse 417.”
Vivian held up the key.
Rebecca stared at it.
For the first time, her composure cracked.
“Where did you get that?”
“It was put into my hand.”
Rebecca whispered something.
“What?” Vivian asked.
Rebecca looked directly at her.
“That key was buried with your mother.”
The orchestra stopped.
A microphone squealed.
Everyone turned toward the stage.
Victor Moretti stood there.
Vivian gasped.
“Dad.”
He looked exhausted.
His shirt collar was open.
His face was bruised.
But he was alive.
“Vivian,” he said into the microphone.
The ballroom went silent.
“I’m sorry.”
Vivian started toward him.
Edmund grabbed her hand.
“Wait.”
Victor looked across the crowd.
Then directly at Edmund.
“There is something my daughter deserves to know about this marriage.”
Vivian’s pulse thundered.
Victor opened his mouth.
Before he could speak, every chandelier in the ballroom went dark.
A phone vibrated in Vivian’s hand.
Unknown number.
May you like
One message.
DON’T LET YOUR FATHER FINISH THAT SENTENCE.
