Chapter 5
Adrian drove like a man who trusted the road but not the people on it.
He kept both hands on the wheel and the radio off. Rain blurred the storefronts along the county road, turning gas stations and closed offices into soft blocks of light. I gave him directions one street at a time. He didn’t ask why I had moved so often or why my apartment sat above a shuttered print shop with a broken sign.
At the last intersection, he slowed.
“You can drop me here,” I said.
He looked at the apartment building ahead. “You said the apartment.”
“I changed my mind.”
“Because someone may be watching it?”
“Because I don’t want you knowing which window is mine.”
He accepted that without a sigh.
I got out beneath the awning of a laundromat. The wet pavement reflected his headlights until the sedan rolled away. I waited until it disappeared, then crossed the street and entered my building through the side door.
The hallway smelled like old paint and detergent. My key turned in the lock, but the door opened a fraction before I pushed it.
I froze.
I had locked it that morning.
The apartment looked ordinary at first. The lamp beside the couch was on, though I remembered turning it off. A dish sat in the sink. My white uniform from the hospital lay folded over a chair.
Then I noticed the drawer beneath the television.
It was open.
I moved through the rooms without making a sound. The bedroom door stood exactly as I’d left it. The closet was undisturbed. My small tin of cash remained beneath the towels in the bathroom cabinet.
Whoever had entered hadn’t come for money.
I went to the kitchen and took the heavy metal can opener from the counter. It was a ridiculous weapon, but the weight steadied my hand.
My mother’s belongings were stored in a cardboard box beneath the bed. I dragged it out and checked the lid. The tape had been cut and pressed back into place.
I sat on the floor.
Inside were three photographs, a folded church bulletin, a wool scarf that still carried the faint scent of cedar, and a plain envelope addressed in my mother’s handwriting.
I had seen the envelope before. I had never opened it.
Evelyn Bennett had left it with the box when she died, and I had carried it from apartment to apartment because throwing it away felt cruel. Opening it felt worse.
Now I tore it open.
There was no letter. Only a small square of dark paper wrapped around a metal token.
The token was no bigger than a quarter. One side carried a crescent-shaped mark. Beneath it were tiny letters worn almost smooth.
LINI.
My breath caught.
I touched the moon half at my throat through the torn collar of my uniform. The silver pendant was warm from my skin. BEL. A star. The piece my mother had given me when I was too young to understand why she told me never to show it to anyone.
I had believed it was sentimental.
I had believed a lot of things because belief was easier than asking questions no one wanted to answer.
A floorboard creaked in the hallway.
I closed my fingers around the token and killed the lamp.
The apartment went dark except for the weak light leaking through the blinds. I heard the front door move again, slowly this time.
My phone was in my coat pocket across the room.
The footsteps stopped near the kitchen.
I held my breath.
A shadow passed over the strip of light beneath the bedroom door. Whoever had entered knew how to move quietly. That frightened me more than a clumsy intruder would have.
My hand found the metal can opener.
The bedroom door opened.
I swung before I saw the face. The can opener struck an arm with a dull crack. The person cursed and stumbled back. I ran.
I reached the living room, grabbed my phone, and shoved through the front door. The hallway was empty. Behind me, the apartment door slammed.
I ran downstairs in my socks, one hand pressed to the wall. On the sidewalk, a truck passed, spraying rainwater against the curb. I ducked behind the laundromat’s vending machines and called Adrian.
He answered on the first ring.
“Where are you?”
“My apartment. Someone was inside.”
“Are you hurt?”
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes. I hit him. I think.”
“Stay where you are. I’m coming back.”
“No. Don’t come here.”
“Claire—”
“I said don’t.” My voice shook, but I kept going. “If they’re watching me, they may be watching you.”
Silence filled the line.
Then he said, “Tell me what you found.”
I looked at the token in my palm. The crescent mark caught the vending machine’s blue light.
“My mother had this.”
“Does it say anything?”
“LINI.”
His breathing changed.
“Adrian?”
“I’m here.”
“You know what it is.”
“I know it may be connected to my family.”
The words landed harder than I expected.
A police cruiser turned onto the street at the far end of the block, lights off. I stepped farther into the laundromat doorway.
“I’m not giving it to you,” I said.
“I didn’t ask.”
“You were about to.”
“No.” His voice was quiet. “Keep it. Photograph it. Call the police if you choose. But don’t go back into that apartment alone.”
I looked up at my dark window.
The intruder had taken nothing obvious. They had searched for something specific. Maybe the token. Maybe proof that my mother had known the name Bellini before I ever entered the cafe.
“I’ll meet you tomorrow,” I said.
“Where?”
“Somewhere public.”
“Tell me where, and I’ll be there.”
I ended the call before he could make the arrangement sound like protection.
Then I photographed the token with my phone and sent the image to myself, to a new email address, and to the copied ledger file I had created after leaving the hospital.
Three places. Three chances for the truth to survive me.
Only then did I call the police.
While I waited for the cruiser to stop, I closed my hand around the moon-marked metal and understood what the break-in had changed.
May you like
Someone else knew my mother’s past mattered.
And they were no longer waiting for me to find it.
