Chapter 4 - THE WATCH THAT LIED FOR EIGHT YEARS
At 8:45 p.m., my father might still have been alive.
That possibility destroyed the story I'd been telling myself for eight years.
I walked into my bedroom and unlocked the glass case on my desk.
The silver pocket watch lay on dark velvet.
My father had carried it every day.
He used to wind it at breakfast while telling me that a man's word meant nothing if he couldn't keep his promises.
I remembered being sixteen and watching him snap the watch shut.
“Money can disappear, Dante. Reputation can be stolen. But don't ever make someone regret trusting you.”
I hadn't thought about those words in years.
Now I held the watch and studied its damaged face.
8:17.
The minute the original investigators had used to establish when my father died.
“Could the watch have stopped before the fire?” Isabella asked.
I looked at the dent near the hinge.
“I never asked.”
Raphael examined it.
“The glass isn't heat-damaged. Something struck the casing.”
“Does that prove anything?”
“No. But it means we've been treating a damaged watch like a clock on a wall.”
He was right.
A stopped watch was not proof of a man's final breath.
I had built eight years of certainty around an assumption.
And someone might have wanted it that way.
I placed the watch beside the photograph.
Then I looked at Isabella.
“Did Marcus know what Noah remembered?”
“He intercepted one of Noah's letters three weeks ago.”
“How?”
“He told me his contacts were still monitoring Noah's case.”
She paused.
“After that, he stopped asking about old records. He started asking about the house.”
That was when I understood the immediate danger.
Marcus wasn't merely hiding what happened eight years ago.
He was preparing for something now.
I turned to Raphael.
“What's happening at St. Agnes on Thursday?”
“The Harbor House Foundation benefit. A hundred and twenty guests. Trustees, donors, local business owners.”
My father had established the foundation to support families of injured dockworkers.
Marcus had administered its security and much of its funding since the fire.
I had continued signing the checks.
I had never examined the old accounts carefully.
“Who organized Thursday's benefit?” I asked.
Raphael's expression hardened.
“Marcus.”
I looked toward the hallway.
“Elena and Sophie need protection. Quietly.”
“Marcus controls the estate guards,” Raphael warned.
“Then they won't be using his guards.”
We went downstairs together.
Elena was folding laundry in the family sitting room while Sophie sat on the carpet with her plastic detective hat.
The little girl looked up.
“Mr. Dante, did you catch the bad guy?”
I crouched beside her.
“Not yet, sweetheart.”
She frowned.
“But you saw the papers?”
“I did.”
“Good. Mommy says I'm not allowed to spy anymore.”
Elena flushed.
“Sir, I told her—”
“Your mother is right,” I said gently. “Detectives need to stay safe.”
Sophie considered that.
“Even the good ones?”
“Especially the good ones.”
She handed me her magnifying glass.
“You can borrow this.”
I accepted it as seriously as if she'd handed me a priceless family heirloom.
“Thank you.”
Elena looked exhausted.
She'd been working in my house for three years.
I knew she made Sophie's breakfast before dawn.
I knew she took two buses when the weather was bad.
But I didn't know her favorite food or whether she ever had enough money left over at the end of the month.
I'd let someone care for my home without taking much interest in hers.
That realization bothered me more than I expected.
“Elena,” I said, “I need you and Sophie to stay in the east wing tonight. Raphael will arrange everything.”
“Are we in danger?”
I couldn't lie to her.
“I've found a reason to be careful. I'm going to deal with it.”
Her hand moved instinctively to Sophie's shoulder.
“Whatever happens, I won't let anyone take my daughter.”
“Neither will I.”
She held my gaze.
Then she nodded.
At 7:10 the next morning, one of Marcus's security supervisors appeared outside the east wing.
His name was Ben Walsh.
He carried a printed transportation authorization.
Raphael stopped him in the corridor.
“Where are you going?”
“Mr. Carrera ordered a protective relocation.”
“For whom?”
“The housekeeper and her daughter.”
My stomach dropped.
I stepped forward.
“Who approved that?”
Ben handed me the document.
At the bottom was my typed name.
DANTE MORETTI.
AUTHORIZED BY PRINCIPAL.
I hadn't approved anything.
“Where were you instructed to take them?”
Ben hesitated.
“Sir, Mr. Carrera said it was confidential.”
“I'm asking you.”
He turned the paper over.
There was an address.
A freight annex near Halsted Street.
Unit 14.
I recognized the location immediately.
It stood beside the ruins of the warehouse where my father died.
And beneath the address were four words that made the blood drain from my face.
TRANSFER BEFORE THURSDAY'S EVENT.
Marcus wasn't waiting for Sophie to become a problem.
May you like
He had already arranged to remove her.
And he was using my name to do it.
