Chapter 4 - The House With Too Many Doors.
The Lincoln Park house did not look like a safe house.
That made Claire distrust it immediately.
Safe houses, in her imagination, were concrete boxes with steel doors and no windows.
Dante's property stood behind an iron gate on a quiet tree-lined street, all limestone, black shutters, and warm light spilling across a front garden that probably cost more to maintain each year than Claire earned.
It looked like the home of a senator who had never carried his own groceries.
"This is temporary," Claire said as the sedan rolled through the gate.
Dante sat beside her.
"You have said that four times."
"I'm making sure the building understands."
"The building seems intimidated."
She looked at him.
"Was that a joke?"
"No."
"It was almost a joke."
"Don't spread that around."
Claire hated the tiny laugh that escaped her.
It hurt her back.
That made her hate him for causing it.
The front door opened before the car stopped.
A woman in her early sixties came down the steps wearing dark pants, a cream cardigan, and an expression that suggested she had been expecting trouble for decades and had long ago decided not to be impressed by it.
"Rosa," Dante said when they entered.
The woman ignored him and went straight to Claire.
"You are the waitress."
Claire blinked.
"Apparently that's my official title now."
Rosa took both of Claire's hands.
"You protected Matteo."
"He was right there."
Rosa's eyes softened.
"That is what good people say after doing something difficult."
Dante removed his coat.
"She needs rest."
Rosa turned her head.
"I was speaking to her."
Claire looked at Dante.
He accepted the correction without argument.
Interesting.
Rosa led Claire upstairs to a guest room overlooking the back garden.
The room was larger than Claire's apartment.
There was a fireplace, a bathroom with heated floors, and a bed with more pillows than any human being could reasonably use.
A new phone charger sat on the nightstand.
So did a glass of water, a bottle of prescribed pain medication, and a handwritten note listing the doctor's instructions.
Claire picked up the note.
"Did Dante do this?"
Rosa gave her a look.
"Dante has many talents."
"Writing neat medical instructions isn't one of them?"
"Dante's handwriting looks like a bird escaped across the page."
Claire smiled.
"Good to know he's human in at least one area."
Rosa adjusted the blankets.
"Do not tell him I said that."
"I thought he was afraid of you."
"He should be."
Claire liked her immediately.
She showered carefully, changed into clothes Rosa had found in an unopened department-store bag, and sat on the edge of the bed.
Her body was exhausted.
Her mind refused to cooperate.
Every time she closed her eyes, she saw Michael on the security screen.
He looked older.
Thinner.
But it was him.
Eleven months of silence, and then there he was near the maintenance hallway of the restaurant where a glass wall nearly fell on a child.
Claire reached for her phone.
It had seven missed calls.
Three were from Sophie.
One was from her landlord.
Two were blocked numbers.
The last was from an unfamiliar local number.
A voicemail waited.
Claire stared at it.
Then pressed play.
For three seconds there was only static.
Then a man breathed into the phone.
"Claire."
Her body went cold.
Michael.
"I know you're angry."
His voice sounded strained.
"You have every right to be, but you don't understand what's happening."
Claire gripped the phone.
"Don't trust Moretti."
A pause.
"Whatever he tells you, don't trust him."
The message ended.
Claire replayed it.
Then again.
She was still staring at the screen when someone knocked.
"Claire?"
Matteo.
She opened the door.
He stood in the hallway wearing dinosaur pajamas and holding a new toy car.
The broken one from the restaurant was tucked under his other arm.
"You're awake."
"So are you."
"I couldn't sleep."
Claire understood.
"Come in."
He entered and sat in an armchair near the fireplace.
For a while, neither of them spoke.
Matteo rolled the new car over his knee.
"Papa says the glass wasn't an accident."
Claire sat across from him.
"He told you that?"
"He doesn't lie to me."
There was pride in the sentence.
Claire thought of Michael's voicemail.
"That's good."
Matteo looked at the damaged toy in his other hand.
"My mom used to say Papa only lies when he thinks the truth will scare me."
Claire's attention sharpened.
"Your mom?"
He nodded.
"She died when I was little."
"I'm sorry."
"I don't remember much."
He said it matter-of-factly, which somehow made it sadder.
"Papa remembers everything."
Claire did not know what to say.
Matteo looked at her.
"Were you scared?"
"Tonight?"
He nodded.
Claire considered lying.
Then remembered what he had said about his father.
"Yes."
"But you still jumped."
"I didn't have time to decide."
"Papa says people show who they are when they don't have time to decide."
Claire smiled faintly.
"Your papa says a lot of things."
"He likes you."
Claire nearly choked on air.
"I don't think that's what is happening."
"He said your name six times in the car."
"Were you counting?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"Because he doesn't say people's names that much."
Claire rubbed her forehead.
"You should probably not report that statistic to him."
Matteo smiled.
The door opened behind them.
Dante stood there.
He looked at his son.
Then at Claire.
"Report what statistic?"
"Nothing," they said together.
Dante's eyes narrowed.
Matteo hopped out of the chair.
"Good night, Claire."
"Good night."
He hugged her carefully around the waist, avoiding her back, and left.
Dante watched him go.
The hard lines in his face eased for half a second.
Then he noticed Claire's phone in her hand.
"What happened?"
She disliked how quickly he read her.
"Nothing."
"You look like you want to throw that phone through a window."
"Maybe I do."
"Who called?"
Claire remembered Michael's warning.
Don't trust Moretti.
She looked at Dante.
"Why should I trust you?"
He did not react the way she expected.
No offense.
No anger.
He closed the door and stayed near it rather than approaching.
"You shouldn't."
Claire blinked.
"That's a strange answer."
"You met me six hours ago."
"And yet I'm sleeping in your house."
"A house I don't live in."
"Technical distinction."
"An important one."
Claire stood.
"Michael called me."
Every trace of warmth disappeared from Dante's face.
"When?"
"Before Matteo came in."
"What did he say?"
"That I don't understand what's happening."
"Anything else?"
She watched him carefully.
"He told me not to trust you."
Dante's expression did not change.
That was its own kind of reaction.
"Did he say why?"
"No."
"Number?"
Claire hesitated.
"If I give it to you, what happens to him?"
"I find him."
"And then?"
"I ask questions."
"You have a reputation for asking questions with more than words."
His eyes hardened.
"You've been reading the papers."
"Everybody reads the papers."
"The papers sell fear because fear gets clicks."
"Are they wrong?"
The room became quiet.
Dante did not look away.
"Not always."
Claire appreciated the answer more than she wanted to.
"I won't give you his number if you're going to hurt him."
"He may have helped sabotage a wall over my son's head."
"May have."
"Claire."
"I hate him for what he did to me."
Her voice shook despite her effort.
"But I'm not handing someone over to be punished without knowing what happened."
Dante's jaw flexed.
For a moment, she saw the conflict plainly.
The father wanted immediate action.
The man standing in front of her understood that forcing her would destroy whatever fragile trust existed between them.
"Fine," he said.
"Fine?"
"Keep the number."
She stared.
"That's it?"
"No."
He took out his phone.
"I'm putting someone outside this room."
"That was not part of the deal."
"Neither was Michael calling you."
Claire crossed her arms.
"Outside the room only."
"Agreed."
"No listening at the door."
"My people have better things to do."
"Do they?"
"At the moment, apparently not."
Despite herself, Claire smiled.
Then Dante's phone vibrated.
He looked at the screen.
The change in his face was immediate.
"What?" Claire asked.
He did not answer.
"Dante."
He turned the phone toward her.
It showed a security camera feed from Aurelio's loading dock.
A man in a hooded jacket stood beside a dumpster.
The timestamp was from fifteen minutes earlier.
He held something toward the camera.
A white card.
The message was written in black marker.
ASK CLAIRE WHAT MICHAEL OWES.
Claire felt the room tilt.
Dante lowered the phone.
"They know you're here."
Her throat tightened.
"How?"
Dante looked toward the hallway.
May you like
"That's what I'm going to find out."
Then every light in the house went dark.
