Chapter 3 - THE BROTHER WHO WAS DEAD
Vincent watched the video six times.
The rest of us stopped after the second.
There was only so much horror a person could absorb before repetition turned it into something numb and mechanical.
Elena’s car entered frame.
Anthony’s sedan followed.
Impact.
Rain.
Guardrail.
Darkness.
Again.
Impact.
Rain.
Guardrail.
Darkness.
Vincent stood perfectly still beside the laptop.
His older brother had been buried two years earlier in a sealed casket after a warehouse fire.
I knew because I had polished the silver-framed photograph from the funeral every Tuesday for eight months.
Anthony Romano.
Forty-one at the time of his supposed death.
Same strong jaw as Vincent.
Same dark eyes as their father.
But where Vincent looked controlled, Anthony looked charming.
The dangerous kind of charming.
The kind people mistook for warmth.
Marco closed the laptop.
“That’s enough.”
Vincent’s gaze snapped toward him.
“Open it.”
“Vincent.”
“Open it.”
Marco did.
I stood.
“Why?”
Vincent looked at me.
“Why what?”
“Why keep watching?”
His face was pale.
“Because if I stop, I have to decide what it means.”
“It means your brother hit her car.”
“No.”
He pointed to the screen.
“It means a man who looks like my brother hit her car.”
Marco frowned.
“You think it was staged?”
“I think Anthony was left-handed.”
He rewound.
The figure near the sedan lifted something to his face.
A phone, maybe.
Vincent froze the image.
“He’s using his right hand.”
Marco leaned closer.
“So?”
“So Anthony did everything with his left. Shot. Wrote. Smoked. Even wore his watch on the wrong wrist because he said the crown annoyed him.”
I stared at the blurry figure.
“Could he have used his right hand for a phone?”
“Not like that.”
Vincent zoomed in.
The image pixelated.
But then I saw it.
The man’s posture.
Slightly stooped on one side.
A limp.
“Who else looks like him?” I asked.
Vincent went quiet.
Marco’s eyes narrowed.
“There is one person.”
Vincent looked at him sharply.
“No.”
“Vincent.”
“I said no.”
Marco’s voice hardened.
“You want the truth or you want a version you can survive?”
The words landed hard.
Vincent turned away.
“Who?” I asked.
Marco looked at me.
“Anthony had a half-brother.”
I blinked.
“Another Romano?”
“Not legally.”
Vincent spoke without turning.
“My father had an affair.”
Marco continued.
“Her name was Camille Vale. She had a son.”
“What was his name?”
Vincent faced us.
“Adrian Kessler.”
The doctor.
The room seemed to shrink.
I looked from him to the hospital report in my memory.
Dr. Adrian Kessler.
Signed Elena’s death paperwork.
Signed Daniel’s.
Possibly driving the car that forced Elena off the road.
“Your half-brother,” I said.
Vincent’s expression was unreadable.
“Yes.”
“Does Isabella know?”
“She knows Kessler.”
“Everyone knows Kessler,” Marco said. “He runs Saint Gabriel’s surgical foundation.”
“No,” Vincent said. “Lily means does Isabella know he’s blood.”
I did.
He looked at me.
“I don’t know.”
The storage facility manager appeared at the end of the row, hesitant.
“Mr. Romano?”
Marco stepped toward him.
“What?”
“Police are outside.”
Vincent’s head lifted.
“Who called them?”
“Nobody here.”
Marco cursed.
A siren flashed against the metal doors.
Then another.
I felt my stomach drop.
“We need to go.”
Vincent looked at the laptop.
“No.”
“Vincent,” Marco said. “We’re standing in a rented unit with stolen surveillance footage tied to a homicide.”
“It isn’t stolen. Daniel stored it.”
“And Daniel is dead.”
I looked at the envelope in my hand.
Don’t give the Ridge video to Vincent until you know who sits at his table.
Too late.
But Daniel had been right about the table.
Isabella sat there.
Maybe others.
How many?
Vincent removed the external drive and slipped it into his inside pocket.
“Laptop stays.”
Marco stared.
“Why?”
“Because if the police were sent here, someone wants to know what we found.”
“You think the unit is compromised?”
“Yes.”
He turned to me.
“Put the letter inside your shirt.”
I stared at him.
“What?”
“Do it.”
“Why?”
“Because no one searches a terrified maid before they search me.”
I hated that he was right.
I folded Daniel’s letter and tucked it beneath my blouse.
The cold paper touched my skin.
Police entered the corridor.
Four officers.
Too many for a routine storage call.
The man in front introduced himself as Detective Holloway.
He was older, tired-looking, with a heavy coat and suspicious eyes.
“Mr. Romano.”
Vincent gave him nothing.
“Detective.”
“We received a report of forced entry.”
“The manager opened the gate.”
“Unit lock was cut.”
“It belonged to my employee.”
“Your dead employee?”
Vincent’s jaw tightened.
“My employee’s sister is here.”
Holloway looked at me.
His eyes moved over my wrinkled uniform, bruised ribs, and the red mark near my wrist.
“What happened to you?”
“Workplace disagreement.”
Vincent looked at me.
I almost smiled.
Holloway didn’t.
“Whose unit?”
“My brother’s.”
“Name?”
“Daniel Dawson.”
Recognition flickered across Holloway’s face.
Tiny.
But I saw it.
“You knew him,” I said.
“No.”
“You recognized the name.”
He looked at me.
Then away.
That was answer enough.
Vincent saw it too.
“Detective.”
Holloway sighed.
“Daniel Dawson was questioned three years ago.”
My heart stopped.
“About what?”
“Elena Romano’s accident.”
Vincent stepped closer.
“You never told me that.”
“I wasn’t assigned to the case.”
“Who was?”
Holloway hesitated.
“Detective Shaw.”
Marco spoke.
“Shaw retired.”
Holloway looked at him.
“After the evidence room fire.”
I felt cold.
“What did Daniel tell police?”
“I don’t know.”
“You’re lying,” I said.
Holloway’s eyes hardened.
“You should be careful.”
“So should you.”
Vincent’s head turned toward me.
I realized I had just threatened a detective while wearing a maid uniform at three-thirty in the morning.
Not my best life choice.
Holloway rubbed his face.
“Listen. I didn’t come here to arrest anybody.”
“Then why are you here?” Vincent asked.
“Because someone used an internal code to report a homicide in progress at this address.”
We all went still.
“A homicide?” Marco said.
“Yes.”
“Who made the call?”
“Anonymous.”
Vincent looked at the locker.
A trap.
If police arrived and found the Ridge video, they could seize it.
If the chain of evidence was corrupted, it might disappear again.
“Detective,” Vincent said, “how much do you know about Kessler?”
Holloway’s reaction was immediate.
Too immediate.
He looked at me.
Then Marco.
Then the officers behind him.
“Not here.”
That told us everything.
Ten minutes later, Holloway dismissed two officers to speak with the manager and took us into the tiny facility office.
He shut the door.
“Kessler’s name came up in two dead witness files.”
I stopped breathing.
“Daniel?”
“One.”
“Elena?”
“Not officially.”
Vincent’s voice was low.
“Who was the second witness?”
Holloway looked at him.
“Anthony Romano.”
Silence.
Vincent’s face changed.
“You said Anthony was a witness.”
“Yes.”
“To Elena’s murder?”
“I don’t know.”
“Then explain.”
Holloway sat on the edge of the desk.
“Three months after Elena died, Anthony came to a detective in Organized Crime. He said someone was moving money through hospital charities, construction contracts, and private shipping accounts. He claimed the person responsible had killed Elena because she found out.”
“Who?”
“He wouldn’t say until he had immunity.”
Vincent’s eyes burned.
“Why didn’t I know?”
“Because Anthony asked for protection from you.”
That hit harder than the video.
Vincent went silent.
Holloway continued.
“Two days before he was supposed to meet federal investigators, his warehouse burned.”
“Body recovered,” Marco said.
“Dental match.”
“Whose dental records?” I asked.
Everyone looked at me.
I thought of hospital charts.
Records changed.
Signatures.
“If Kessler could alter medical records, dental records aren’t impossible.”
Holloway stared at me.
Then slowly nodded.
“Exactly.”
Vincent’s voice dropped.
“You think Anthony is alive.”
“I think someone wanted us to think he was dead.”
Marco crossed his arms.
“And the video?”
“Could be Kessler.”
Vincent shook his head.
“Same build. Same coat Anthony used to wear.”
“Could be deliberate.”
My phone vibrated.
I nearly screamed.
Everyone turned.
I pulled it from my apron pocket.
Unknown number.
One text.
YOU FOUND THE WRONG GHOST.
Below it, an image loaded.
A photograph taken seconds earlier.
Through the office window.
Me.
Vincent.
Marco.
Holloway.
Someone was watching us.
Marco ran outside.
Vincent grabbed my arm and pulled me away from the window.
The facility lights went out.
Darkness swallowed the room.
A shot cracked through the glass.
Holloway dropped.
I screamed.
Vincent shoved me to the floor.
Another shot.
Glass sprayed over us.
Marco shouted outside.
Then an engine roared.
Tires screamed.
By the time emergency lights came on, Holloway was sitting against the wall with blood on his shoulder.
Alive.
Barely.
Vincent crouched beside him.
“Who knew you were coming?”
Holloway grimaced.
“Dispatch.”
“Who else?”
“One person.”
“Who?”
Holloway looked at me.
Then at Vincent.
“Dr. Kessler.”
Vincent went still.
Holloway grabbed his sleeve.
“I called him an hour ago.”
“Why?”
“Because I thought Daniel’s sister might need protection.”
My chest tightened.
“What does Kessler have to do with protecting me?”
Holloway’s eyes found mine.
“Because three years ago, Daniel told police one thing before he disappeared from the case.”
“What?”
Holloway swallowed against the pain.
“He said the person behind Elena’s crash would come after you next.”
The room spun.
“That makes no sense.”
“It does if Daniel gave you something without telling you.”
“I have nothing.”
Holloway squeezed his eyes shut.
Vincent looked at me.
“Your apartment.”
I shook my head.
“I searched everything.”
“Not the apartment you have now.”
He leaned closer.
“The home you grew up in.”
My breath caught.
Our mother’s house.
Sold after Daniel died.
A small place in Southbridge.
I had not been there in years.
Vincent stood.
“We’re going.”
Marco came back inside.
“Vehicle gone. No plate.”
“Holloway needs an ambulance.”
“Already coming.”
Vincent looked at me.
“You stay with me.”
“Until when?”
His eyes were cold.
“Until the person who killed my wife stops trying to kill you.”
I should have been terrified by the sentence.
I was.
But underneath the fear was something else.
May you like
For the first time since Daniel died, I was not alone with the truth.
And somehow that frightened me even more.
