Chapter 2 - The Brother I Buried
For nine years, I had visited Michael's grave on the anniversary of his death.
I had paid for the marble headstone myself. I'd stood beneath the rain while the priest read the prayers. I had watched the coffin descend into the earth, though the medical examiner had warned me that the body was too badly damaged for an open-casket funeral.
Now a seven-year-old girl stood in front of me holding a photograph of my supposedly dead brother.
He was younger in the picture, perhaps twenty-eight, with his familiar crooked smile and the small scar beneath his chin. Clara's mother stood beside him, one hand resting on her stomach.
Pregnant.
I stared at the image until the world around me blurred.
"When was this taken?" I demanded.
Clara swallowed.
"Mama says it was before I was born."
"Where is she now?"
"At home."
The answer came too quickly.
I crouched until my eyes were level with hers.
"Clara, I need the truth. Is your mother really at home?"
Her little fingers tightened around the photograph.
"She said I had to go to the library. Then she said if the man in the tan coat found me, I should find someone powerful enough to make him afraid."
"And you chose me."
"The librarian said you were the most dangerous man in the neighborhood."
Despite everything, the corner of my mouth nearly lifted.
"That librarian talks too much."
"She said you never let anyone hurt children."
The words struck harder than they should have.
I stood and handed the photograph to Marco.
"Get two cars. Nobody goes anywhere alone. Find out whether this badge is real and identify that SUV."
Marco studied the image.
"Boss, is that really Michael?"
"I don't know."
It was the first honest answer I'd given myself in nine years.
We drove to the address Clara provided, a small apartment building behind a closed pharmacy. Two men secured the entrance while Marco and I took Clara upstairs.
She insisted on holding my hand the entire way.
The apartment door stood slightly open.
I smelled something sharp and chemical before we reached it.
"Stay behind me," I told her.
The living room had been destroyed.
Drawers lay upside down. Cushions had been sliced open. Clothing covered the floor, and a broken picture frame rested beside the couch.
Someone had searched the apartment with frightening precision.
But the kitchen table was untouched.
A half-finished cup of tea stood beside a plate containing three pieces of toast.
The tea was still warm.
"Mommy?"
Clara ran toward the bedroom.
I caught her before she reached the doorway.
"Wait."
The bedroom was empty, but a dark stain spread across the white carpet beside the bed.
Marco crouched to examine it.
"Blood."
Clara went silent.
I knelt in front of her.
"Look at me. We haven't found your mother yet."
"But the blood..."
"We haven't found your mother," I repeated.
She nodded, trying desperately to believe me.
Something red protruded from beneath the overturned dresser. I moved it aside and found a child's drawing.
It showed a woman holding a little girl beneath a yellow sun. Three words had been written at the bottom in uneven handwriting.
WE ARE STILL HERE.
On the back, in adult handwriting, was an address.
The old Saint Agnes train station.
Below it were four words.
MIDNIGHT. COME WITHOUT MEN.
Marco read over my shoulder.
"Could be a trap."
"It is a trap."
"Then we shouldn't go."
I looked at the destroyed apartment.
"Someone wants me there. That means somebody believes I have something they need."
I turned to Clara.
"Did your mother tell you why she left?"
She hesitated before unzipping her backpack.
Inside were two sweaters, a coloring book, a packet of crackers, and a small silver key sewn into the lining.
Clara carefully pulled it free.
"Mama said this belongs to Daddy. She said if anything happened to her, I had to give it to the man who knew him best."
I took the key.
A number had been engraved into the metal.
M-09.
Michael had used that exact code for the private vault in our father's old office.
A vault that had supposedly been emptied and sealed after his death.
I closed my fist around the key.
Then Marco's phone rang.
He listened for five seconds before his expression hardened.
"Boss, the license plate from the SUV belongs to a vehicle registered to the federal courthouse."
"Which department?"
Marco looked at me.
"The witness protection division."
Clara began to cry silently.
I put my jacket around her shoulders.
The people hunting this child weren't simply criminals with guns.
They had access to the machinery designed to protect people from criminals.
And if Michael was alive, somebody had spent nine years convincing me that my own brother was dead.
I looked again at the photograph.
On the back, beneath Clara's mother's handwriting, I noticed a sentence I'd missed the first time.
Dominic, if Clara finds you, it means the agreement has been broken.
There was a second line.
Don't trust anyone who says Michael died.
My phone vibrated.
An unknown number.
A message appeared.
YOU HAVE UNTIL MIDNIGHT TO RETURN THE GIRL. AFTER THAT, WE STOP ASKING.
A second message followed.
It contained a photograph taken less than a minute earlier.
Clara stood beside me in the ruined apartment.
Someone had photographed us through the bedroom window.
May you like
Beneath the image were six words.
YOUR BROTHER SAYS HELLO, DOMINIC.
