Chapter 1 - The Stranger Who Knew Too Much
“That Theodore Vale?”
The man sitting across from Iris Bennett glanced at the paintbrush in his hand.
“Depends on what you’ve heard.”
“I’ve heard enough.”
“Then I’d recommend not believing all of it.”
Iris looked toward the two enormous men standing near the entrance.
“Are those your bodyguards?”
“Unfortunately.”
“Unfortunately?”
“They’re terrible at pretending to appreciate art.”
One of the men immediately looked away from a painting of a purple horse.
Despite everything, Iris laughed.
It surprised her.
She had been sitting in this ridiculous Valentine’s Day painting class for nearly an hour, watching couples hold hands while she waited for a man who apparently had no intention of showing up.
And now Chicago’s most notorious mafia boss was making jokes about security guards.
Theodore studied her for another moment.
Then his attention moved toward her purse.
Iris noticed.
Her hand went instinctively to the bag hanging from her chair.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You were looking at my purse.”
“I was.”
“Why?”
“Because I suspect there’s something inside it you shouldn’t have brought here.”
The warmth drained from her face.
Theodore’s expression changed.
Not dramatically.
His eyes simply became sharper.
“Eight thousand dollars,” he said quietly.
Iris stopped breathing.
Across the table, the red paintbrush slipped from her fingers.
It struck the edge of the canvas and rolled onto the floor.
“How do you know that?”
Theodore didn’t answer immediately.
Instead, he leaned forward.
“Before I explain, I need you to do something.”
“What?”
“Don’t look toward the windows.”
Naturally, Iris looked toward the windows.
Theodore sighed.
“Of course.”
Outside, beyond the studio’s second-floor glass, a dark SUV sat across the street beneath a flickering streetlight.
Its engine was running.
A man occupied the driver’s seat.
Another stood near the passenger door, smoking.
Nothing particularly unusual.
Except the man smoking wore a beige coat and black gloves.
And he was staring directly at their table.
Iris felt her stomach tighten.
“Who is that?”
“Someone who expected you to be alone tonight.”
She looked back at Theodore.
“What have I gotten myself into?”
Before he could respond, his mother leaned over from the neighboring table.
“Theodore, darling, if you’re going to terrify the poor girl, at least offer her some chocolate.”
“Mother, please.”
The silver-haired woman pushed a heart-shaped box toward Iris.
“My name is Eleanor Vale. And I apologize for my son’s manners.”
Iris stared at her.
Eleanor’s warm expression softened.
“You haven’t done anything foolish by coming here, sweetheart.”
The kindness in her voice nearly undid Iris.
“That’s debatable.”
“No,” Eleanor said gently. “Trusting someone is not the same thing as being foolish. The shame belongs to the person who abuses that trust.”
Theodore looked at his mother.
For the first time, something vulnerable passed across his face.
Then it disappeared.
“Mother, take Anthony downstairs.”
Eleanor frowned.
“I haven’t finished my painting.”
“Please.”
Something in his voice convinced her.
She rose without another argument.
One of the security men approached immediately.
As Eleanor walked away, she paused beside Iris.
“Whatever happens tonight, don't let him make all your decisions for you. He has a terrible habit of that.”
“Mother.”
“I’m leaving.”
She patted Iris’s shoulder and disappeared toward the stairs.
Theodore waited until she was gone.
Then he reached into his jacket.
Iris went rigid.
He noticed.
Slowly, deliberately, he withdrew his phone.
“Relax. I’m not going to pull a gun on you in a painting class.”
“That’s comforting.”
“I try.”
He placed the phone on the table.
A photograph filled the screen.
Iris recognized it instantly.
Wesley Hall.
The crooked smile.
The hard hat.
The enormous blue sky.
The same photograph she had stared at hundreds of times.
Except this version had a different name written beneath it.
DANIEL PORTER.
Missing Person.
Last Seen: October 17.
Iris stared at the photograph.
“No.”
Theodore watched her carefully.
“The man whose picture you were sent is a construction inspector from Milwaukee. His name is Daniel Porter.”
“That’s impossible.”
“He disappeared four months ago.”
“Wes said he was working in Alberta.”
“Someone told you that.”
Iris gripped the edge of the table.
“Are you saying he’s dead?”
“I don’t know.”
“Then how do you have this?”
“Because the photograph was used in another case involving my family.”
The music playing through the studio speakers suddenly seemed unbearably loud.
Iris remembered every conversation.
Every joke.
Every late-night message.
Every time Wesley had called her beautiful.
She thought about the money in her purse.
And felt sick.
“I’m a police sketch artist,” she whispered.
“I know.”
“I work with detectives. I interview victims. I help identify criminals.”
“I know that too.”
She swallowed.
“And I fell for this.”
Theodore’s voice was surprisingly gentle.
“You fell for a person somebody spent three months inventing.”
Tears burned behind her eyes.
She refused to let them fall.
“Why are you here?”
“Because my mother received messages from the same people.”
Iris looked up sharply.
“What?”
“Six months ago, someone contacted her pretending to be an old friend of my father’s. They claimed they needed money for medical treatment. She almost sent it.”
“And you stopped her?”
“Yes.”
“Then why didn’t you call the police?”
His expression hardened slightly.
“I did.”
That answer surprised her.
“What happened?”
“Nothing useful.”
Iris frowned.
“Who handled the case?”
“Detective Samuel Reed.”
The room seemed to tilt.
“Sam?”
“You know him.”
“He’s my closest friend at work.”
Theodore nodded slowly.
“That’s what I was afraid of.”
Iris pushed back from the table.
“No. Whatever you're suggesting, stop.”
“I haven't suggested anything.”
“You said his name like it meant something.”
“It does.”
She stood.
Several people turned to look.
Brooke, at the next table, was openly watching now.
Iris lowered her voice.
“Sam has worked with me for six years. He's helped families find missing children. He's stood beside me through some of the worst cases Chicago has ever seen.”
“And I hope he continues doing exactly that.”
“Then why mention him?”
“Because there’s something he didn’t tell you.”
Iris looked down at Theodore.
He turned his phone around again.
This time, the screen displayed a photograph of an unfamiliar young woman.
She had long dark hair, frightened eyes, and a faint scar beneath her chin.
“Her name is Natalie Brooks,” Theodore said.
Iris studied the picture.
“Who is she?”
“She disappeared three weeks ago.”
“I’m sorry, but what does that have to do with me?”
“She worked as a financial investigator. Before she vanished, she found something connecting the fake Wesley Hall accounts to several shell companies.”
“Whose companies?”
“Mine.”
Iris stared.
Theodore continued.
“Somebody has been moving money through businesses attached to my name. Somebody who understands how to make it look like I authorized every transaction.”
“And you think this Natalie woman can prove otherwise?”
“She sent me one message before she disappeared.”
“What did it say?”
Theodore’s jaw tightened.
“Find the woman who draws faces.”
Iris felt a cold sensation crawl down her spine.
“She meant me?”
“I believe so.”
“Why?”
“Because a week later, someone using the name Wesley Hall began asking you for money.”
Iris slowly sat down.
Her thoughts raced.
Natalie Brooks.
Daniel Porter.
Eight thousand dollars.
Wesley Hall.
A missing financial investigator.
A mafia boss sitting across from her at a Valentine’s painting class.
Nothing made sense.
Then Iris remembered something.
“Wes asked about my work.”
Theodore said nothing.
“He wanted to know how I reconstruct faces.”
“What exactly did you tell him?”
“Nothing confidential. Just general things. How witnesses remember features. How I work from descriptions.”
“Did he ever ask about a particular case?”
Iris hesitated.
“Yes.”
Theodore leaned forward.
“Which case?”
“A warehouse fire.”
His face changed.
“The Archer Street warehouse?”
Iris stared.
“How did you know?”
“Because that warehouse belonged to my brother.”
She had heard about the fire.
Three years earlier, a warehouse on Chicago’s waterfront had burned after midnight.
Two people died.
One was a security guard.
The other was Joseph Vale, Theodore’s younger brother.
The official investigation ruled the fire an accident caused by faulty electrical wiring.
But rumors persisted.
Rumors of stolen financial records.
Missing security footage.
And a witness who had disappeared before detectives could interview her.
Iris had been involved only briefly.
A frightened delivery driver had seen a man leaving the building shortly before the fire.
She had drawn a preliminary composite.
Then the case was closed.
“I remember,” she whispered.
Theodore’s eyes remained on her.
“What do you remember?”
“The driver.”
“What about him?”
“He described someone wearing a baseball cap. Heavy eyebrows. A long nose. A scar near the left side of his mouth.”
Theodore went completely still.
“Did you finish the drawing?”
“Yes.”
“Where is it?”
“In the archived case file.”
“Did anyone else see it?”
“Detective Reed. The original investigators. Probably the supervising lieutenant.”
“Did you keep a personal copy?”
“No. That would violate department policy.”
Theodore sat back.
His expression was no longer merely serious.
It was grim.
“What?” Iris demanded.
He looked toward the front of the studio.
Colette Marchand was arranging paint supplies.
“You need to draw that face again.”
Iris blinked.
“Here?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because I need to know whether the man in that warehouse is the same man waiting outside.”
Her heart slammed against her ribs.
She looked instinctively toward the windows.
Theodore caught her wrist gently.
“Don't.”
The touch was warm.
Firm, but not painful.
He released her immediately.
“Iris.”
She looked at him.
“Draw.”
Something in his voice brought her professional instincts rushing forward.
She pulled her sketchbook from her purse.
The envelope containing eight thousand dollars was tucked beneath it.
She carefully avoided touching the money.
Then she flipped to a blank page.
“His eyebrows were thick,” she murmured.
Theodore watched.
“He had a narrow jaw. A prominent nose. The scar was small, almost hidden beneath his mouth.”
Her pencil moved.
Years of training took over.
She forgot the couples.
The balloons.
The roses.
Even the stranger sitting across from her.
She focused on memory.
A face emerged.
Not perfectly.
Three years had passed.
But enough remained.
When Iris finally lifted the sketchbook, Theodore was looking at her with an expression she couldn't read.
“What?”
He didn't answer.
“Theodore?”
His gaze dropped to the drawing.
Then he whispered something in Italian.
Iris had no idea what it meant.
But she understood the anger.
“Do you recognize him?”
Theodore looked up.
“Yes.”
“Who is he?”
For a moment, he seemed to struggle with the answer.
Then he said, “The man who told me my brother died in an accident.”
Iris stared.
“Who?”
“Theodore.”
The voice came from behind her.
Both turned.
Detective Samuel Reed stood beside the table.
He wore a dark overcoat, his police identification clipped to his belt.
His expression was controlled.
Too controlled.
“Iris,” he said.
She stood halfway.
“Sam? What are you doing here?”
His eyes flicked toward the sketchbook.
Then toward Theodore.
“I got a call about a disturbance.”
“There hasn’t been a disturbance.”
“That's not what I heard.”
Theodore remained seated.
“Interesting.”
Sam ignored him.
“Iris, you need to come with me.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re not safe here.”
Theodore stood.
The difference in height between the two men was immediately obvious.
“On that,” Theodore said, “we agree.”
Sam's hand moved near his jacket.
“Stay out of this, Vale.”
Iris stepped between them.
“Both of you, stop.”
Then she noticed something.
Sam was looking at her sketch.
Not with curiosity.
With recognition.
She slowly turned the page toward him.
“Sam,” she said quietly, “do you know this man?”
His eyes shifted.
Only for a second.
But Iris had spent years studying faces.
A second was enough.
May you like
“No,” he said.
And Iris knew he was lying.
