Chapter 3
I didn't move away from the wall. The light switch was still cold under my fingertips and Dante had taken two steps back like he'd promised, his hands at his sides, his boots planted on the wooden floor. The lamp on the side table threw a low circle of light that didn't reach the door. I could hear the radiator ticking and my own breath coming too fast.
He didn't look at me when he started talking. He looked at the door like someone might try it from the hall.
"They think you took something," he said.
I shook my head before he finished. "I didn't take anything."
"I know you think that."
It wasn't an accusation. It was flat, tired, like he'd said it before to someone else and hadn't been believed.
He kept his voice low. "It was after the gala. Foundation tower. You were working the private dressing suite, right? Upstairs, past the ballroom. You checked coats, you handed out programs, you helped the donors with their things."
I stared at him. "How do you know where I worked?"
"Because that's where they lost it," he said. "A folder. Not big. Dark blue, maybe black. Or a drive inside one. They think you walked out with it."
"I didn't steal anything," I said again, and my voice cracked on the last word. "I was making twelve dollars an hour handing champagne to people who didn't look at me. Why would I take a folder?"
He finally looked at me. His eyes moved slowly over my face, not threatening, just checking if I was going to run.
"They don't think you stole it to sell it," he said. "They think someone gave it to you. For safekeeping. And you didn't know what it was."
The words landed wrong. For a second I felt nothing, then a strange heat went up the back of my neck.
I remembered the end of that night. The gala had run late. The ballroom downstairs was emptying out, chairs scraping, the caterers stacking plates. I was in the little dressing suite alone, folding a shawl someone had left on the chair. The door opened and a woman came in — late fifties, silver hair, the foundation's donor liaison, her name tag said Diane. She was flushed and in a hurry, holding a dark navy folder with a gold clasp. No thicker than a menu.
She'd looked at me and said, "Honey, can you hold this for a second? Don't let anyone see it. I'll be right back."
I had taken it. Of course I had taken it. I was twenty-nine and I was supposed to be helpful. She'd smiled, squeezed my shoulder, left. I stood there holding it for what felt like ten minutes, listening to the band downstairs pack up. Then she didn't come back. A security guy poked his head in and told me we needed to clear the floor. I didn't know what to do with it, so I slipped it into my tote bag. I told myself I'd bring it back Monday. Then Monday came and Diane wasn't there. No one mentioned a folder. I thought maybe she'd found it, maybe it was nothing. I put it on the top shelf of my closet under a stack of old sweaters and forgot about it.
I hadn't thought about it in weeks until now.
Dante saw the change in my face before I said anything. My breathing stopped for a beat.
"Where," he said quietly. Not a question.
"I didn't take it," I whispered. "She gave it to me. She said she'd come back."
"What did she give you?"
"A folder. Dark blue." My hand slipped off the light switch. "I thought it was donor checks or something. I didn't look inside. I swear I didn't look."
He let out a breath through his nose. Not relief. Something tighter.
"Where is it now?" he asked.
I looked past him toward the bedroom doorway. The apartment was small. You could see straight from the entryway through the little living room to the closet door, half open, dark inside. My heart was hammering so loud I was sure he could hear it.
"It's here," I said. "In the closet."
He didn't move toward it. He stayed where he was, near the door, and that more than anything made me believe him for a second.
"If they think you have it, they won't stop knocking," he said. "That's why they sent me. To ask before they just come in and take it."
I pressed my back harder against the brick wall. The lamp light caught the brass knob on the door and made it shine.
"What's in it?" I asked.
May you like
He shook his head once. "I don't know the whole thing. But it's enough that they want it back badly. And it's enough to hurt them if it gets out."
I didn't go get it. I couldn't make my legs move. I just stood there knowing it was ten feet away under my sweaters, and that whatever I had carried home without thinking was now the reason a man was standing in my entryway at night telling me not to scream.
