Chapter 3 - The Photograph Beside My Sister’s Phone
I do not remember screaming.
Dominic later told me I did.
I remember seeing Elena’s phone on the wet pavement.
I remember the cracked screen.
I remember the photograph beside it.
Sophie.
Not a photograph from my social media.
Not from Elena.
Not from the airport.
A close-up photograph of my daughter sleeping in my arms on the airplane.
Taken from somewhere behind us.
My knees stopped working.
Dominic caught me before I hit the ground.
“Rachel.”
“Who took that?”
His face had gone white.
“Inside.”
“Who took that?”
“Rachel, please.”
“WHO TOOK THAT?”
Sophie began crying from inside the house where one of Elena’s bridesmaids was holding her.
The sound pulled me back.
Dominic lowered his voice.
“I don’t know.”
“You said she was safe.”
“I thought she was.”
“You said—”
A black SUV turned onto the street so fast the tires nearly hit the curb.
The rear door opened before it fully stopped.
Ethan stepped out.
No coat.
Black suit.
Two men behind him.
The expression on his face was not the man from the airplane.
This was the man Chicago feared.
“Where?”
Dominic pointed toward the alley.
Ethan saw the phone.
Then the photograph.
Everything about him changed.
He crouched.
Did not touch either item.
“Who has been in this alley?”
“Me. Rachel. Two neighbors.”
“Police?”
“On the way.”
Ethan stood.
His gaze found mine.
“Where’s Sophie?”
“Inside.”
“Get her.”
“What?”
“You’re leaving.”
My fear turned instantly to anger.
“No.”
“Rachel.”
“I’m not leaving while my sister is missing.”
“You’re taking your daughter somewhere secure.”
“You don’t get to order me.”
His eyes flashed.
Then, visibly, he caught himself.
“You’re right.”
Dominic looked stunned.
Ethan inhaled once.
“Please take Sophie somewhere secure.”
“I’m staying.”
“The photograph means the person who took Elena has been close enough to photograph your child.”
“I understand that.”
“No. You understand the sentence.”
His voice dropped.
“I understand what people who send photographs like that are willing to do.”
My stomach twisted.
“I’m not abandoning Elena.”
“You’re protecting your daughter.”
“Those are not mutually exclusive.”
His jaw tightened.
For a second, I thought he might simply pick me up and put me in the car.
Instead, he looked toward one of his men.
“Bring the armored SUV closer.”
Then back to me.
“If you refuse to leave Chicago, stay at my house.”
I laughed from disbelief.
“Your house?”
“Yes.”
“The Mafia mansion?”
His mouth twitched.
“Apparently.”
“I’m not moving into your house.”
“Temporary.”
“No.”
“Rachel.”
“No.”
The sirens arrived.
Police filled the street.
Questions followed.
Timeline.
Last known location.
Description.
Clothing.
Known threats.
Dominic answered most of them.
I held Sophie.
Ethan stayed near enough that I could feel his presence without looking.
Then one detective picked up the photograph.
“Mrs. Morales?”
“Ms.”
“Is this your daughter?”
“Yes.”
“When was this taken?”
“I don’t know.”
“You’re on an airplane.”
“Yes.”
“Who knew your flight?”
“My sister.”
“Anyone else?”
“No.”
I stopped.
The diner manager.
Two coworkers.
My landlord.
Maybe Miguel if Elena told him?
No.
Miguel had no connection to Chicago.
Then Ethan said, “Passenger manifest.”
The detective looked at him.
“Excuse me?”
“Pull the passenger manifest.”
“You’re Mr. Callahan.”
“Yes.”
The detective’s posture changed.
Not fear exactly.
Awareness.
Ethan pointed to the photograph.
“That image was taken from approximately two rows behind seat fourteen.”
The detective studied it.
“How do you know?”
“Angle.”
I looked at him.
He was right.
The photograph showed the top edge of the window.
It had been taken diagonally from behind.
Ethan looked at Dominic.
“Seat numbers?”
“I’ll get them.”
The detective frowned.
“We can handle—”
“Then handle it quickly.”
The air changed.
I stepped toward Ethan.
“Stop.”
He looked at me.
“The police are here.”
“Yes.”
“Let them work.”
His eyes darkened.
“My way is faster.”
“That doesn’t make it better.”
For one second, everyone nearby went very still.
Apparently nobody told Ethan Callahan no.
Except me.
Repeatedly.
He looked away.
“Fine.”
The detective exhaled.
I almost apologized.
Then my phone rang.
Elena.
Everyone froze.
I answered immediately.
“Elena?”
No response.
“ELENA?”
Breathing.
Not hers.
A man spoke.
“Rachel Morales.”
My entire body turned to ice.
Ethan’s hand moved.
Speaker.
I put the phone on speaker.
“Where is my sister?”
“She’s fine.”
“Let me hear her.”
“You’ll hear her when we discuss terms.”
“What terms?”
“You brought something to Chicago that doesn’t belong to you.”
I looked at Ethan.
His expression became lethal.
“I brought diapers and three cheap dresses.”
The man laughed.
“You have your father’s mouth.”
I stopped breathing.
My father?
Ethan’s eyes narrowed.
“My father died when I was nine.”
“Did he?”
Every sound disappeared.
The phone nearly slipped from my hand.
“What did you say?”
“He didn’t tell you much before he vanished, did he?”
My mother told us Dad died in a car accident outside Joliet.
Closed casket.
I barely remembered the funeral.
Only my mother crying.
Elena too young to understand.
“What do you want?”
“Ask Callahan.”
My eyes snapped toward Ethan.
The man continued.
“He knows what your name means.”
Then the call ended.
I stared at Ethan.
“What does he mean?”
“Rachel—”
“What does my name mean?”
His jaw tightened.
Dominic looked away.
I saw it.
“You know.”
“No.”
“Don’t lie to me.”
“I know possibilities.”
“Then say them.”
He looked at the officers.
“Not here.”
I almost slapped him.
Instead, I walked into the house, handed Sophie to Elena’s friend, then turned.
“Kitchen.”
Ethan followed.
Dominic came too.
I shut the door.
“My father was Carlos Morales.”
Neither man spoke.
“He was a mechanic.”
Ethan said, “That’s what you were told.”
My stomach turned.
“Stop doing that.”
“What?”
“Speaking like my life is some file you’ve already read.”
His expression softened slightly.
“I hadn’t heard your father’s name until the call.”
“Then why did you react?”
“Morales.”
“So?”
Dominic answered.
“Morales was the name of a crew that operated in Chicago twenty-five years ago.”
My heart pounded.
“A crew.”
“Organization,” Ethan corrected.
I laughed bitterly.
“Mafia?”
“Not exactly.”
“What does that mean?”
“Your father may have been Carlos ‘Caro’ Morales.”
The nickname triggered something.
My mother.
Whispering Caro once during an argument.
I had assumed sweetheart.
“What did he do?”
Ethan’s eyes held mine.
“He handled money.”
“For who?”
“My father.”
The room tilted.
Ethan’s father.
Callahan.
My father worked for Ethan Callahan’s father.
“No.”
“I said may.”
“He was a mechanic.”
“People can be two things.”
“No.”
I walked backward until the counter hit me.
“Why would Mom lie?”
“To keep you safe.”
“Safe from what?”
Ethan looked toward Dominic.
Then back to me.
“Your father disappeared after stealing something from my family.”
My laugh sounded hysterical.
“He died.”
“Possibly.”
“What did he steal?”
“Nobody knew.”
“And now someone thinks I have it?”
“That would explain Elena.”
“And Sophie’s photograph.”
“Yes.”
I stared at him.
“You knew none of this on the plane?”
“No.”
“Swear.”
He did not hesitate.
“On Sophie’s life, I did not know who you were.”
That should have angered me.
Using my daughter’s life in an oath.
Instead, I believed him.
“What happens now?”
“We find Elena.”
“How?”
“First, we identify whoever was on the flight.”
The passenger manifest showed seventeen people seated within three rows of me.
One name mattered.
Thomas Vale.
Ethan recognized it immediately.
So did Dominic.
“Who is he?”
Ethan’s face hardened.
“Son of a man my father killed.”
I sat down.
Of course.
Apparently my life was now a collection of terrible sentences.
“What does that have to do with me?”
“His father worked with yours.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning if Carlos Morales stole something from the Callahans, Vale may believe you inherited it.”
“But I didn’t.”
“Then we prove it.”
“How?”
“We find out what your father took.”
A memory surfaced.
A box.
Not in Los Angeles.
In storage.
After Mom died, I kept several boxes I couldn’t afford to ship when I moved west.
Elena took them.
I hadn’t thought about them in years.
“There are boxes.”
Ethan’s eyes sharpened.
“What boxes?”
“My mother’s things.”
“Where?”
“Elena had them.”
Dominic went pale.
I turned.
“What?”
He looked at Ethan.
Then me.
“She moved them last month.”
“Where?”
“To our new house.”
My stomach dropped.
The house Elena planned to move into after the wedding.
The house now sitting empty.
We arrived with police twenty minutes later.
The front door was open.
Nothing else looked disturbed.
Downstairs.
Bedroom.
Kitchen.
Nothing.
Then we reached the basement.
Boxes had been ripped apart.
Photographs scattered.
Clothes sliced open.
Furniture overturned.
Someone had been searching.
For something specific.
I recognized one cardboard box.
MOM - PAPERS.
Empty.
“Oh God.”
Ethan crouched near the floor.
He picked up an envelope.
Blank.
Then another.
Bills.
Old tax documents.
A small photograph lay beneath them.
My father.
Younger than I remembered.
Standing beside a black Cadillac.
Next to him stood another man.
Young.
Dark hair.
Hard eyes.
I looked at Ethan.
“Who is that?”
His face had gone still.
“My father.”
My fingers shook.
Behind them was a building.
I recognized it.
“Mom worked there.”
Ethan looked at me.
“What building?”
“The Lakehurst Hotel.”
One of Chicago’s old luxury hotels.
Now owned by Callahan Industries.
My mother told us she met Dad there when she was nineteen.
Ethan took the photograph.
On the back, handwriting.
Caro, Patrick, June 1998. The night before everything changed.
“What happened in 1998?” I asked.
Ethan’s face darkened.
“My uncle was killed.”
A noise came from upstairs.
Everyone moved.
Dominic drew a weapon.
Police shouted.
Footsteps.
Then silence.
An officer called down.
“Package at the door.”
Inside the package was Elena’s engagement ring.
And an old brass key.
Attached to the key was a tag.
LAKEHURST - 817.
Ethan stared.
“Room 817 hasn’t existed in twenty years.”
I looked at him.
“Why?”
“Because my father sealed the entire eighth floor after my uncle died.”
My skin prickled.
“The hotel still belongs to you?”
“Yes.”
“Then we go.”
“No.”
I stared at him.
“No?”
“Rachel, someone is leading us there.”
“My sister is missing.”
“I know.”
“I’m going.”
“It’s a trap.”
“Then don’t come.”
His face changed.
“Not happening.”
“Then stop telling me I can’t.”
We reached the Lakehurst Hotel just before midnight.
Closed floor.
Dust.
Construction walls.
Old carpet beneath newer flooring.
Room 817 stood at the far end of the corridor.
The brass key fit.
Inside, everything had been preserved.
A desk.
A bed.
An old wall safe.
And one dark stain in the carpet.
I did not ask.
The key opened the desk.
Inside was a cassette recorder.
A photograph of my mother.
And a note addressed to me.
Rachel,
If you’re reading this, someone found Elena before I could finish what I started.
The handwriting was my mother’s.
And suddenly I understood.
May you like
My mother had known.
Everything.
