Chapter 3 - The Ninth Truck
I didn't sleep that night.
At two in the morning, I sat on the edge of my enormous bed with my mother's letter spread across my knees.
Every few minutes, I looked toward the door.
The threatening note lay beside the lamp.
I wanted to run.
I wanted to pack my suitcase, take the money I'd earned for one day's work, and disappear before someone decided I knew too much.
But there was one problem.
Walter.
If my mother had written his name more than twenty years earlier, then the elderly man I'd befriended beneath a Philadelphia bus shelter wasn't simply another stranger struggling through winter.
He was connected to the fire that destroyed my family.
And someone might already know it.
At three-fifteen, I called the veterans' outreach coordinator.
She confirmed that Walter had been examined at the clinic and transferred to a temporary residential program.
He was being treated for a respiratory infection and dehydration.
"Can I speak to him?" I asked.
"He's asleep. But he's doing better."
I thanked her.
Then I asked whether anyone had tried to visit him.
There was a pause.
"Actually, yes."
My stomach tightened.
"Who?"
"A gentleman called earlier asking whether Mr. Briggs had been admitted. He claimed to represent a private veterans' charity."
"Did he give his name?"
"Malcolm Price."
I wrote it down.
Then I called Roman.
He answered on the second ring.
"Maggie?"
"Do you know a Malcolm Price?"
Silence.
"Yes."
"Who is he?"
"My chief financial officer."
I gripped the phone.
"He called Walter's clinic."
Roman's voice changed.
"When?"
"Yesterday afternoon."
"Did Walter speak to him?"
"No."
"Where are you?"
"In my bedroom."
"Stay there."
I looked at my mother's letter.
"No."
"Maggie—"
"Mr. Duca, I have spent enough years having men tell me what to do without explaining why. You have exactly five minutes to get downstairs and tell me the truth."
I ended the call.
Then I put on my mother's red coat.
Five minutes later, I walked into the kitchen.
Roman was already there.
So was Vincent.
Neither looked pleased.
I placed both notes on the counter.
Roman read my mother's letter first.
For several seconds, he didn't move.
When he reached the sentence about one Duca trying to save us and another destroying our lives, his face lost its color.
Then he read the threat.
Vincent swore under his breath.
"Who gave you this?" Roman asked.
"Someone pushed it beneath my bedroom door."
"Did you see them?"
"No."
Vincent immediately reached for his phone.
I raised a hand.
"Before anyone starts interrogating the entire house, I want answers."
Roman looked at me.
"Ask."
"Did you know Walter before yesterday?"
"Not personally."
"Did you know he was connected to my father?"
"Yes."
"Then why didn't you tell me?"
"Because I was trying to establish whether he was the witness I'd been searching for."
"What witness?"
Roman pulled out a chair.
I remained standing.
He seemed to understand that sitting down wasn't an option.
"In 2004, the police identified eight trucks that entered or left the Delaney warehouse complex on the night of the fire."
I felt cold despite the warmth of the kitchen.
"My father worked maintenance there."
"I know. He reported a defective sprinkler system eleven days before the fire."
My mouth went dry.
That report had disappeared before his trial.
My mother spent years claiming it existed.
The prosecutor said she'd invented it.
Roman continued.
"According to a private investigator I hired, a ninth truck entered the property after the official security logs ended."
"And Walter saw it?"
"We believe so."
"Why are you looking for it now?"
Roman's eyes hardened.
"Because the company that owned that truck may still be operating under another name."
I folded my arms.
"Tell me about Malcolm Price."
"He controls several financial divisions of Duca Heritage Restoration."
"And he has permission to investigate homeless veterans?"
"No."
Vincent looked at Roman.
"I'll find out why he made that call."
"No intimidation," I said sharply.
Both men turned toward me.
"I mean it. I don't care what passes for normal around here. Walter has already lost enough. I won't have anyone threatening people on his behalf."
Roman held my gaze.
"Agreed."
I wasn't convinced.
But I had another question.
"How did you find me?"
Roman leaned against the counter.
"We located Walter through a veterans' outreach network in Philadelphia. Your name appeared in his recent emergency contact information."
I stared at him.
"Walter listed me?"
"Yes."
A lump formed in my throat.
I'd known Walter for less than a month.
He had almost nothing.
Yet somehow, I'd become the person he trusted someone to call if something happened to him.
Roman continued.
"When my investigator ran your name, we discovered you were Nora Sullivan's daughter. We also found your employment history."
"So you drove to Philadelphia looking for Walter and decided to hire me when you saw us together?"
"I had a vacancy in the kitchen. I knew your qualifications. I wanted to speak with you, but I wasn't sure you'd agree if I told you about your family's connection to mine."
"You're right. I might not have."
"I know."
His admission made me angrier.
"You don't get to decide which truths people can handle."
Roman lowered his eyes.
"No. I don't."
That was the first time I'd heard him admit he was wrong.
It didn't erase the deception.
But it kept me from walking out immediately.
I picked up my mother's letter.
"I want an attorney who doesn't work for you."
"I'll arrange—"
"I said one who doesn't work for you."
Roman stopped.
"There's a legal aid organization in Chicago. I'll give you its contact information. You can choose your own lawyer."
"Good."
"And Maggie?"
"What?"
"If you decide to leave, I'll pay your wages and arrange transportation anywhere you want."
I looked toward the kitchen window.
Outside, snow had begun falling again.
I thought of my father.
My mother.
The years we'd spent trying to prove something nobody wanted to believe.
Then I looked back at Roman.
"I'm staying."
Vincent frowned.
"That might not be wise."
"Neither was sleeping outside in December. I've developed a talent for bad situations."
Roman's mouth twitched.
I lifted the threatening note.
"But whoever delivered this made one mistake."
"What mistake?" he asked.
"They assumed my mother raised a coward."
By seven the next morning, the kitchen was awake.
And I had thirty hungry men to feed.
Whatever conspiracy was unfolding around me, breakfast still mattered.
I made French toast, sausage, fruit, and enough coffee to fill a bathtub.
Sal arrived first.
He stopped in the doorway when he saw my face.
"Rough night?"
"That's one way to describe it."
He glanced toward the coffee.
"Need me to kill somebody?"
"Sal, we discussed this."
"Right. Not your preferred problem-solving method."
He poured himself a cup.
Then he hesitated.
"Can I ask you something?"
"Depends."
"That biscuit recipe. You got it written down?"
I smiled despite myself.
"Why?"
"My daughter used to like biscuits."
The word daughter surprised me.
"How old is she?"
"Twenty-six."
"Does she live nearby?"
He stared into his coffee.
"Not anymore."
Something in his voice told me not to push.
So I handed him a cutting board.
"Wash your hands. You can help me make another batch."
Sal looked genuinely alarmed.
"Me?"
"Unless you've got a twin hiding somewhere."
"I don't cook."
"Neither did anybody until somebody taught them."
Five minutes later, the most intimidating man at Ravenwood was standing beside me measuring flour.
He looked as though he expected the bowl to explode.
When Eli walked in, he stopped dead.
Then he burst out laughing.
"Sal! Are you baking?"
Sal glared.
"Say another word and I'll bake your head."
I pointed a flour-covered finger at him.
"Language."
Both men stared at me.
Then Eli began laughing harder.
By eight-thirty, four more men had joined us.
One peeled potatoes.
Another scrubbed vegetables.
A third learned how to make coffee without using an entire bag of grounds.
For the first time since arriving, I heard laughter that didn't sound cruel.
I saw men teasing one another without reaching for weapons.
I saw Sal quietly save the largest biscuit for a young security guard who'd worked overnight.
It was a small thing.
But small things mattered.
After breakfast, Eli lingered while I cleaned.
"Miss Maggie?"
"Just Maggie."
He looked uncomfortable.
"Do you think people can change?"
I stopped washing the skillet.
"That's a serious question before ten in the morning."
He shrugged.
"I've done stuff I'm not proud of."
"Have you hurt people?"
He stared at the floor.
"I've frightened them."
"Then start by not doing that anymore."
"You make it sound easy."
"It isn't. That's why it matters."
He looked at me for a long moment.
Then he nodded.
At noon, Roman left for a meeting.
Vincent accompanied him.
Before leaving, Roman instructed the household staff that nobody was to enter my room without permission.
Nobody was to interfere with my personal belongings.
And nobody was to threaten me.
I appreciated the gesture.
But I also understood its limits.
A man who needed to issue those instructions clearly lived among people who might ignore them.
That afternoon, I began organizing the pantry.
Behind a row of industrial flour containers, I discovered a small wooden cabinet built into the wall.
Its brass handle was shaped like a rose.
I tried opening it.
Locked.
I was about to move on when an older woman entered the kitchen.
She wore a dark green cardigan and carried a stack of folded towels.
"You're the new kitchen manager."
"Apparently."
"I'm Teresa Bell."
She was in her late sixties, with silver hair and kind brown eyes.
"I supervise housekeeping."
"Nice to meet you."
She noticed me studying the cabinet.
"That hasn't been opened in years."
"What's inside?"
"Old kitchen records, I think. The previous owners kept everything."
"Previous owners?"
"Roman's parents."
I looked at the carved rose.
"Do you have a key?"
Teresa shook her head.
"Not anymore."
Then her eyes moved toward my red coat hanging nearby.
She went completely still.
"Where did you get that?"
"It belonged to my mother."
Teresa stepped closer.
"Turn around."
I frowned.
"Why?"
"Please."
I turned.
She examined the collar.
Her fingers touched a tiny embroidered rose near the seam.
The same shape as the cabinet handle.
Teresa covered her mouth.
"Oh, dear God."
"What?"
She looked into my eyes.
"Your mother was Nora Sullivan."
I felt another cold sensation crawl along my spine.
"Did you know her?"
Tears filled Teresa's eyes.
"She saved Roman's life."
I stared at her.
"What?"
"Christmas Eve, 2003. Roman was nineteen. There was an accident in the old west wing. A fire started behind a locked door."
My heart began pounding.
"A fire?"
"Your mother heard him shouting. She broke the glass, pulled the emergency release, and got him out before the smoke spread."
"Why would he be locked inside?"
Teresa glanced toward the hallway.
"That was never explained."
I thought of the warehouse fire one year later.
Two fires.
One family.
My mother involved in both.
"Teresa, who locked him in?"
The older woman shook her head.
"I don't know. But your mother believed someone had done it deliberately."
Before I could ask more, she lowered her voice.
"She hid something in this kitchen. After the Delaney fire, she came back once, late at night. I helped her enter through the service door."
My pulse quickened.
"What did she hide?"
"I never saw it."
"Then how do you know?"
"Because she told me that if anything happened to her, I should remember the rose."
I looked at the cabinet again.
Then at my mother's coat.
A tiny embroidered rose.
I had seen it a thousand times.
But I had never understood why she'd stitched it there.
Teresa touched my arm.
"Maggie, there's something else."
"What?"
"Your mother wasn't afraid of Roman."
She looked toward the hallway.
"She was afraid of his uncle."
That evening, I called Walter again.
This time, he was awake.
"Maggie?"
Hearing his voice almost made me cry.
"Walter, I need to ask you something."
"Anything, sweetheart."
"Did you know my mother?"
Silence.
Then I heard his breathing change.
"Who told you?"
"She did. She left me a letter."
There was a long pause.
Finally, Walter spoke.
"Nora made me promise I'd never bring you into it."
"Into what?"
"The fire."
I closed my eyes.
"Tell me about the ninth truck."
Walter began coughing.
When he finally spoke, his voice sounded twenty years older.
"Maggie, that truck didn't bring supplies into the warehouse."
"What did it bring?"
"Nothing."
My stomach tightened.
"Then why was it there?"
"It came to take something away."
"What?"
May you like
Walter's next words made my blood run cold.
"Your father."
