Chapter 10 - The Second Key
For the first time all night, I wanted to hit Matteo.
Not because I believed he was lying.
Because part of me was beginning to believe he wasn't.
"No."
He said nothing.
I shook my head.
"No. My father worked with the FBI. He was investigating corruption."
"That's what the records say."
"Then why would he trap people in a burning building?"
Matteo's jaw tightened.
"I don't know."
"You just said you saw him."
"I saw him close the stairwell doors."
"Maybe he was trying to stop the smoke."
"Maybe."
His expression hardened.
"But the doors were chained."
I stared at him.
"Chained?"
"From the outside."
The room went silent.
I remembered my father's voice on the phone.
Warm.
Familiar.
Sweetheart.
Then the way he'd changed when I mentioned records.
Where are they?
A sick feeling crawled through me.
"Why didn't you tell me sooner?"
"Because I didn't know whether the man in the footage was really Daniel."
"That's not a reason."
"No."
"Then why?"
Matteo looked down.
"Because your mother begged me never to tell you."
I stared.
"What?"
"After the fire, she came to see me in the hospital."
I tried to picture it.
A sixteen-year-old boy.
Burned.
Bruised.
Terrified.
My mother, pregnant with me, standing beside his bed.
"What did she say?"
"She told me some truths could destroy people who hadn't done anything wrong."
I swallowed.
"She meant me."
"Yes."
I turned away.
I wanted my mother.
I wanted the woman who made terrible cupcakes and watched old musicals.
Not the stranger who had spent twenty-six years hiding evidence from mobsters.
Then I remembered her words.
Where we watched the snow fall.
My breath caught.
"The snow globe."
Matteo looked up.
"What?"
I grabbed my phone.
"My mother had a snow globe when I was little."
"What kind?"
"A tiny red house inside. White trees. Fake snow."
"Where is it?"
I hesitated.
"At Harbor Pines."
Matteo was already reaching for his phone.
"Leo."
I caught his arm.
"No."
He looked at me.
"Clara."
"Wait."
I closed my eyes.
The red mittens.
My mother's voice.
Remember the red mittens.
When I was little, we had a game.
Every winter, Mom would hide my mittens before the first snowfall.
She'd leave clues around our apartment.
The final clue always led to the same place.
I opened my eyes.
"Not Harbor Pines."
Matteo stopped.
"Then where?"
"Under the bench."
"What bench?"
"The one at the old skating pond."
I stared at him.
"Mom used to take me there every winter."
"Where?"
"Jamaica Pond."
Matteo's expression changed.
"How long ago?"
"Years."
"Would she really hide something there for that long?"
I thought about my mother.
The woman who kept spare batteries in labeled containers.
Who wrote expiration dates on everything.
Who still had receipts from 2008.
"Yes."
He considered it.
Then nodded.
"We'll go."
I shook my head.
"Not we."
His eyebrows rose.
"Clara."
"If I go anywhere, I want Leo with me."
Leo looked surprised.
Matteo went still.
"Why Leo?"
"Because you're too recognizable."
I gestured toward his face.
"Your entire appearance screams expensive criminal."
Leo looked down to hide a smile.
Matteo folded his arms.
"And Leo doesn't?"
"Leo looks like a divorced gym teacher."
Leo's head snapped up.
"What?"
I shrugged.
"Sorry."
He frowned.
"I'm not divorced."
"Then stop dressing like you lost custody of your furniture."
Matteo laughed.
Actually laughed.
The sound surprised all three of us.
Then his expression sobered.
"Leo goes with you."
I nodded.
"And you stay here."
"No."
I pointed at him.
"You enjoy that word way too much."
"I won't be far away."
"Matteo—"
"You can argue with me for twenty minutes, or we can go find the key."
I glared.
"I hate when you're logical."
"That makes two of us."
We left before dawn.
Boston was quiet in the way only large cities can be quiet.
Not silent.
Just holding its breath.
Streetlights reflected off wet pavement.
The sky was turning from black to dark blue.
Leo drove an ordinary sedan.
No armored doors.
No dramatic entourage.
Just a car that smelled faintly of coffee and old leather.
I sat in the passenger seat.
"Can I ask you something?"
Leo glanced over.
"Sure."
"How long have you worked for Matteo?"
"Eleven years."
"Why?"
He was quiet for a moment.
"Because he saved my life."
I looked at him.
"Does he make a habit of doing that?"
Leo smiled faintly.
"More than he'd admit."
I stared at the road.
"He's killed people."
Leo didn't deny it.
"Yes."
"Does that bother you?"
"Every day."
I turned toward him.
"Then why stay?"
He took a breath.
"Because I've also seen what happens when worse men take control."
I didn't answer.
At Jamaica Pond, the wind was freezing.
The water looked like black glass.
Bare trees leaned over the walking path.
The old bench stood near a curve in the trail.
Paint peeling.
Wood damp.
Exactly where I remembered.
I approached slowly.
For a second, I was eight again.
My mother stood beside me.
Snowflakes caught in her hair.
She laughed as I shook the snow globe.
Look, Clara. A whole winter you can hold in your hands.
I knelt beside the bench.
Ran my fingers along the underside.
Nothing.
My heart sank.
"Maybe I was wrong."
Leo crouched beside me.
"Check the support."
I reached farther.
Felt rough wood.
Cold metal.
Then a shallow groove.
Something had been attached beneath the center beam.
I pulled.
A small metal box came loose.
My breath stopped.
"Leo."
He leaned closer.
"Don't open it yet."
I stared.
"Why?"
"Because someone else may have been here first."
He pointed toward the dirt.
Fresh shoeprints.
Large.
Deep.
I looked around.
The path was empty.
Then Leo's phone buzzed.
He read the screen.
His face changed.
"What?"
He stood.
"Matteo says leave the box."
I stared.
"What?"
"Now."
"No."
"Clara."
I gripped it tighter.
"Mom hid this for me."
Leo's voice sharpened.
"Someone knows we're here."
A sharp crack echoed across the pond.
Birds exploded from the trees.
Leo grabbed my arm.
"DOWN!"
We hit the ground behind the bench.
Another crack.
Wood splintered beside my shoulder.
I screamed.
Leo pulled me toward the trees.
"Move!"
I clutched the box against my chest.
We ran.
Branches scraped my face.
My shoes slipped on wet leaves.
Behind us, footsteps pounded along the path.
Leo shoved me behind a fallen tree.
"Stay down."
"Leo—"
"Stay."
He moved away.
I heard shouting.
A struggle.
Then silence.
My heart battered my ribs.
"Leo?"
Nothing.
"Leo!"
A man's voice answered.
"He's busy."
I turned.
A stranger stood behind me.
Tall.
Gray jacket.
Dark gloves.
His face was partly hidden by a scarf.
He held a gun.
My breath stopped.
"Give me the box."
I stared.
"Who are you?"
He stepped closer.
"You don't need to know."
My fingers tightened around the metal.
"You're going to kill me anyway."
He hesitated.
Just slightly.
But enough.
I threw the box into the pond.
It hit the water with a splash.
The man's eyes widened.
"You stupid—"
I ran.
A gunshot cracked behind me.
Pain flashed across my upper arm.
I stumbled.
And before the man could fire again, another figure emerged from the trees.
Matteo.
He hit the shooter from the side.
They crashed to the ground.
The gun skidded across the path.
I fell to my knees.
Matteo struck the man once.
Twice.
Then Leo appeared and pinned him down.
Matteo turned toward me.
"Clara!"
I stared at him.
Blood soaked my sleeve.
But I was alive.
He dropped beside me.
"Where are you hit?"
"My arm."
"Look at me."
I did.
His eyes were wild.
More frightened than I'd ever seen them.
"Stay with me."
I swallowed.
"Matteo."
"I'm here."
I gave him a weak smile.
"You're going to be mad."
His face tightened.
"About what?"
I pointed toward the pond.
"I threw the evidence into the water."
For one second, he stared at me.
Then he laughed.
Not because it was funny.
Because he was relieved enough to lose control.
And as Leo dragged the gunman toward the waiting car, Matteo pressed a cloth against my arm.
"That's fine," he whispered.
"The box can wait."
I stared at him.
He brushed damp hair from my forehead.
"You can't."
Then my phone vibrated inside my jacket.
A message from an unknown number.
Good girl, Clara.
You did exactly what we wanted.
I showed Matteo.
His smile vanished.
And in that moment, I realized something terrifying.
May you like
The box had never been the real target.
I had been.
