Chapter 1 - The Dying Man in the QuarryThe first thing the dying man did after Amber Reed risked her life to pull him out of a fifteen-foot quarry pit was grab her wrist and tell her not to call an ambulance.
The second thing he did was promise to repay her.
Amber should have been frightened by both.
Instead, kneeling in wet October leaves with mud on her jeans and a hundred feet of rope burning grooves into her palms, she stared down at the stranger whose expensive black suit had been torn nearly to pieces and said, “If you die after everything I just did, I’m going to be furious.”
For a moment, the man simply looked at her.
His left leg bent at an angle no leg should bend. His face had gone gray from cold. Dried blood marked one side of his shirt, and he had apparently spent the entire night trapped in an abandoned quarry deep in the Catskill Mountains.
Yet somehow his eyes remained calm.
Not brave.
Not peaceful.
Calm in the way of a man accustomed to deciding whether other people lived long enough to leave a room.
“You shouldn’t have come down here,” he said.
Amber tightened the rope around the makeshift harness she had built beneath his shoulders.
“My dog disagreed.”
A hundred and fifty pounds of Neapolitan mastiff stood at the rim of the pit, whining impatiently.
“Nero,” Amber called. “Stay.”
The dog stared down at them.
The stranger’s gaze followed hers.
“Your dog found me?”
“He came home covered in mud, tried to pull my pants off, then ran into the woods.”
A faint shadow crossed the man’s face.
“You followed him?”
“I teach third grade. I’ve followed children into worse situations.”
Something almost like laughter escaped him, though it ended in pain.
Amber leaned backward into the rope.
“Save your energy.”
“I told you to leave.”
“And I ignored you.”
“You do that often?”
“When people are being ridiculous.”
For the next twenty minutes, Amber used every trick Rose Reed had taught her as a child. She looped the rope around an old maple, built a crude mechanical advantage, hauled, reset, hauled again, and refused to think about what would happen if the anchor slipped.
By the time the stranger’s shoulders cleared the edge, Amber’s hands were bleeding.
She rolled him onto the leaves and collapsed beside him.
He opened his eyes.
“I’ll repay you.”
She was breathing too hard to laugh.
“I didn’t save you for money.”
“I didn’t say money.”
“Then we’re already making progress.”
For several seconds they simply listened to the wind moving through the mountains.
Then the stranger looked at her with sudden intensity.
“My name is Vincent.”
“Vincent what?”
He hesitated.
“Marino.”
Amber stared at him.
The name meant something.
She just didn't yet understand what.
She lived forty minutes from the nearest emergency room, so getting him out of the pit solved only the first problem.
She ran home, dragged an old garden cart into the woods, returned with blankets, water and a tarp, and somehow wrestled a man nearly twice her weight onto it.
It took almost an hour to pull him home.
By the time she got him onto the mattress in her living room, she was shaking from exhaustion.
Amber reached for her phone.
Vincent’s hand closed around her wrist.
His grip was shockingly strong.
“Don’t.”
“Your leg is broken.”
“I know.”
“You’re freezing.”
“I know.”
“You’ve lost blood.”
“I know that too.”
“Then stop making this difficult.”
“If my name enters a hospital system,” he said quietly, “the people who put me in that quarry may find me before a doctor finishes examining me.”
Amber stopped.
His gaze moved once around the room.
To the windows.
The door.
Nero.
Then back to her.
“And they won’t stop with me.”
That sentence changed the temperature in the room.
Amber slowly lowered her phone.
“Who are you?”
Vincent looked away.
“Someone who made enemies.”
“That describes half the people in New York.”
“Not enemies who shoot at you in abandoned quarries.”
Amber stared at him.
Then she noticed something.
A dark stain beneath his shirt.
“Where else were you hit?”
“Left side.”
She lifted the fabric before he could object.
A bullet wound.
Amber’s stomach twisted.
“You've been shot?”
“Yes.”
“How are you still conscious?”
“Practice.”
She almost laughed.
Instead, she grabbed the first-aid kit.
“I’m going to clean this.”
“You shouldn't.”
“I already dragged you home. We're past ‘should.’”
He watched her work.
She cleaned the wound as carefully as she could.
At some point, Vincent whispered, “You look familiar.”
Amber glanced up.
“I doubt it.”
“No.”
He stared at her face.
“I know you.”
“From where?”
His expression changed.
Not recognition.
Confusion.
Then pain.
“I don’t know.”
By nightfall, Amber had done everything she could.
Nero lay beside the mattress.
Vincent slept fitfully.
Rain began tapping against the roof.
Amber sat by the window and watched headlights crawl along the distant road.
Then she remembered the number Vincent had given her.
He had instructed her to say one sentence.
The swallow is in Roxbury.
She made the call.
“Say nothing else,” Vincent had instructed.
So she didn't.
A man's voice answered.
“Where?”
“Roxbury.”
Silence.
Then:
“We're coming.”
Three black SUVs arrived forty minutes later.
The first man through the door was around sixty. Silver-haired, impeccably dressed, and visibly shaken despite his controlled expression.
He walked past Amber without removing his coat.
Then he reached the mattress.
His head lowered.
“Mr. Marino.”
Amber heard the words.
Then the doctor behind him said them too.
The two men guarding the doorway lowered their heads when they entered.
Amber remained in the kitchen with blood drying across both hands.
The older man finally approached her.
“My name is Daniel Marino.”
She nodded.
“You're his father?”
“No.”
His answer came too quickly.
Amber frowned.
“Brother?”
Daniel looked toward Vincent.
“Uncle.”
That explained the respect.
But not the fear.
The doctor treated Vincent in her living room.
Afterward, he delivered worse news.
“The bullet caused internal damage. His leg is fractured in three places. He has severe blood loss. He needs surgery immediately.”
Daniel looked at Amber.
“Did he tell you not to call an ambulance?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
Amber crossed her arms.
“Good?”
Daniel's expression hardened.
“You have no idea what you saved.”
Amber stared at him.
“I saved a man.”
“You saved Vincent Marino.”
“Apparently.”
Daniel pulled a card from his pocket.
“If anyone asks, you never saw him.”
“I don't lie very well.”
“Then don't speak.”
Before leaving, Daniel placed an envelope on her kitchen table.
Amber didn't touch it.
“What is that?”
“A repayment.”
“I already told him I don't want money.”
Daniel smiled without warmth.
“It isn't money.”
He left.
The door closed.
Amber stared at the envelope.
Eventually curiosity won.
Inside was a photograph.
A woman.
Young.
Beautiful.
Standing beside a lake.
Amber stopped breathing.
She knew that woman.
It was her mother.
Rose Reed.
On the back of the photograph was a handwritten sentence.
Ask your mother why she saved Vincent twenty years ago.
Amber read it three times.
Her mother had been dead for two years.
And suddenly, the life Amber thought she knew looked like a carefully constructed lie.
She went upstairs.
Opened the old wooden trunk Rose had forbidden her from touching.
Inside were photographs.
Letters.
A silver ring.
And one newspaper clipping.
A young Vincent Marino stood beside a much younger Rose Reed.
The date was twenty years ago.
Amber's hands began shaking.
At the bottom of the clipping was a headline.
LOCAL WOMAN SAVES YOUNG BUSINESSMAN AFTER MOUNTAIN CRASH.
Amber read the article.
Then she found another photograph.
This time, Rose was holding a newborn baby.
The picture was dated twenty years ago.
Amber turned it over.
Three words were written on the back.
Our secret daughter.
Amber sat down hard on the floor.
She stared at the photograph.
The baby was wrapped in a yellow blanket.
The same blanket Rose had used for Amber.
She suddenly remembered something her mother had said shortly before dying.
“Some families inherit money.”
Rose had whispered that night.
“Some inherit names.”
Amber had held her hand.
“What did we inherit?”
Rose had looked toward the window.
“A secret.”
Amber had always believed it was the dementia talking.
Now she wasn't so sure.
Downstairs, Vincent Marino woke.
He called her name.
“Amber?”
She froze.
“What?”
His voice was weak.
“Your mother.”
Amber stepped to the staircase.
“What about her?”
Vincent looked directly into her eyes.
“Rose never told you who your father was.”
Amber's heart slammed against her ribs.
Vincent continued.
“And I never told you who your sister was.”
The room went silent.
Nero growled.
Vincent's expression changed.
He looked terrified.
“Amber,” he whispered.
“Your mother didn't have one daughter.”
May you like
He took a painful breath.
“She had two.”
Related Stories
