Chapter 10 - The House Beneath the AshesThe house on South Loomis Street had disappeared before I turned thirteen.
My father told me the building had been condemned, that the roof was unsafe, and that the city had ordered its demolition. We moved into an apartment across town, and he refused to drive down that street again.
I had never questioned him.
Now Arthur was telling me the house had burned down under circumstances he had spent twenty years trying to forget.
“Why would my father burn his own house?” I asked.
“Maybe he wanted to destroy what was inside.”
“Or maybe you are wrong.”
“I hope I am.”
We left the Blackthorn Hotel through an underground service tunnel. Detective Shaw had disappeared, Samuel was alive, and Vincent was somewhere in the city with a bullet wound and the knowledge that I had the recording.
The police had issued an emergency alert describing Arthur as armed and dangerous. His photograph appeared on every news screen we passed.
I wondered how many people watching had ever seen the man in my basement.
The man who had apologized when he hurt my wrist.
The man who had said please.
I wondered whether those moments meant anything, or whether I had simply mistaken a criminal's weakness for goodness.
We reached South Loomis shortly before sunrise.
The street looked different from the one I remembered. New apartments stood where old shops had been, and a fenced construction site occupied the corner where my father's house had once stood.
Arthur walked along the fence until he found a rusted gate.
Beyond it lay a patch of empty land surrounded by weeds.
“This is it,” he said.
I stared at the ground.
I remembered the narrow kitchen where my mother sang while washing dishes. The staircase with the loose third step. The small bedroom where my father had carried me during thunderstorms.
There was nothing left.
I nearly turned away.
Then I noticed a square of concrete beneath the weeds, marked by three shallow grooves.
The same symbol as the silver key.
Arthur knelt and brushed away the dirt.
A metal handle appeared beneath the concrete slab.
Together, we lifted it.
A ladder descended into darkness.
“You knew about this?” I asked.
“No.”
“Then why are you not surprised?”
“Because your father once told me that every house should have an exit nobody knows about.”
I climbed down first.
The space beneath the ground was not a basement. It was an old utility chamber connected to a tunnel running beneath the neighboring properties. Metal shelves lined the walls, and a table stood in the center beneath a battery-powered lamp.
A single wooden box rested on the table.
My father's handwriting covered the lid.
FOR MY DAUGHTER. NOT FOR THE COSTELLOS.
I opened it.
Inside lay a stack of letters, a small photograph album, several account books, and a sealed envelope addressed to Samuel Bellini.
The first letter was dated twenty-two years earlier.
My father had written it to my mother.
If anything happens to me, I need you to know that Arthur is not the only boy Sal has taught to fear him. There is another child, a boy who has learned to smile while adults destroy other people's lives. His name is Vincent.
The letter went on to describe how Vincent's father had taught him to alter records, hide money, and make crimes look like accidents.
Beneath the letter was a photograph of two boys standing outside the Blackthorn Hotel.
One was Vincent Rourke.
The other was a child I recognized immediately.
Samuel Bellini's son.
I looked at Arthur.
“Samuel had a son?”
“He told me his son died as a child.”
“Apparently, he lied about more than one death.”
Arthur picked up the photograph.
His face changed.
“That's impossible.”
“Why?”
“Because I knew him.”
“Who?”
“The boy standing beside Vincent.”
He pointed to the second child.
“His name was Michael Bellini. He was my brother's best friend. He disappeared the summer before the bombing.”
I searched the box.
At the very bottom lay a newspaper clipping about Arthur's brother's death. The official report said a vehicle had exploded outside a restaurant, killing three people.
A handwritten note covered the margin.
THE BOMB WAS INTENDED FOR MICHAEL. ARTHUR'S BROTHER WAS IN THE WRONG CAR.
Arthur read it twice.
Then he sat down on the floor.
For a long time, he didn't speak.
I wanted to comfort him.
I also wanted to tell him that his grief was nothing compared with mine.
Instead, I sat beside him.
Two people with dead parents and too many unanswered questions.
Neither of us knew how to help the other.
After a while, Arthur opened the next letter.
It was addressed to him.
His name appeared in my father's handwriting, followed by a sentence that seemed to drain the air from the room.
Arthur, I forgave you for what happened to my wife. But I never forgave myself for what I did to your brother.
Arthur stared at the paper.
Then he turned it over.
On the back was a map of the underground tunnel.
It ended beneath a church on the north side of Chicago.
Beside the final mark, my father had written one last instruction.
WHEN THE DEAD MAN RETURNS, ASK HIM WHICH BROTHER HE SAVED.
A sound echoed through the tunnel.
Footsteps.
More than one person.
Arthur reached for his gun.
I switched off the lamp.
Then a voice came from the darkness above the ladder.
“Norah Hale.”
It was Samuel Bellini.
“I know you're down there.”
A pause.
“Your father left you a very important choice.”
May you like
The metal ladder creaked.
“Come out alone, and I'll tell you which of your parents Arthur really helped kill.”
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