Chapter 4 - The Body in My Apartment
For several seconds, I couldn't hear anything.
Marco was still speaking.
Dante was asking questions.
Someone opened the hospital room door.
But all I could see was my brother sitting at our kitchen table six months earlier, eating cereal straight from the box and complaining about the rent.
Daniel had been twenty-four when he disappeared.
He was supposed to turn twenty-five next month.
He was supposed to complain about getting older.
He was supposed to laugh when I bought him the same ridiculous chocolate cake I'd bought him every year since we were children.
He wasn't supposed to be found in a burning apartment.
"Cara."
Dante's voice cut through the noise.
I looked at him.
"Is it Daniel?"
He turned toward Marco.
"Do they have an identification?"
Marco shook his head.
"Not yet."
I grabbed my jacket.
"Then I'm going there."
Dante tried to sit up.
Pain crossed his face.
"Don't."
I ignored him.
Marco moved in front of the door.
"Miss Fields, please."
"Move."
"The police are already there."
"Then I want to talk to them."
"That building may not be safe."
I looked him straight in the eyes.
"Neither is this hospital."
For a moment, he seemed to have no answer.
Then Dante spoke.
"Let her go."
Marco turned.
"Boss—"
"Send two men with her."
I shook my head.
"I don't need bodyguards."
Dante's gaze settled on me.
"You received a threat, and now your home is burning."
His voice hardened.
"You may not want protection, Cara, but you need it."
I wanted to argue.
I wanted to tell him that I had managed my life perfectly well before meeting him.
But my apartment was on fire, my brother might be dead, and my hands still shook from pulling a man out of a wrecked car.
Pride suddenly seemed like a luxury.
"Fine."
Dante nodded once.
Then he added, "Marco stays with me."
Marco frowned.
"Boss?"
"Send Vincent and Ellis."
Dante looked back at me.
"And Cara?"
I paused in the doorway.
"Don't assume anything until they identify the body."
I wanted to believe him.
But hope had become something I was afraid to touch.
The fire had been extinguished by the time we arrived.
Yellow emergency lights flashed across the wet pavement.
Firefighters carried equipment out of the building.
Police officers stood behind barricades.
The air smelled of burned wood, melted plastic, and cold rain.
I had lived in that building for seven years.
I knew every crack in the sidewalk.
Every uneven step.
Every stubborn lock.
Now the third-floor windows were black.
One had shattered.
The curtains I'd bought from a discount store were gone.
I walked toward the entrance.
An officer stopped me.
"Ma'am, you can't go inside."
"I live here."
"I'm sorry."
"My brother might be in there."
His expression softened.
"What's your name?"
"Cara Fields."
Recognition flashed across his face.
"Wait here."
He stepped away to speak into his radio.
A few minutes later, Detective Shaw appeared.
She looked as though she hadn't slept in days.
"Cara."
"Tell me."
She gestured toward a police vehicle.
"Let's sit down."
"No."
"Cara—"
"Is it my brother?"
Shaw held my gaze.
"The man was alive when firefighters reached him."
My legs weakened.
"Alive?"
"Yes."
"Where is he?"
"He was transported to Saint Catherine's Medical Center."
I covered my mouth.
"Is he okay?"
"He suffered smoke inhalation and burns."
"Can I see him?"
"Not yet."
My relief twisted into fear.
"Why?"
Shaw hesitated.
"Because we haven't established who he is."
I stared at her.
"Then how do you know he was holding my picture?"
"It was recovered from his hand."
She reached into her coat and removed an evidence photograph.
My childhood face stared back at me.
I was eight years old.
Daniel was five.
We stood in front of a cheap plastic Christmas tree wearing matching green sweaters.
Our mother had taken that picture.
I knew every detail of it.
The photograph had been displayed on the refrigerator in my apartment.
Shaw watched my face.
"Do you recognize it?"
"Yes."
"Does your brother have any distinguishing marks?"
I nodded.
"A small scar under his chin."
"Anything else?"
"He broke his left wrist when he was fourteen."
I swallowed.
"There's a little bump near the bone."
She wrote it down.
Then her phone rang.
She answered.
I watched her expression change.
"Understood."
She ended the call.
"What?"
Shaw looked at me.
"The man at Saint Catherine's has regained consciousness."
My heart jumped.
"Is it Daniel?"
"We're still confirming."
I grabbed her arm.
"Please."
She paused.
Then she said, "He asked for you."
Saint Catherine's was quieter than the first hospital.
Too quiet.
We walked through a secure ward and stopped outside a room guarded by two uniformed officers.
A doctor met us at the door.
"He's stable, but he needs rest."
I barely heard him.
"Can I go in?"
The doctor looked at Shaw.
She nodded.
I stepped inside.
A young man lay in the hospital bed.
His face was partially covered by an oxygen mask.
Bandages wrapped one arm.
A monitor beeped softly beside him.
For one impossible second, I thought it was Daniel.
The same dark hair.
The same narrow shoulders.
Then he turned his head.
And my heart sank.
It wasn't him.
The man was older.
His nose was different.
His jaw was too square.
I stopped beside the bed.
He looked at me with exhausted eyes.
"You're Cara."
I nodded.
"Who are you?"
He tried to remove his oxygen mask.
The doctor helped him.
"My name is Thomas Reed."
"Why were you in my apartment?"
He swallowed painfully.
"Daniel sent me."
My heart slammed against my ribs.
"Where is he?"
Thomas glanced toward the door.
Shaw remained outside.
He lowered his voice.
"He's alive."
I gripped the bedrail.
"Where?"
"I don't know anymore."
"What does that mean?"
Thomas closed his eyes.
"Daniel got us out of a warehouse three nights ago."
"Who was holding you?"
"Adrian Bell's people."
I stared at him.
Thomas continued.
"Daniel was hurt."
"Badly?"
"He could walk."
A breath escaped me.
"He could walk."
"Yes."
"Then where did he go?"
"He sent me to your apartment."
"Why?"
Thomas looked toward the doorway again.
"To retrieve something."
"The key?"
His eyes widened.
"You know about it?"
I nodded.
"Daniel told me to keep it safe."
Thomas let out a shaky breath.
"Thank God."
My pulse raced.
"What does it open?"
He didn't answer immediately.
Instead, he reached beneath his pillow.
The doctor stepped forward.
"Mr. Reed, don't strain yourself."
Thomas ignored him.
He pulled out a small folded piece of paper.
"Take this."
I opened it.
There were only two lines.
The key opens the wrong door.
Find the one with no number.
I frowned.
"What does this mean?"
Thomas's face changed.
Fear entered his eyes.
"Cara, listen carefully."
I leaned closer.
"Adrian thinks Daniel stole the transfer records."
"He didn't."
"Then who did?"
Thomas swallowed.
"He hid the originals before he disappeared."
"Where?"
Thomas shook his head.
"I don't know."
I looked at the paper again.
The one with no number.
"What about this?"
"Daniel said you'd understand."
"I don't."
"He said to remember where your mother kept the Christmas lights."
My blood turned cold.
The Christmas lights.
Our mother never threw anything away.
Every December, she dragged an old metal trunk from the storage closet beneath the apartment stairs.
She kept the decorations there.
And inside that trunk was a small wooden box.
A box Daniel and I had been forbidden to open as children.
I looked up.
"Where's Daniel now?"
Thomas's expression darkened.
"He was supposed to meet me last night."
"Where?"
"At the old train station."
"Did he come?"
Thomas shook his head.
"No."
I felt my hope beginning to collapse.
Then he caught my wrist.
"One more thing."
"What?"
His voice dropped to a whisper.
"Daniel said the person who ordered Dante Moretti's murder wasn't Vanessa."
I stared at him.
"What?"
"She was involved."
"Adrian was involved."
"But somebody else gave the order."
My mouth went dry.
"Who?"
Thomas's eyes moved toward the doorway.
He looked terrified.
"Someone Dante trusts more than his wife."
Before I could respond, the monitor beside his bed began to alarm.
Thomas struggled to breathe.
The doctor hurried forward.
"Miss Fields, step back."
I moved away as nurses entered.
Thomas reached toward me.
His lips moved.
I leaned closer.
"What?"
His voice was barely there.
"The photograph."
Then his eyes closed.
The doctor pushed me toward the door.
"We need room."
I stumbled into the hallway.
Shaw caught my arm.
"What happened?"
I looked down at the childhood photograph still in my hand.
It was old.
Faded.
Burned around one corner.
Then I noticed something I'd never seen before.
On the back, beneath our mother's handwriting, was a stamped symbol.
A small silver falcon.
May you like
And under it were three words.
MORETTI FAMILY TRUST.
