THE WAITRESS THEY TRIED TO ERASE

“Were you at The Grand Bell before my dinner?”

Vincent asked the question without raising his voice.

We were standing inside a quiet conference room at his waterfront office the following morning.

Gabriel Torres stood across the table, hands clasped behind his back.

He looked at Vincent, then at me.

“No, sir.”

Vincent placed Marisol's copied schedule in front of him.

“Try again.”

Gabriel read the handwritten notation.

For the first time since I had met him, the enormous bodyguard looked uncertain.

“Where did you get this?”

“That isn't an answer.”

Gabriel swallowed.

“Yes. I was there.”

Vincent's jaw tightened.

“You lied to me.”

“I had a reason.”

“You had thirty-four minutes during which someone arranged to poison me. I suggest you give me a very good one.”

Gabriel looked at me.

I folded my arms.

“Don't look at me. I want an explanation, too.”

He pulled out a chair but didn't sit.

Three months earlier, Gabriel explained, he had noticed unusual payments moving through one of Vincent's legitimate charitable programs.

The Harbor Relief Trust provided financial assistance to sick dockworkers, retired employees, and families facing expensive medical treatment.

Gabriel's older brother, Luis, had received help through the trust after a serious accident at the port.

Recently, some of those payments had stopped.

“My brother's rehabilitation center told him his assistance was being reviewed,” Gabriel said.

He had investigated privately, afraid that accusing the wrong person would make things worse for Luis.

Eventually, he traced several suspicious invoices to a company that supplied The Grand Bell.

“Why didn't you tell me?” Vincent demanded.

“Because the invoices were approved by someone in your office.”

The room went silent.

Vincent's expression hardened.

“Who?”

“Celia Ward.”

I had never heard the name.

But Vincent clearly knew it.

“That's impossible,” he said.

Gabriel shook his head.

“I thought so, too.”

Celia Ward was Vincent's chief financial officer.

She had worked with the Moretti family for fifteen years, beginning when Vincent's father was still alive.

She oversaw budgets, major contracts, charitable funding, and the administrative side of the businesses Vincent owned.

“Celia wouldn't steal from a medical charity,” Vincent said.

Gabriel looked miserable.

“I wasn't sure she had.”

That was why he had gone to The Grand Bell early.

Dennis had agreed to meet him privately about invoices that appeared to have been issued by a restaurant supplier.

Gabriel wanted to learn whether the orders were real.

“But Dennis never showed me the records,” he admitted. “He kept making excuses.”

“Did you see the woman wearing my apron?” I asked.

“No.”

“Did you enter the kitchen?”

“Only the service corridor.”

“Then why lie about being there?”

Gabriel looked down.

“Because I used Mr. Moretti's security credentials to request those invoices. I wasn't authorized to investigate his financial office.”

Vincent's face was cold.

“And you were more frightened of being disciplined than of telling me someone may have compromised my security?”

“No, sir. I was frightened you'd think I was accusing Celia because of my brother.”

The answer seemed to hurt him.

I could understand protecting a family member.

But I also remembered how his fingers had dug into my shoulder while I tried to help Vincent breathe.

“Did you see Dennis after the ambulance arrived?” I asked.

Gabriel nodded.

“He was standing outside the kitchen.”

“Did he say anything?”

Gabriel hesitated.

“He asked whether Mr. Moretti was going to survive.”

“That seems normal,” Vincent said.

“Not the way he asked.”

Gabriel looked at him.

“He said, 'Did they get him breathing again?'”

My skin prickled.

“Again?”

Gabriel nodded.

“At the time, I thought he was simply frightened. Now I don't know.”

Vincent walked toward the window.

Beyond the glass, enormous cargo cranes rose against Baltimore's gray morning sky.

For a long moment, nobody spoke.

Then Vincent turned around.

“Gabriel, you are relieved of responsibility for my personal security while this is investigated. You'll cooperate with an independent investigator, and you won't contact Dennis.”

Gabriel accepted the decision without arguing.

But before leaving, he turned to me.

“Miss Cooper, I owe you an apology.”

I looked at him.

“At the restaurant, I grabbed you before I understood what was happening. You were helping him, and I treated you like a threat.”

“You frightened me,” I said.

“I know.”

“And you stood there while Dennis blamed me.”

Gabriel lowered his eyes.

“I should have corrected him.”

It wasn't a perfect apology.

But it was the first honest one anyone connected to The Grand Bell had given me.

After he left, Vincent invited me to sit.

I remained standing.

“You didn't know about the missing charity money?”

“No.”

“Or that my manager was meeting with your bodyguard?”

“No.”

“Or that someone was using my employee number?”

His expression darkened.

“Paige, I understand why you're asking.”

“Do you?”

I felt my voice rising.

“Because every person who did something wrong seems to have been protecting someone else. Gabriel was protecting his brother. Dennis was protecting his restaurant. And you're telling me you knew nothing.”

Vincent didn't interrupt.

“My mother died leaving bills I couldn't pay. I lost my job because I tried to help you. I don't have the luxury of trusting people simply because they look respectable.”

He sat quietly.

Then he opened a drawer and removed a thin folder.

“I had my office request copies of every warning sent about you.”

He pushed the folder toward me.

Inside were several letters on Moretti Harbor Holdings stationery.

Each warned local hospitality businesses against employing an individual involved in a dangerous incident at The Grand Bell.

My full name appeared in bold letters.

PAIGE COOPER.

The letters described me as a liability.

They even implied I had deliberately interfered with Vincent's medical treatment.

I felt sick reading them.

Then I reached the final page.