Chapter 1 - The Photographs Beneath Her Bloodstained Hands“Norah?”
Desmond pushed the door open.
The apartment was dark except for the weak yellow light above the kitchen sink.
For several seconds, he heard nothing.
Then came a tiny metallic sound.
A needle tapping against glass.
He stepped farther inside.
“Norah, it’s me.”
She appeared at the edge of the kitchen doorway.
And Desmond forgot how to breathe.
There was dried blood across her sleeve.
Her cheek was swollen purple beneath one eye.
A shallow cut crossed the corner of her mouth.
Her dark hair, normally pinned neatly behind her shoulders, hung loose and tangled.
She looked less like the immaculate woman who had run his office for five years and more like someone who had survived a war alone.
In her right hand was a needle.
In her left was a strip of gauze.
“You weren’t supposed to come here,” she whispered.
Desmond closed the door behind him.
His eyes moved over her.
“Who did that?”
“No one.”
“Norah.”
“I said no one.”
He approached slowly.
She backed away.
That frightened him more than the blood.
Norah never backed away from anyone.
Not from Desmond.
Not from armed men.
Not from angry lawyers.
Not even from Carlo Rossi when he had once thrown a glass against a wall during a negotiation.
But now she looked terrified of him.
Desmond stopped.
“What happened?”
She looked toward the kitchen table.
There were cardboard boxes stacked everywhere.
Books.
Files.
Clothes.
Photographs.
A coffee machine.
Three potted plants.
Her entire life had apparently been reduced to things that fit into boxes.
And beside one of those boxes sat a cheap orange lighter.
Desmond stared at it.
Then at her.
“You’re moving.”
“Yes.”
“Tonight?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Norah’s lips trembled.
“Because I need to be gone before morning.”
“What happens in the morning?”
She did not answer.
He stepped toward the table.
Norah suddenly moved in front of him.
“No.”
“Move.”
“Desmond.”
“What is on that table?”
“Nothing you need to see.”
“Then why are you bleeding over it?”
Her face changed.
That was when he saw the photographs.
They were spread beneath her elbow.
Desmond recognized the twisted metal immediately.
A dark sedan crushed against a highway barrier.
Flames.
Rain.
Emergency lights.
A body beneath a silver rescue blanket.
Arthur.
His brother.
The room vanished.
For three years, Desmond had trained himself not to look at photographs from that night.
He had seen the official report.
He had watched the reconstruction.
He had read the coroner’s statement.
Arthur had been driving too fast on wet roads.
The barrier had failed.
The car had crossed two lanes and struck a concrete support.
Accident.
Tragic.
Unavoidable.
Except this photograph was different.
A man stood beside the burning wreckage.
Not a firefighter.
Not a police officer.
Not an EMT.
A man in a dark overcoat.
He was looking directly at the wreck.
And beside him stood another man.
Someone handing him an envelope.
Desmond’s eyes narrowed.
He knew that coat.
He had seen it at restaurants.
Funerals.
Political fundraisers.
Business meetings.
And he knew the ring on the man's finger.
A gold crest.
Three interlocking R's.
Rossi.
Desmond looked up.
“Where did you get these?”
Norah swallowed.
“I found them.”
“Where?”
She said nothing.
“Norah.”
Her eyes filled with tears.
“I was trying to destroy them.”
Desmond looked at the lighter.
“You were going to burn evidence that could identify the person who killed Arthur?”
“I wasn't trying to destroy it.”
“Then what were you doing?”
Her voice broke.
“I was trying to protect you.”
Desmond's jaw tightened.
“From what?”
She looked directly into his eyes.
“Your wedding.”
The silence that followed seemed impossible.
Rain battered the windows.
A radiator hissed.
Somewhere in the building, a child laughed.
Desmond stared at her.
“What does my wedding have to do with Arthur's death?”
Norah closed her eyes.
“Everything.”
He stepped closer.
“Tell me.”
“I can't.”
“Tell me.”
“I can't because you won't survive the answer.”
He laughed once, without humor.
“Norah, I have survived men putting guns against my head.”
“This isn't about guns.”
“Then what?”
She looked toward the photographs.
“It’s about who ordered the crash.”
Desmond's face hardened.
“Who?”
Norah slowly whispered a name.
“Carlo Rossi.”
The words seemed to knock the oxygen from the apartment.
Desmond stared at her.
“My future father-in-law?”
“Yes.”
“You're lying.”
“I wish I were.”
“Why would Carlo kill Arthur?”
“Because Arthur discovered what Carlo was doing with the port.”
Desmond picked up one of the photographs.
“Arthur knew about illegal shipments?”
“He knew about more than that.”
“What?”
Norah looked at the boxes.
“The day Arthur died, he was going to leave the organization.”
Desmond froze.
“My brother would never have—”
“He was going to turn over evidence.”
“To whom?”
“The federal prosecutor.”
Desmond stared at her.
The photographs shook in his hand.
“That isn't possible.”
“I wish it wasn't.”
“You're telling me Arthur wasn't killed because he lost control of his car.”
“No.”
“He was murdered.”
“Yes.”
“By Carlo Rossi.”
“Yes.”
“And you've known for how long?”
Norah looked away.
“Three years.”
Desmond's expression changed.
“You've known for three years?”
“I didn't know at first.”
“When did you find out?”
“Eight months ago.”
“Eight months.”
She nodded.
“Why didn't you tell me?”
“Because every time I tried, someone got closer to you.”
“Who?”
“I don't know.”
“You expect me to believe that?”
“No.”
“Then why are you telling me now?”
“Because tomorrow you'll marry Isabella.”
Desmond's eyes hardened.
“And?”
“And after that, Carlo will have control of almost everything.”
He stared at her.
Norah picked up another photograph.
“This man here?”
She pointed to the figure standing beside the wreck.
“He works for Carlo.”
Desmond examined the photograph.
“You're certain?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“I saw him recently.”
“Where?”
“At Rossi Tower.”
Desmond's heart began pounding.
“Doing what?”
“Meeting with Isabella.”
He went still.
“What?”
“Three nights ago.”
“You're sure?”
“I was there.”
“You followed them?”
“No.”
“Then what were you doing there?”
Her silence gave him the answer.
“Norah.”
She looked down.
“I wasn't supposed to be there.”
“What weren't you supposed to hear?”
She whispered:
“They weren't talking about the wedding.”
Desmond said nothing.
“They were talking about your funeral.”
The lighter on the table seemed to glow in the dim room.
Desmond walked toward her.
“What exactly did they say?”
Norah opened her mouth.
A sound came from the hallway.
Three slow knocks.
Both of them froze.
Knock.
Knock.
Knock.
Norah's face went white.
“They found me.”
Desmond reached beneath his jacket.
The apartment suddenly seemed too small.
He moved toward the door.
“Stay here.”
Norah grabbed his arm.
“No.”
“Let go.”
“Don't open it.”
“Who is outside?”
“I don't know.”
Desmond leaned toward the door.
There was no sound.
He looked through the peephole.
Empty hallway.
He waited.
Nothing.
Then his phone vibrated.
A message.
Unknown number.
One sentence.
YOU SHOULD HAVE LET HER BURN THE PHOTOS.
Desmond looked at Norah.
She saw his expression.
“What is it?”
He showed her.
Her hands began shaking.
“That’s how they knew.”
“How did they know?”
“I told you.”
“What?”
She whispered:
“They've been watching me for months.”
Desmond turned toward the window.
Across the street, beneath a black umbrella, stood a man.
He wasn't hiding.
He was watching the building.
Desmond's instincts took over.
He grabbed Norah's coat.
“We're leaving.”
“No.”
“We're leaving.”
“I can't.”
“Why?”
“Because there is something else.”
“What?”
Norah walked to the table.
She lifted the last photograph.
Her fingers trembled.
“This was taken four hours before Arthur died.”
She turned it over.
Written on the back were five words.
THE BRIDE WILL FINISH IT.
Desmond stared at the handwriting.
He recognized it.
It belonged to Isabella Rossi.
The woman he was supposed to marry in forty-eight hours.
He looked at Norah.
“Where did you get this?”
“I stole it from Isabella.”
He looked toward the door.
Then toward the window.
Then back at the photograph.
For the first time in three years, Desmond allowed himself to consider the possibility that his brother's death had never been an accident.
And for the first time in eight months, he wondered whether his engagement ring had been placed on Isabella's finger because she loved him—
or because someone had chosen where his grave would eventually be.
Outside, thunder shook the glass.
Desmond picked up the cheap lighter.
He held it out.
“You wanted to burn everything.”
Norah nodded.
“You wanted to disappear.”
Another nod.
“You thought keeping me ignorant would save me.”
She looked at him through tears.
“Yes.”
Desmond closed the lighter.
“It won't.”
“Desmond—”
“No.”
He took the photographs and placed them inside his coat.
“Tomorrow there will be no wedding.”
Norah stared at him.
“You don't understand.”
“I understand enough.”
“No,” she said softly. “You don't.”
She moved closer.
“They don't just want to stop you.”
“Then what do they want?”
Norah looked toward the dark window.
“They want you to become the head of the family before they kill you.”
Desmond's eyes narrowed.
“Why?”
“Because then everything you own becomes theirs.”
The lights suddenly went out.
The apartment plunged into darkness.
Norah gasped.
Desmond grabbed her.
A gunshot exploded downstairs.
Then another.
Norah buried her face against his chest.
Desmond pulled his weapon.
Someone shouted in the hallway.
“GET DOWN!”
The front door exploded inward.
Desmond fired.
A figure dropped outside.
Norah screamed.
Another gunshot shattered the kitchen window.
Glass rained across the floor.
Desmond pulled Norah behind the kitchen island.
“Stay down!”
“They're here.”
“I know.”
A third shot struck the refrigerator.
Desmond looked at her.
“Do you still have the original photographs?”
Norah nodded.
“Where?”
“Not here.”
“Where?”
“In my bag.”
“Where is your bag?”
She pointed toward the bedroom.
Desmond swore.
“Stay here.”
He moved through the darkness.
Behind him, Norah whispered:
“Desmond…”
He turned.
Her eyes were filled with terror.
“Don't leave me.”
He stopped.
For the first time since Arthur died, Desmond realized how much of his life had quietly revolved around the woman standing in that kitchen.
He crossed the room.
“I won't.”
And outside the apartment, another man whispered into a phone:
“Target found.”
A pause.
Then:
“Take the assistant alive.”
The wedding was forty-eight hours away.
May you like
By sunrise, someone would be dead.
And Desmond Hayes was finally going to discover who had been pulling the strings.
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