Chapter 3 - The Bracelet in Her Pocket
Vincent did not panic.
That frightened Emma more than panic would have.
He simply became efficient.
“Down.”
Emma lowered Sofia onto the floor between the seats and covered her with her body.
Vincent spoke to the driver.
“Reverse.”
“We’re boxed.”
“Ram it.”
The SUV lurched backward.
Metal crashed.
Sofia screamed.
Emma wrapped both arms around her.
“It’s okay.”
It was not okay.
The rear vehicle struck them again.
Vincent drew a handgun.
Emma stared.
“You promised—”
“I promised no visible weapons around you.”
“This feels like a technicality!”
A shot cracked outside.
The rear window shattered.
Emma ducked.
Vincent fired twice through the broken glass.
The blocking vehicle moved.
Their driver accelerated.
The SUV shot through a gap and down the mountain road.
For thirty seconds, no one breathed normally.
Then the driver said, “Clear.”
Vincent lowered the gun.
Sofia was crying silently.
Emma held her.
Vincent looked at his daughter.
His face changed.
“I’m sorry.”
Sofia buried herself against Emma.
Vincent’s eyes closed.
Emma saw the pain.
He had found his daughter.
And within an hour someone had tried to take her again.
“Who were they?” Emma asked.
“No idea.”
“Carlo?”
Vincent’s eyes opened.
“I said I don’t know.”
“Your brother-in-law calls seconds before an ambush and tells you your kidnapped daughter was never supposed to have a key.”
“He was warning me.”
“Or confirming you had it.”
Vincent said nothing.
The mansion appeared twenty minutes later.
Emma had expected wealth.
She had not expected a fortress.
Stone walls.
Iron gates.
Cameras.
Armed guards she could actually see.
The SUV entered through a private drive.
A doctor met them at the door.
So did a woman in her sixties who introduced herself as Rosa.
Sofia finally allowed Emma to loosen her grip.
“Will you stay?”
Emma looked at Vincent.
He nodded once.
“For the examination.”
Sofia held her hand through the entire checkup.
Mild hypothermia.
Dehydration.
Bruised ankle.
No major injuries.
No evidence anyone had physically assaulted her.
Emma finally exhaled.
Dr. Reynolds ordered rest and fluids.
Rosa took Sofia upstairs.
The child looked back three times.
Emma waved each time.
Then the hallway went silent.
Vincent stood across from her.
“You should go home.”
“Now you want me to leave?”
“Yes.”
“What changed?”
“My daughter is safe.”
“Someone just shot at your car.”
“That is exactly why you should leave.”
Emma crossed her arms.
“What about the locker key?”
Vincent looked toward the room where Sofia had been examined.
“We’ll handle it.”
“We?”
“My people.”
“Does that include Carlo?”
His gaze hardened.
“You keep pushing.”
“I keep noticing.”
Vincent walked toward the study.
Emma followed.
“I said you can go.”
“My coat is in there.”
He stopped.
She pointed.
He moved aside.
Emma entered.
Dark bookshelves covered the walls.
A desk sat beside a tall window.
On the desk lay the silver bracelet and photograph.
Emma picked up her coat.
Then noticed another photograph.
Same woman.
Vivian.
She had Emma’s eyes.
Emma stopped moving.
Vincent saw what she was staring at.
“She looks like you.”
“That’s not funny.”
“I’m not joking.”
Emma stepped closer.
Vivian had dark hair.
A narrow chin.
A small scar through one eyebrow.
Emma had the same scar.
Her mother had always told her she got it falling from a porch step when she was three.
Emma touched it.
“How old was your sister when she died?”
“Thirty-two.”
“My mother was thirty-eight when she died.”
Vincent stared.
“What was her name?”
Emma hesitated.
“Rebecca Carter.”
Nothing.
No recognition.
Then Vincent looked again at the photograph.
“Your father?”
“Never knew him.”
“Where was your mother born?”
“I don’t know. Why?”
“Because my sister disappeared for eleven months when she was nineteen.”
Emma’s mouth went dry.
“You said she died eleven years ago.”
“She did.”
“But she disappeared before that?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“She was trying to get away from the family.”
Emma almost smiled.
“Sounds healthy.”
Vincent ignored it.
“She came back. Married Carlo three years later.”
“And you think somehow that connects to me?”
“I think coincidences are expensive in my world.”
Emma looked at the bracelet.
V.M.C.
Vivian Moretti Carter.
Except Carter had been Emma’s mother’s last name too.
“Was Carter Vivian’s married name?”
“No.”
Emma looked up.
“What?”
“Moretti was her family name. Carlo’s surname is Bellini.”
Emma stared at him.
“Then why Carter?”
Vincent picked up the bracelet.
“I don’t know.”
Emma felt the room shift.
“What if Carter wasn’t a surname?”
“What else would it be?”
She shook her head.
“I don’t know.”
Vincent walked to the desk.
He opened a drawer.
Pulled out an old folder.
Inside was a newspaper clipping.
A woman.
Vivian.
Beneath the photo were several lines of faded print.
Emma read one phrase.
Community outreach project founded under alias Vivian Carter.
She looked at Vincent.
“She used Carter as an alias?”
“Apparently.”
“You didn’t know?”
“No.”
“How do you have this?”
“It was in her personal effects.”
Emma sat.
Her legs had suddenly stopped cooperating.
“My mother’s last name was Carter before she married.”
“What did she marry into?”
“She didn’t. She never married.”
Vincent stared.
“So Carter was her birth name?”
“That’s what I thought.”
“What if it wasn’t?”
Emma looked at him.
“No.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You were about to.”
Vincent pulled out his phone.
“Give me your mother’s date of birth.”
“No.”
“I can have someone check records.”
“No.”
“Emma.”
“I found your daughter. That does not give you permission to investigate my dead mother.”
“It may save your life.”
She laughed bitterly.
“You people keep saying things like that as if it’s normal.”
“It is normal for me.”
“Well, it’s not for me.”
Vincent stopped.
That answer seemed to reach him.
Emma stood.
“I’m going home.”
He nodded.
“I’ll have Marco drive you.”
“I can call a cab.”
“At two in the morning from my house?”
“Fine.”
She reached the door.
“Emma.”
She turned.
Vincent held up the key.
“Tomorrow morning I’m opening locker 317.”
She knew she should say nothing.
Instead:
“I’m coming.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“That was not an invitation.”
“Then stop telling me about it.”
For the first time, Vincent smiled.
Barely.
It changed his face.
Then it was gone.
“You’re difficult.”
“I’ve been told.”
Marco drove her home.
Emma lived above a laundromat in a neighborhood where the streetlights worked only when they felt like it.
When she reached her apartment door, she noticed something immediately.
The lock was scratched.
She stopped.
Marco was still downstairs.
Emma pulled out her phone.
Before she could call him, her door moved.
Open.
Someone had already been inside.
She backed away.
A floorboard creaked behind the door.
Emma ran.
She hit the stairs.
A man stepped from her apartment.
Dark coat.
Baseball cap.
Scar on his left cheek.
Sofia’s description slammed into her memory.
The man with the cut.
He did not chase her.
He only lifted one object.
Emma’s old photograph of her mother.
“Tell Vincent,” he called.
Emma stopped two steps from the landing.
The man smiled.
“He should have left Vivian buried.”
Then he disappeared through the fire escape.
Emma stood frozen.
Marco came running upstairs.
He took one look inside her apartment.
Then at her.
“What did he take?”
Emma walked to the bedroom.
Drawers emptied.
Mattress overturned.
Closet destroyed.
But the cash jar remained untouched.
Her laptop remained.
Television remained.
Nothing expensive was missing.
Only one thing.
A small wooden box containing every document her mother had ever left her.
Birth certificate.
Old letters.
Photographs.
Medical records.
Gone.
Marco called Vincent.
Emma sat on the edge of her ruined bed.
Her phone buzzed.
Unknown number.
She opened the message.
One photograph loaded.
It showed locker 317 at Union Station.
The door was open.
Inside sat the wooden box from Emma’s apartment.
May you like
Beneath the image were six words.
BRING THE GIRL IF YOU WANT ANSWERS.
