Chapter 3 - The Secret Inside the Red Backpack
I moved Clara into my private residence before sunset.
The building occupied the top three floors of an old hotel overlooking the river. Its entrances were controlled, its windows reinforced, and its security staff were loyal to me.
At least, I believed they were.
Clara sat on the sofa in my office, swinging her legs above the polished floor. Someone had brought her hot chocolate, but she hadn't taken a sip.
She was watching the guards.
Counting them.
"What's the matter?" I asked.
"There's supposed to be six."
I frowned.
"Six what?"
"People watching the doors. One outside, two in the hallway, one by the elevator, one downstairs, and one watching the back exit."
I stared at her.
"How do you know that?"
"That's what Mama taught me."
"There's another guard in the service corridor."
Clara shook her head.
"Not anymore."
I turned toward the security monitor.
The corridor camera displayed an empty hallway. A folded cleaning cart stood beside the service door.
I called the head of security.
"Check the west corridor. Now."
Three minutes later, Marco appeared at my office door, his face grim.
"The guard assigned to the west corridor is missing."
My jaw tightened.
"Lock the building down."
Marco left immediately.
Clara placed her untouched hot chocolate on the table.
"I told you."
There was no triumph in her voice.
Only exhaustion.
I sat across from her.
"Your mother taught you all this because she was afraid somebody would take you?"
Clara nodded.
"She said people don't always look dangerous. Sometimes they look friendly. Sometimes they have badges. Sometimes they tell you that they're helping you."
"And your father?"
Her eyes dropped to the red backpack.
"He taught me about promises."
I felt something uncomfortable twist in my chest.
"What did he say?"
"That promises are words people make when they're hoping you won't ask them to prove it."
She reached into her backpack and removed a folded sheet of paper.
It was covered in children's handwriting. Some words were misspelled, and several letters leaned sideways.
At the top was a title.
MY CONTRACT.
Beneath it were four rules.
ONE: You must not let anyone take me without asking me why.
TWO: You must not lie to me about my mother.
THREE: You must not make me leave someone behind if they are trying to protect me.
FOUR: If you break the contract, I get my money back.
I looked at the twenty-dollar bill sitting on my desk.
"You wrote this?"
"With Daddy."
"When?"
"When I was little."
"You've been carrying it for years?"
She shook her head.
"Mama gave it to me yesterday. She said Daddy wanted you to have it if I ever met you."
I picked up the paper.
There was a signature at the bottom.
Michael Moretti.
The same signature I had seen on thousands of documents, from childhood birthday cards to the papers authorizing his funeral.
My hands grew cold.
"Clara, when did you last see your father?"
She studied the ceiling as if calculating.
"On my birthday. Two years ago."
My breath caught.
"Your father visited you two years ago?"
"Yes. He wore glasses and a beard because he said people were looking for him."
"Where?"
"At the old aquarium in Boston."
Michael's favorite place as a child had been the aquarium in Boston. Our father had taken us there every summer until we were old enough to pretend we were too grown-up to care.
I had not thought about that place in years.
"Did he say anything about me?"
Clara nodded.
"He said you were angry with him, but you weren't a bad person. He said if I ever needed someone who could scare the entire world, I should find Uncle Dominic."
Uncle.
The word landed like a physical blow.
I had never known I had a niece.
"What happened after that visit?"
"Mama said we had to leave the next morning. Daddy said he would come back when it was safe."
"And did he?"
Clara shook her head.
A tear slipped down her cheek.
"He promised."
I looked away because I knew precisely what broken promises could do to a person.
My own father had promised Michael and me that our family would always come first.
Then he had spent our childhood turning us against each other, using affection like a weapon and loyalty like a chain.
I had escaped by becoming harder than him.
Michael had disappeared trying to become better.
A knock interrupted my thoughts.
Marco entered holding a small black device between two fingers.
"We found this beneath the lining of the backpack."
It was a tracking transmitter.
Tiny. Professional. Active.
My gaze shifted to Clara.
She stared at the device, then began shaking her head.
"Mama didn't put that there."
"I know."
"She wouldn't."
"I believe you."
Marco looked at me.
"Boss, there's more. Someone accessed this floor using an override code. The system says the authorization came from your personal account."
"My account?"
He nodded.
I looked toward the monitor.
A man was entering the elevator.
Gray suit.
Dark hair.
The same false federal badge clipped to his belt.
Agent Mercer.
The elevator doors closed behind him.
I drew my pistol.
Marco raised his own weapon.
Then the office intercom clicked.
Mercer's voice filled the room.
"Dominic, don't make a mistake you'll regret."
He paused.
"Your niece is not the only person I can reach."
The monitor changed.
A live camera feed appeared.
It showed a small room with concrete walls, a metal chair, and a woman sitting with her hands tied behind her back.
Dark hair.
A scar above her left eyebrow.
Clara sprang to her feet.
"MAMA!"
The woman lifted her head.
It was Clara's mother.
And standing behind her, smiling at the camera, was my brother.
Michael Moretti.
Alive.
For one impossible second, I forgot how to breathe.
Then Michael leaned close to the lens.
"Hello, Dominic," he said. "I'm sorry about the funeral."
The screen went black.
May you like
Immediately afterward, every light in my building went out.
And from somewhere beyond my office door, I heard a key turning in the lock.
