Chapter 2
The nurse came in at seven with a paper cup of pills and the expression of someone who had already handled three emergencies before sunrise.
“Pain level?”
“Manageable.”
She looked at the monitor, then at me. “That wasn't the question.”
“Six.”
“Better.”
It wasn't, but arguing seemed like work.
After she left, I waited until the hallway quieted and pulled the envelope from beneath my pillow. I had slept with one hand on it. Every time I drifted off, I woke convinced someone was standing beside the bed.
The ledger copy lay on the blanket.
Evelyn Bennett.
My mother had been gone for eleven years. Not dead, exactly. Not present, either. She had disappeared from my life in small, ordinary pieces: first the late shifts, then the unopened mail, then the apartment with one closet emptied and the other left behind. I had learned not to ask neighbors questions they didn't want to answer.
I had never seen her name beside the Bellini name.
I turned the copy over again. The blue ink had bled slightly into the paper.
ASK ABOUT EVELYN.
A knock sounded.
I shoved the page under my thigh.
Adrian stepped inside alone. He had changed nothing about his appearance except removing his jacket. His shirt sleeves were buttoned at the wrists. He carried a brown paper bag and stopped several feet from the bed.
“You said you wouldn't come back unless I asked,” I said.
“I called the desk. They told me you asked for your clothes.”
“That isn't the same thing.”
“No.”
He set the bag on a chair instead of the nightstand. “Your uniform was damaged. I had someone bring clean clothes from the cafe.”
“I can buy clothes.”
“You can.”
He didn't push the bag closer.
That made it harder to send him away.
I pulled out the surveillance photograph. “Who is she?”
“I don't know.”
“You circled her.”
“Because she appears in three cameras near the cafe during the week before the shooting.”
My hand went still. “Three?”
“Two exterior cameras and one from the parking lot across the street. The images aren't clear enough to identify her.”
“Then how do you know it's the same woman?”
“The same gray coat. Same black glasses. Same habit of standing where she can see the exits.”
He said it without drama. That frightened me more than a warning would have.
I studied the photograph. The woman's face was turned slightly toward the camera. A thin line marked the edge of her jaw. Behind her, reflected in the cafe glass, the second figure stood near a delivery entrance.
I pointed. “This person.”
“That's why I brought the picture.”
“You said the attack wasn't just about Sofia.”
“I still believe that.”
“Belief isn't evidence.”
His gaze held mine. “No. But the timing is.”
He took out his phone and enlarged another image. The woman in the gray coat stood outside a pharmacy three blocks from the cafe. In the background, a blue delivery van was parked beside a fire hydrant.
I knew the van.
The cafe used a local bakery for bread and pastries. Their delivery van had a dented rear door and a strip of white paint across the bumper.
“That van was at the cafe,” I said.
“Before the shooting.”
“Who was driving?”
“We're finding out.”
I hated the phrase. Finding out sounded like something people with money said when the answer was already being carried toward them.
I slid my legs toward the edge of the bed. Pain climbed into my shoulder, and I waited for it to pass.
Adrian didn't move.
“Why does my mother's name appear in your paperwork?” I asked.
“It shouldn't.”
“That isn't an answer.”
“It may be an old family record. The copy came from a storage file connected to the woman in the photograph.”
My mouth went dry. “Your family record?”
“Possibly.”
The word sat between us, careful and unfinished.
I looked down at the pendant. “The half I have belonged to my mother.”
“Did she tell you that?”
“She told me not to lose it.”
“When?”
“When I was little.”
His face stayed controlled, but his hand tightened around his phone.
I saw it. He knew I saw it.
“Do you know what the engraving means?” he asked.
“BEL.”
“Mine says LINI.”
“I can read.”
“I wasn't sure you knew the name was divided.”
I lifted my eyes. “I knew enough to keep it hidden.”
That silenced him.
A soft knock came from the open door. A hospital aide stood there with a wheelchair.
“Discharge transport,” she said. “If you're ready.”
Adrian looked at me, not the aide.
I had expected him to offer a car, a guard, an apartment, some expensive solution that would turn me into a problem under his control.
Instead, he said, “I can arrange a public place for us to compare what we have. You choose it. You choose the time. No one comes with me.”
I should have refused.
I also knew the ledger in my hand came from somewhere he could reach, and the photograph showed someone had watched the cafe before the shooting.
“What public place?” I asked.
“Your choice.”
“Not your office. Not a hotel. Not anywhere with private rooms.”
“Agreed.”
“A diner.”
“Fine.”
“And I keep the original photograph.”
His eyes flicked to it. “You have it.”
“I'll give you a copy.”
He nodded once.
The aide waited patiently. I folded the photograph into the envelope and kept it against my chest.
“Tomorrow,” I said. “Ten in the morning.”
“Tomorrow.”
As he turned away, I stopped him.
“Adrian.”
He looked back.
“If Sofia asks for me, don't tell her I'm coming.”
Something softened around his eyes, but his voice stayed even. “Why?”
“Because children shouldn't be promised people adults haven't decided they can trust.”
He accepted that without argument.
After he left, I dressed slowly in the clothes from the paper bag. A gray sweater. Black jeans. Shoes that weren't mine but fit well enough.
In the bathroom mirror, my light brown hair hung loose around my face. The torn collar was gone. So was the visible proof that I had stood between a child and a gun.
I touched the pendant beneath my sweater.
Then I noticed the hospital inventory sticker on the envelope.
It carried a number.
I had seen the same number handwritten in the corner of the ledger.
May you like
Someone had cataloged my mother's name long before Adrian brought me the copy.
And someone had known exactly where to find it.
