Chapter 2 - The Warning She Left Behind
Lila read Owen's message twice. The second time, her hands shook enough to blur the words.
“Was he alone?” she typed.
The reply came fast. Two men. Didn't open door. They left.
Salvatore saw her expression change. “What's wrong?”
“Nothing you need to fix.” She slid the locket beneath her shirt and turned to Curtis. “I'm leaving. Put whatever you want on my time sheet.”
Curtis's mouth worked soundlessly. The older man beside her had the sort of influence Curtis usually pretended to possess. That didn't make the diner owner any less dangerous once the silver-haired stranger was gone.
Outside, February air smelled of exhaust and rain. Lila hurried toward the subway, with Sal following at a distance until she stopped beneath a closed florist's awning.
“Please don't follow me.”
“You have my daughter's necklace.”
“She gave it to me. That doesn't make it yours.”
He flinched, then nodded. “You're right.”
The restraint surprised her more than another threat would have. He offered a business card. Plain white stock. Just his name and a number.
“I don't want money,” she said.
“I haven't offered any.”
“Men with expensive suits never think an offer has strings until somebody tries to walk away.”
For the first time, something like shame moved across his face. “Your mother said that too.”
Lila left him in the rain.
Owen was waiting on the other side of their apartment door, holding a baseball bat he had never swung at anything harder than a tennis ball. He was lanky, all elbows, a sophomore who had just made honor roll and refused to admit he liked baking shows.
“Describe them,” Lila said.
“One wore a brown jacket. The other said he was checking an old debt. He knew Mom's name.”
Their mother, Elena Vega, had died fourteen years earlier. She had worked hospital laundry shifts, slept too little, and insisted that if a person was frightened, there was almost always a reason to ask another question.
Lila knelt beside the cedar box she kept beneath her bed. Inside lay birthday cards, two school photographs, and a letter Elena had written when her final illness made holding a pen difficult. Lila had read it so often that the paper had gone soft at the folds.
The last paragraph had always troubled her.
If anyone from the Moretti family ever asks about you, you owe them nothing. Not your name, not your forgiveness, and certainly not that locket. Keep it because it is ours, not because it was his.
Owen read over her shoulder. “Who is his?”
“I think I met him today.”
Her phone rang. Unknown number.
May you like
A man's voice said, “The necklace belongs to the family, Ms. Vega. Mr. Moretti isn't the only one who remembers it.”
The call ended before she could ask his name.
