Chapter 5 - The Birthday Shift Was a Trap
"Jimmy has my apartment key."
The words came out so fast they almost collided.
Matteo looked up.
"Jimmy Morales?"
I nodded.
"My manager."
"The bartender?"
"Yes."
"He isn't your manager."
I stared.
"What?"
"Your manager's name is Adrian Voss."
"Adrian owns the place. Jimmy handles the floor."
Matteo shook his head.
"Jimmy Morales hasn't been employed by the Velvet Room in six months."
My mouth went dry.
"That's impossible."
"He resigned in April."
"No."
"He was there tonight."
"I know."
I stared at him.
"He's been scheduling my shifts. Paying me. Signing the incident reports."
"Then someone wanted you to believe he still worked there."
I thought about the last few months.
Jimmy had started acting strangely in August.
He'd insisted on changing my schedule.
He'd offered to help whenever I needed money.
He'd asked about Mom.
Too often.
And two weeks ago, when my apartment door stuck, he'd volunteered to keep a spare key.
I'd trusted him.
He'd brought soup when I was sick.
He'd loaned me forty dollars once when my car battery died.
My stomach twisted.
"Maybe there's an explanation."
Matteo didn't argue.
That made it worse.
"Leo," he said, "send a team to Clara's apartment."
"No," I said immediately.
Both men looked at me.
"I go with them."
"Absolutely not."
I pointed at Matteo.
"Don't start."
"Someone planted a device on you and shot at your head."
"And someone may be breaking into my apartment right now."
"I understand."
"No, you don't."
I stepped closer.
"That music box is the only thing my mother kept from my father."
For a second, my voice cracked.
"She gave it to me when I turned eighteen."
Matteo's expression changed.
"Describe it."
"Small. Wooden. Dark blue velvet inside."
"What does it play?"
"Moon River."
He went perfectly still.
"What?"
"Moon River," I repeated.
"You're sure?"
"Yes."
He looked at Leo.
Leo had gone pale.
"What?" I demanded.
Matteo's voice was low.
"My father had one exactly like that."
I stared.
"You're kidding."
"No."
"Where is it?"
"Missing."
My skin prickled.
"Since when?"
"The night he died."
I looked between them.
"Why are music boxes suddenly terrifying?"
Leo exhaled.
"Because the melody was used as a recognition signal."
"Between whom?"
"People involved in the Hawthorne accounts."
I laughed in disbelief.
"Wonderful. My childhood keepsake is apparently a criminal password."
Matteo was already putting on his jacket.
"We're going."
Leo stepped forward.
"Boss."
"I'm aware."
"That's what they want."
"Possibly."
"Then why—"
"Because they already know where it is."
He glanced at me.
"And because she won't stay here."
I folded my arms.
"Finally. A reasonable sentence."
Twenty minutes later, I was sitting in the back of a different SUV.
This one had more bodyguards.
And no door handle I could see.
I had opinions about that.
Strong ones.
But I was too busy watching familiar streets slide past.
My apartment was on the third floor of an old building in Allston.
The hallway smelled like garlic, laundry detergent, and somebody's illegal indoor smoking habit.
I loved it.
It was cheap by Boston standards.
Which meant it still consumed most of my paycheck.
As we approached, Matteo's phone buzzed.
He read the message.
His expression hardened.
"What?" I asked.
"Someone entered your building eleven minutes ago."
"Who?"
"We don't know."
"Then move faster."
"Clara."
"What?"
"If the music box is gone, do not try to recover it yourself."
I stared.
"You say that like I'm planning to fight a professional criminal with a frying pan."
Matteo lifted one eyebrow.
"Would you?"
I considered it.
"Depends on the frying pan."
He laughed quietly.
It was the first genuine laugh I'd heard from him.
For a heartbeat, he looked younger.
Less dangerous.
Almost human.
Then the car stopped.
And reality returned.
Two men entered the building first.
Leo followed.
Matteo stayed beside me on the sidewalk.
The November wind cut through my thin work shirt.
He glanced at me.
"You're freezing."
"I'm fine."
He removed his coat.
I stepped back.
"No."
"Clara."
"I don't need your jacket."
"You're shivering."
"That's rage."
"Rage appears to be losing to the weather."
He draped the coat over my shoulders anyway.
It smelled faintly of cedar, expensive cologne, and something warm.
I hated how comforting it felt.
"You're insufferable," I muttered.
"So I've been told."
A voice crackled through Leo's earpiece.
He went rigid.
Then looked at Matteo.
"Apartment's been searched."
My heart sank.
"Damage?"
"Minimal."
I pushed past Matteo.
He caught my elbow.
"Wait."
I looked at him.
"My mother's things are in there."
He released me.
"Stay behind me."
We climbed the stairs.
My apartment door stood open.
Inside, drawers were pulled out.
Cushions overturned.
The mattress stripped.
But what made my throat close was the sight of my mother's birthday card lying on the floor.
Someone had stepped on it.
I bent to pick it up.
My hands shook.
"Happy birthday, sweetheart," I whispered.
Matteo knelt beside me.
He said nothing.
I stood and hurried into the bedroom.
The dresser drawer was open.
My music box was gone.
I closed my eyes.
"No."
Matteo entered behind me.
"Clara."
"It's gone."
He looked around.
Then pointed toward the floor.
"What's that?"
A tiny scrap of blue velvet lay beneath the dresser.
I picked it up.
A piece of the lining.
Then I noticed something strange.
There was a shallow scratch along the back of the dresser.
Fresh.
As if someone had dragged a heavy object across it.
I moved the dresser slightly.
Behind it was a small envelope taped to the wall.
My heart stopped.
I hadn't put it there.
I peeled it free.
Across the front, in my mother's handwriting, were five words.
Clara, if they find it.
I opened it.
Inside was a photograph.
A teenage boy stood beside my mother.
His face was bruised.
His arm was wrapped in a bandage.
Even younger, I recognized him.
Matteo.
On the back, Mom had written:
The boy who came back for us.
I turned toward him.
He looked stunned.
"What does that mean?" I whispered.
Before he could answer, a voice came from the doorway.
"Put the photograph down."
We turned.
Jimmy Morales stood behind Leo.
May you like
He was holding a gun.
And he was pointing it straight at me.
