Chapter 2 - The Quiet Man at Table Twelve Was the One Man in Grayhaven Everyone Else Was Afraid to DisappointVincent's car was waiting in the alley behind the café.
It was black, armored, and completely silent.
I stared at it.
"You said you were a wine distributor."
"I lied."
"You just admitted you're a criminal."
"I didn't lie about the wine."
I looked at him.
He almost smiled.
"This is insane."
"Yes."
"I'm sitting in a criminal's car."
"Technically, you're sitting in a car owned by a legitimate holding company."
"That's worse."
He laughed.
It was the first time I realized how young he could sound when he forgot to be frightening.
Then he looked at me.
"Are you afraid of me?"
I considered lying.
"No."
"Good."
"You should probably be concerned about that answer."
"Why?"
"Because I've already been chased through a tunnel tonight. I'm too tired to be impressed."
His mouth twitched.
The car moved through the rain.
I watched Grayhaven blur beyond the windows.
After twenty minutes, I realized we weren't heading toward downtown.
"Where are we going?"
"My house."
"No."
He glanced at me.
"Why?"
"Because I don't know you."
"You've known me for four hours."
"Exactly."
He nodded.
"Fair."
He turned to the driver.
"Take us to the Harbor House."
I frowned.
"The what?"
"My private residence."
"That's not comforting."
"It isn't supposed to be."
Despite myself, I laughed.
The Harbor House stood above the cliffs overlooking the eastern harbor.
Huge.
Modern.
Quiet.
I had seen it in magazines.
The house belonged to a reclusive businessman.
Nobody had photographs of the owner.
I now understood why.
Vincent brought me inside.
Security stood everywhere.
But nobody spoke.
Nobody stared.
Nobody questioned me.
It was as though the entire building had already been told that I mattered.
That frightened me more than the guns.
Vincent took me to a guest bedroom.
A clean robe.
Dry clothes.
First-aid supplies.
A tray of food.
Everything prepared.
He stood near the door.
"Sleep."
"I can't."
"Try."
"I have questions."
"So do I."
He looked at the locket.
"Get some rest."
Then he left.
I couldn't sleep.
At 4:12, I opened the locket.
For the first time in my life.
Inside was a tiny photograph.
My father.
My mother.
And another man.
Tobias Moretti.
Behind the photograph was a strip of paper.
Numbers.
Coordinates.
And one sentence.
The girl must never know the first name.
My stomach tightened.
The girl.
Me.
I left the room.
I found Vincent in a library.
He was sitting behind a desk reading.
He looked up.
"You didn't sleep."
"No."
I placed the locket on his desk.
He stared.
"I opened it."
"I told you not to."
"You didn't."
"I was going to."
He read the coordinates.
His expression changed.
"These are at the old Mason docks."
"Where?"
"Underwater."
I frowned.
"What?"
"There is a submerged storage facility beneath the northern pier."
I stared.
"Why would my father have coordinates to it?"
Vincent looked at me.
"Because he helped build it."
Silence.
"My father knew your family."
"Yes."
"How?"
Vincent leaned back.
"My father employed him."
"Doing what?"
"Accounting."
I laughed.
"My father was an accountant."
"Yes."
"He never mentioned you."
"We weren't supposed to exist in his life."
That sentence confused me.
"What does that mean?"
Vincent stood.
"Your father discovered something."
"What?"
"He found money disappearing."
"How much?"
"Enough to start a war."
He walked toward the window.
"My brother Tobias investigated."
"And?"
"They disappeared within three days of each other."
I stared.
"My father died in a car crash six months later."
Vincent nodded.
"Officially."
I felt cold.
"What does that mean?"
"I don't believe it was an accident."
He looked at me.
"Neither did Tobias."
I stared at the photograph.
"Then why didn't anyone investigate?"
"Because someone made sure the investigation ended."
"Who?"
Vincent didn't answer.
A phone rang.
He answered.
His face changed.
"Say that again."
Pause.
"Where?"
He hung up.
I waited.
"Your friend Jenna was attacked."
My heart stopped.
"What?"
"She's alive."
"Where?"
"At St. Mary's."
"I need to go."
"No."
"My best friend was attacked."
"You are being watched."
"I don't care."
"I do."
He stepped closer.
"That's the problem."
I stared at him.
He looked almost angry.
Not at me.
At himself.
"You can't walk into public places right now."
"Then protect her."
"I will."
He picked up his phone.
"She's being moved to a private clinic."
I swallowed.
"Did they ask about me?"
"Yes."
My hands began shaking.
"What did they say?"
"Where you were."
I closed my eyes.
Vincent stood in front of me.
"Look at me."
I did.
"Jenna will live."
"How do you know?"
"Because I've put fifteen people between her and anyone who wants her dead."
That should have frightened me.
Instead, it made something inside me loosen.
For the first time, I understood what kind of man Vincent was.
He didn't make promises.
He made arrangements.
Then he said:
"Come with me."
"Where?"
"To the docks."
"Why?"
"Because your father left something there."
The drive took an hour.
We arrived before dawn.
The old pier had been abandoned for years.
Vincent led me into a warehouse.
A trapdoor opened beneath a steel crate.
A staircase descended.
At the bottom was a flooded corridor.
We wore protective gear.
Inside, I saw storage containers.
Documents.
Old computers.
Photographs.
One file had my father's handwriting.
I opened it.
V. Moretti is not the danger.
Another page.
Tobias knows.
Then:
Do not trust Evelyn.
Vincent read over my shoulder.
"Who is Evelyn?"
I looked at him.
"You don't know?"
"No."
I found another photograph.
A woman.
Elegant.
Older.
Standing beside Vincent's father.
The name was written on the back.
Evelyn Vale.
Vincent froze.
"My father's sister."
"Is she alive?"
"Yes."
I looked at him.
"Then why would your father tell my father not to trust her?"
Vincent didn't answer.
We found the final file.
Inside was a list.
People paid.
People killed.
People bribed.
And at the bottom:
Tobias's disappearance was ordered from inside the house.
Vincent's jaw tightened.
"Someone in my family."
I looked at him.
"Maybe."
He closed the file.
"We're leaving."
"Why?"
"Because we're no longer investigating a missing man."
He looked toward the flooded corridor.
May you like
"We're investigating murder."
And neither of us knew that the next clue would lead directly back to the woman who had welcomed Vincent home every Christmas for twenty years.
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