Chapter 2 - The Number 417
The stranger reached for the reservation card and whispered, “You were supposed to destroy this.”
Vanessa backed into the desk while I stared at the number 417 beneath the Belladonna logo.
A dark red stain marked one corner of the card.
It had not been there before.
Then the stranger looked at me.
“You weren’t supposed to see it.”
My first thought was that he worked for Belladonna.
He wore a dark suit.
Everyone around wealthy people seemed to wear dark suits.
But his tie was loose, and there was rain on his shoulders even though the sky had been clear when Alexander left.
Vanessa’s voice dropped.
“Martin, not here.”
So he had a name.
Martin.
He glanced toward me.
“Who is she?”
“No one.”
I felt something sharp twist in my stomach.
Vanessa added, “A waitress I just fired.”
Martin’s eyes settled on my uniform.
Then my face.
Then my hands.
“You’re the one who signed with Margaret Vale.”
It wasn’t a question.
“How do you know that?”
He smiled.
Not warmly.
“People notice things.”
Vanessa shoved the card into his hand.
“Take it.”
I moved toward the door.
Martin stepped sideways.
Blocking me.
“I need to leave.”
“You do.”
He looked almost pleasant.
“But first, tell me what Mrs. Vale said.”
“Nothing.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
I stared at him.
“She ordered coffee.”
His smile disappeared.
“Did she mention Daniel?”
My heart kicked.
I remembered the writing.
Ask about Daniel.
“No.”
Martin studied my face.
I had never been good at lying.
Noah used to tell me my eyebrows confessed before my mouth did.
Martin seemed to agree.
He leaned closer.
“Listen carefully. You worked here. Now you don’t. That’s unfortunate. But it can remain only unfortunate.”
“Martin,” Vanessa said.
He ignored her.
“Forget tonight.”
I swallowed.
“And if I don’t?”
He smiled again.
“Then your employment problem becomes a very small problem.”
The threat was quiet.
That made it worse.
I reached around him.
This time, he let me open the door.
I walked out.
I did not run.
Not until I reached the subway entrance three blocks away.
Then I ran.
My apartment was in Queens, four floors above a laundromat that shook the kitchen window whenever someone overloaded the dryers.
Noah was sitting at our tiny table when I walked in.
He looked up from his laptop.
You’re early, he signed.
I dropped my bag.
I got fired.
His expression changed.
What happened?
I told him everything.
Not every detail at first.
I left out Martin.
Then I realized that was stupid.
So I told him about Martin too.
Noah closed his laptop.
Call police.
“And tell them what? A man in a suit told me to forget a number?”
Threatened you.
“Kind of.”
That counts.
I sank into the chair across from him.
Noah was four years younger than me and far more sensible.
He tapped the table.
Who is Daniel?
“No idea.”
417?
“No idea.”
He stared.
You are curious.
“No.”
He raised one eyebrow.
I hated that eyebrow.
“Fine. A little.”
Too curious.
“I’m not going back.”
Good.
My phone buzzed.
Unknown number.
I stared at it.
Noah saw my face.
Who?
“I don’t know.”
The message read:
Mrs. Vale asked me to make sure you got home safely. —Alexander
I blinked.
Another message appeared.
I apologize for the circumstances at Belladonna. May I call?
I showed Noah.
He signed:
Millionaire?
“Yes.”
Handsome millionaire?
I glared.
“That’s irrelevant.”
You noticed.
“Stop.”
My phone rang.
I answered.
“Hello?”
“Emma?”
Alexander’s voice.
“Yes.”
“Did you get home?”
“I did.”
There was a pause.
“Good.”
I waited.
He exhaled.
“My mother is upset that you were dismissed.”
“How does she know?”
“Vanessa called our operations director.”
“That was fast.”
“Things become fast when my family name is involved.”
There was no pride in the statement.
Only fatigue.
“I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
“I don’t know.”
“That makes two of us.”
Another pause.
“Emma, did anyone speak to you after my mother and I left?”
My grip tightened around the phone.
Noah watched me.
“Why?”
“Because I need you to answer me honestly.”
“Yes.”
Alexander went silent.
“A man named Martin came into Vanessa’s office.”
The silence changed.
Not empty now.
Dangerous.
“What did he want?”
“He wanted the reservation card.”
“Did Vanessa have it?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“I thought you took it.”
“I did.”
Cold traveled down my back.
“Then how did she have it?”
“I don’t know.”
He spoke quickly.
“What did Martin say?”
I repeated the conversation.
When I finished, Alexander swore under his breath.
“I’m sending a car.”
“No.”
“Emma.”
“I’m not getting into a billionaire’s mystery car at eleven at night.”
Despite everything, he almost laughed.
“Fair.”
Noah signed:
Smart.
Alexander said, “I’ll come myself.”
“That is somehow worse.”
“I need to show you something.”
“Can’t you text it?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because I don’t trust phones right now.”
That was not reassuring.
I looked at Noah.
He had understood enough from lip-reading and my expression.
He signed:
Public place.
I said, “There’s a diner at Thirty-Fourth and Steinway.”
“I can be there in twenty minutes.”
“Twenty-five.”
“Fine.”
We hung up.
Noah pointed at himself.
I’m coming.
“You have class.”
Tomorrow afternoon.
“You’re staying home.”
He stared at me.
I stared back.
He won.
Twenty-five minutes later, Noah and I sat in a booth beneath fluorescent lights with two untouched cups of coffee.
Alexander arrived alone.
No chauffeur.
No bodyguard.
Just the same charcoal suit and a face that looked ten years more tired than it had at Belladonna.
He slid into the booth.
Noah studied him.
Alexander looked at me.
“Your brother?”
“Noah.”
Alexander signed:
Nice to meet you.
Noah’s eyebrows went up.
His response was fast.
Your signing is terrible.
I choked on my coffee.
Alexander blinked.
“What did he say?”
“Nothing.”
Noah grinned.
Alexander seemed to know I was lying.
For the first time that night, the tension broke.
Then he reached inside his jacket.
He placed an old photograph on the table.
The photograph showed Belladonna.
But not the Belladonna I knew.
The interior was under construction.
Exposed beams.
Dust.
Plastic sheeting.
Three men stood near the unfinished bar.
One was much younger Alexander.
Maybe eighteen.
Another was an older man with silver hair.
The third man wore a work jacket.
Alexander tapped him.
“Daniel Brooks.”
I stopped breathing.
Brooks.
My last name.
“No.”
Alexander watched me.
“You recognize him?”
“I’ve never seen him.”
Noah leaned closer.
His face changed.
He signed:
Dad?
Our father had left when Noah was five.
I was nine.
Mom refused to talk about him.
His name was Daniel.
Daniel Brooks.
I had spent years pretending that didn’t matter.
Alexander slid the photograph toward me.
“Your father worked for mine.”
I stared at the picture.
“That doesn’t mean he’s my father.”
“He had two children. Emma and Noah.”
Noah’s smile vanished.
I looked up.
“How do you know?”
“My mother told me tonight.”
I felt dizzy.
“What did he do here?”
Alexander hesitated.
“That’s where things become complicated.”
“Try me.”
He looked toward the window.
“My father founded Belladonna with a business partner. Daniel was the construction accountant.”
“Accountant?”
“He tracked contractor payments.”
“So?”
“So he discovered money disappearing.”
“How much?”
“Millions.”
Noah signed:
Who stole it?
Alexander understood.
“My father believed Daniel did.”
I laughed once.
It sounded wrong.
“Our father disappeared. He didn’t disappear with millions.”
“You know that?”
“He left us in a two-bedroom apartment and never sent a dime.”
Alexander nodded slowly.
“That’s why my mother started asking questions.”
“What questions?”
“She believed Daniel was framed.”
The diner suddenly felt too bright.
Too loud.
“By who?”
Alexander looked at the old photograph.
“My father’s business partner.”
“Name?”
He hesitated.
“Martin Cole.”
The coffee cup in my hand shook.
“Martin?”
Alexander nodded.
“The same man who confronted you tonight.”
I thought of Vanessa.
Cole.
“Vanessa Cole.”
His expression hardened.
“His daughter.”
The pieces started moving.
I did not like where they were going.
“Why would Margaret invite me into this?”
“She didn’t know you would be working tonight.”
“Then why was my father’s name on her reservation card?”
“She says someone slipped the card under her apartment door this morning.”
“Who?”
“She doesn’t know.”
“Why write 417?”
Alexander lowered his voice.
“April seventeenth.”
“What happened April seventeenth?”
He looked directly at me.
“My father died.”
I knew Richard Vale, founder of Vale Meridian, had died six years earlier.
Heart attack.
Every article said so.
“So?”
Alexander pulled another paper from his jacket.
An old financial ledger.
A line was circled.
April 17.
Payment authorized: D. Brooks.
Amount: $4,170,000.
My throat tightened.
“Four point one seven million.”
“Exactly.”
“You think my father stole it?”
“I think somebody wanted everyone to believe he did.”
Noah tapped the photo.
Where is he now?
I translated.
Alexander’s expression changed.
“We don’t know.”
I stared at him.
“You dragged me into a diner at midnight to tell me my father may have been framed for stealing millions and disappeared?”
“No.”
He reached into his pocket.
“That’s not why I came.”
He placed a small brass key on the table.
A paper tag hung from it.
I stopped breathing.
“My mother found this taped beneath her wheelchair tonight.”
“Who put it there?”
“We don’t know.”
“What does it open?”
Alexander looked at me.
Then at Noah.
“A private storage locker registered under your father’s name.”
Noah’s hands froze.
“Where?”
Alexander slid a note toward me.
Grand Central Terminal.
Lower level.
Locker 417.
May you like
And beneath the address, someone had written one sentence.
BRING EMMA BROOKS ALONE.
