Chapter 6 - THE FERRY TICKET FROM CONNECTICUT
“What accident, Brianna?”
Sebastian held the photograph so tightly its edges began to curl.
Brianna looked toward the windows.
“Something happened at Pier Nine that night. A loading crane failed. One worker was injured, and Adrian came home with a cut above his eyebrow.”
Sebastian frowned.
“There was no accident report.”
“Exactly.”
She took a breath.
“Adrian said the company had been moving cargo through a section of the terminal that should have been closed for safety repairs.”
“And the watch?”
“It was damaged that night. But Adrian told me he'd deliberately stopped its hands afterward.”
“Why?”
“He said he needed to remember the exact time.”
Sebastian examined the photograph.
8:17.
The same time written on the back of Evelyn's picture.
“Did he tell you anything else?”
“Only that the accident and the missing money were connected.”
Sebastian put the ferry ticket into his pocket.
“I'm going to Connecticut.”
Brianna rose.
“I'm coming.”
“No.”
“He's my husband.”
Sebastian looked at her.
“And you spent seven years pretending he wasn't.”
Her eyes filled again.
“He was the only man I ever loved.”
“Then you can explain that to him when he's ready to hear it.”
Before leaving, Sebastian asked me to accompany him.
“You've been useful in ways my investigators haven't,” he explained. “But I won't ask you to miss your father's appointment.”
My father had rehabilitation therapy that afternoon.
I hesitated.
Then Sebastian handed me his phone.
“I've arranged for another employee to cover your work. You can attend the appointment first. We leave afterward.”
I looked at him.
“You didn't have to do that.”
“Yes,” he answered. “I did.”
At the rehabilitation center, Dad was sitting beside the window, working on gripping a rubber ball.
His right hand trembled.
But when he saw me, he smiled.
“Hey, sweetheart.”
I kissed his cheek.
“How was therapy?”
“Hard.”
“Good hard?”
He gave a small laugh.
“Still deciding.”
I sat beside him.
Dad had always been a quiet man.
Before his stroke, he'd spent thirty years repairing heating systems in apartment buildings.
He knew nothing about the Russo family's business.
And I intended to keep him away from its dangers.
“Something wrong at work?” he asked.
I thought about Brianna's threats.
Then I shook my head.
“Something's changing.”
He squeezed my fingers with his stronger hand.
“Make sure it's changing for you, too.”
By late afternoon, Sebastian, Marcus, and I reached New London.
The marina in Brianna's photograph stood beside an aging ferry office.
Fishing boats rocked against wooden docks.
A cold wind carried the smell of salt and diesel.
Marcus spoke with the harbor manager.
The man studied Adrian's photograph.
“That's Andrew Vale,” he said.
Sebastian's eyes narrowed.
“Andrew Vale?”
“Works at a small marine repair shop farther down the waterfront. Good mechanic. Keeps to himself.”
“Has he been here long?”
“About six years.”
Sebastian glanced toward the water.
Six years.
His brother hadn't disappeared overseas.
He'd been living less than three hours from New York.
We found the repair shop beside a row of storage sheds.
The doors were closed.
A handwritten notice announced that the owner had stepped out.
Marcus inspected the workbench through a window.
“Someone was here recently.”
Then I noticed something hanging beside the entrance.
A dark wool coat.
The same one Adrian wore in the photograph.
Beneath it sat a cardboard box containing old boat parts and several unopened letters.
One envelope had fallen onto the floor.
I bent to retrieve it.
My heart stopped when I saw the handwriting.
Margaret Russo.
Sebastian took the envelope.
His mother's return address was printed in the upper corner.
The postmark was dated six years earlier.
One month before her death.
“Why would Adrian leave this unopened?” he whispered.
Before I could answer, a woman approached from the neighboring shop.
She was in her sixties, wearing a heavy sweater and carrying a paper cup of coffee.
“You looking for Andrew?”
Sebastian nodded.
“I'm his brother.”
The woman studied him.
Then her expression softened.
“He said you might come someday.”
“Where is he?”
“He took the early ferry to inspect an engine. He'll be back tonight.”
Sebastian looked at the letter.
“Did my mother send him this?”
The woman glanced at the envelope.
“Not exactly. That arrived last week.”
Sebastian frowned.
“The postmark is six years old.”
“That's because it was returned to a lawyer's storage box in New York. Andrew hired someone to recover his old correspondence.”
She hesitated.
“He's been trying to understand why his family never answered him.”
Sebastian stared at her.
“What?”
The woman nodded toward the shop.
“He sent dozens of letters during his first year here. To his brother. To his mother. To everyone he thought might listen.”
Sebastian's voice grew hoarse.
“I never received one.”
The woman looked genuinely surprised.
Then she reached into her cardigan pocket.
“Andrew asked me to keep this somewhere safe. He said if anyone came looking for him, I'd know whether to hand it over.”
She produced a small notebook.
Inside were dates, addresses, and copies of registered-mail receipts.
Every envelope had been addressed to the Russo estate.
Every delivery had been signed for.
And every signature belonged to the same person.
Sebastian studied the pages.
His face hardened.
“Who is Miriam Shaw?”
The woman answered quietly.
“Andrew said she worked for your father.”
I remembered the anonymous warnings on Sebastian's phone.
The first message had arrived while Brianna was speaking downstairs.
Miriam could have been in the ballroom.
Sebastian turned another page.
At the bottom was a photograph of a delivery receipt.
And beside Miriam's signature was a handwritten instruction.
HOLD ALL CORRESPONDENCE FROM ADRIAN. DIRECT ORDER — V. RUSSO.
Sebastian closed the notebook.
For seven years, he'd believed his brother had abandoned him.
But his brother had been trying to come home through words.
And somebody had made sure those words never reached him.
Then the woman pointed toward the harbor.
A small ferry was approaching the dock.
She touched Sebastian's arm.
“That's his boat.”
Sebastian looked up.
A tall man in a faded gray jacket stood near the railing.
His hair was silver at the temples.
His face was older, thinner, and deeply familiar.
The ferry came alongside the dock.
The man stepped onto the gangway.
He stopped when he saw Sebastian.
Neither brother moved.
May you like
Then Adrian Russo spoke for the first time in seven years.
“Sebastian?”
