Chapter 6 - The First Rule of Loving a Dangerous Man
I did not speak to Adrian for the rest of the afternoon.
It was not because I believed he had killed his brother. He had told me too little for me to reach that conclusion, and I had spent enough of my life watching people judge others on incomplete information.
It was because he had finally given me something more dangerous than a secret.
A reason to doubt him.
I returned to the records room, copied the relevant entries into a folder, and asked Elena to arrange a car to take Sasha and me home.
She hesitated.
“Mr. Moretti asked that you remain here until the situation is resolved.”
“Did he ask you to tell me that, or did he ask you to arrange it?”
“He asked me to ensure your safety.”
“Then he should understand that I cannot remain somewhere simply because a man believes he knows what is best for me.”
Elena studied me.
“You sound like someone he used to know.”
“Who?”
She looked away.
“Someone who was very important to him.”
I waited, but she offered no more.
The car arrived 20 minutes later.
Sasha came downstairs carrying her university bag and a container of sandwiches the kitchen staff had insisted she take.
She looked from me to Elena.
“Are we leaving?”
“Yes.”
“Did you solve the mystery?”
“Not yet.”
“Did you discover that our host is secretly a vampire?”
“Not that I know of.”
She nodded.
“Disappointing. At least that would explain the lack of normal working hours.”
I laughed despite myself.
Then we stepped outside.
Adrian was waiting near the front entrance.
He had removed his jacket, and his shirtsleeves were rolled to his elbows. Without the suit coat, he looked less like the man who commanded a ballroom and more like someone who had been awake for too many nights.
“Nerissa.”
I stopped.
“If you want to leave, I won't stop you.”
“Thank you.”
“But I need you to understand that Victor Bellandi may approach you again. If he does, please contact me.”
“I will contact the police.”
“That is your right.”
“Will you help them?”
He looked at me for a long moment.
“Yes.”
I wanted to ask whether he meant it.
Instead, I said, “I hope you find out what happened to your brother.”
“So do I.”
His gaze dropped briefly to the folder in my hand.
“Keep the copies somewhere safe.”
“I will.”
Then I left.
I did not look back until the car reached the end of the driveway.
Adrian remained standing beneath the entrance lights, his hands in his pockets, watching the vehicle disappear.
I wondered whether he was relieved to see me go.
I wondered whether he wanted me to stay.
Most of all, I wondered why those questions mattered to me at all.
***
Returning home was like stepping into a smaller version of our old life.
The apartment smelled of laundry detergent and yesterday's coffee. The kitchen table still held unpaid bills. A crack in the bathroom ceiling had grown slightly wider, and the refrigerator had begun making the worrying sound that usually preceded an expensive repair.
Yet I felt safer there than I had in Adrian's immaculate house.
Not because the apartment was secure.
Because it belonged to us.
Sasha dropped her bag beside the sofa.
“We need a plan.”
“I know.”
“No, an actual plan. Not one of your plans that involves working extra shifts and pretending exhaustion is a personality trait.”
I sat down.
She brought out a notebook.
“We need to pay the rent, keep the electricity on, and figure out what to do about Victor Bellandi.”
“We are not investigating a mafia family.”
“Then why do we have a notebook full of suspicious payments?”
I looked at the folder.
“Because our mother kept records she shouldn't have had.”
“Maybe she kept them because she knew something bad was happening.”
“Maybe.”
Sasha leaned forward.
“Nerissa, I know you're afraid of getting involved with Adrian. I am, too. But I think you're making a mistake if you assume that staying away from him will make this disappear.”
I looked at her.
“You want us to go back to his house?”
“No. I want us to stop making decisions based on what scares us most.”
She tapped the notebook.
“We need information. We need to know whether Mom left anything else. And we need to know why someone is suddenly interested in us after 3 years.”
I hated that she was right.
For years, I had managed our problems by addressing the immediate emergency. Rent first. Food second. Medicine third. Everything else could wait.
But this problem would not wait.
That evening, we searched our mother's old belongings.
We emptied drawers, opened boxes, and examined the contents of a suitcase she had kept beneath her bed. We found photographs, receipts, birthday cards, and a small collection of letters tied with ribbon.
Most were ordinary.
A letter from an old friend.
A postcard from a trip to Wisconsin.
A note reminding me to buy flour.
Then Sasha found an envelope hidden inside the lining of the suitcase.
It contained a single photograph.
My mother stood beside a river, wearing a dark coat. She looked younger than I remembered her, perhaps 35, with her hair loose around her shoulders.
Beside her stood a man with silver hair.
Adrian's father.
On the back, someone had written a date.
November 17, 2009.
Sasha looked at me.
“That's the date from the records.”
I turned the photograph over again.
There was something else written beneath the date, almost invisible where the ink had faded.
If anything happens to me, find the girl with the blue ribbon.
I read the sentence aloud.
Sasha frowned.
“What girl?”
“I don't know.”
“Did Mom know someone with a blue ribbon?”
I tried to remember.
Our mother had owned a box of ribbons, most of them used for wrapping presents or tying her hair. Blue had been her favorite color.
But the note seemed too deliberate to be an ordinary reminder.
I placed the photograph inside the folder.
Then I noticed a telephone number written along the bottom edge.
The last 4 digits were familiar.
They matched the number on the card Adrian had given me.
I sat very still.
“That's impossible,” I whispered.
Sasha took the photograph.
“Maybe it's a coincidence.”
“Maybe.”
But I had stopped believing in coincidences.
***
I called Adrian at 10:43 p.m.
He answered on the second ring.
“Nerissa?”
“I found something.”
His voice changed immediately.
“What is it?”
“A photograph of my mother with your father. It was taken on November 17, 2009.”
He was silent.
Then he asked, “Where did you find it?”
“In a suitcase she kept beneath her bed.”
“Is there anything written on the back?”
I read him the note about the girl with the blue ribbon.
He did not interrupt.
When I finished, I heard him draw a slow breath.
“Do you have the original?”
“Yes.”
“Keep it safe. Don't send a photograph of it to anyone.”
“Why?”
“Because I think I know who the girl might be.”
My pulse quickened.
“Who?”
“I need to verify something first.”
“Adrian, you promised not to make decisions behind my back.”
“I know.”
“Then tell me.”
He hesitated.
“My brother had a daughter.”
I stood so quickly that the chair scraped across the floor.
“What?”
“Matteo had a daughter. She was very young when he died. My father arranged for her to be raised outside Chicago because he believed she might be in danger.”
“Where is she now?”
“I don't know.”
“You don't know where your own niece is?”
“No.”
His voice was rougher now.
“My father handled the arrangements. After he died, I discovered that several records had disappeared. I have spent years trying to locate her.”
I looked at the photograph again.
“Was she the girl with the blue ribbon?”
“I don't know. But Matteo used to give his daughter blue ribbons for her hair.”
I felt a strange mixture of relief and dread.
The note might have been a clue to a missing child rather than a threat against my family.
Yet it raised another question.
Why had my mother been involved?
“Did my mother help your father hide her?”
“I don't know.”
“Adrian, you say that a lot.”
“Because I have spent years discovering how much I don't know.”
I sat down again.
For a moment, neither of us spoke.
Then he said, “I'm sorry I didn't tell you about Matteo earlier.”
“You told me he died.”
“I should have told you about his daughter.”
“Yes, you should have.”
“I was afraid the information might put her at risk.”
“And you decided I couldn't be trusted with it?”
“No. I decided I couldn't bear the possibility of losing another person in my family.”
The honesty in his voice made my anger difficult to maintain.
It did not erase the problem.
But it helped me understand it.
“Adrian, I cannot help you if you keep deciding what I am allowed to know.”
“I understand.”
“Do you?”
“Yes.”
I looked down at the photograph.
“I want to meet tomorrow. Somewhere public. We can compare the records and discuss what happens next.”
“Agreed.”
“And no bodyguards sitting at our table.”
“I'll see what I can do.”
“Adrian.”
A faint breath of amusement reached me.
“No bodyguards at the table.”
“Good.”
I ended the call before I could say anything more personal.
Sasha watched me from the doorway.
“You still like him.”
I closed my eyes.
“This is not the time.”
“I'm not judging you. I'm asking whether you trust him.”
I considered the question.
“I trust that he is trying to tell me the truth.”
“That wasn't what I asked.”
“No,” I admitted. “I don't trust him completely.”
“Good.”
She sat beside me.
“Trust should be earned. It shouldn't be something you give a man because he looks at you like you're the only person in the room.”
I stared at her.
“Do I look at him like that?”
“Worse.”
She smiled.
“You look at him like you're trying to solve a math problem, and you're hoping the answer is handsome.”
I laughed so hard that I nearly knocked over the photograph.
For a few minutes, we were simply sisters again.
Then my telephone vibrated.
A new message had arrived from an unknown number.
It contained a photograph of our apartment building.
Taken from across the street.
Beneath it were 6 words.
Stop searching for the missing girl.
I looked toward the window.
The curtains were closed.
May you like
The room suddenly felt very small.
And somewhere outside, someone knew exactly where we lived.
