Chapter 2 - The House Behind the Gates.
By sunrise, I had learned two things about Vincent Moretti.
The first was that he never repeated himself.
The second was that everybody around him listened the first time.
I learned both facts while standing in the hospital lobby and refusing to get into his car.
"No."
Vincent looked at me from beside a black SUV.
"You cannot go back outside."
"I've been outside before."
"Not after somebody connected to my family saw you with Ethan."
"That sounds like your problem."
"It became yours when you made the phone call."
I hated that he had a point.
I hated even more that I was warm, fed, and wearing clean hospital socks somebody had found for me.
Comfort had a way of making pride much harder to defend.
Ethan had been admitted overnight.
Vincent refused to leave him until a specialist promised his condition was stable.
Then Ethan himself had made the argument Vincent could not.
"Lily can't sleep outside."
I had been standing near the door when he said it.
"I'm fine."
Ethan gave me the kind of look only a six-year-old could give without getting punched.
"You're lying."
Vincent almost smiled again.
I pointed at both of them.
"You two are annoying."
Ethan smiled weakly.
"So you'll stay?"
"For one night."
Vincent said nothing.
That should have warned me.
The Moretti house was not what I expected.
I had imagined gold statues, marble lions, and men standing around whispering into radios.
There were gates, cameras, and enough security to make a bank nervous.
But the house itself looked old rather than flashy.
Dark brick.
Tall windows.
A wide stone staircase.
Warm light behind curtains.
It looked like the kind of home where people had celebrated birthdays for generations.
That somehow made it stranger.
A woman named Rosa met us at the door.
She was in her sixties, with silver hair pinned neatly behind her head and the kind of eyes that noticed everything.
Her gaze went straight to Vincent's coat around my shoulders.
Then to my ruined shoes.
Then to Vincent.
"Guest room?"
"The east room."
"Good."
She looked at me.
"You hungry?"
I shook my head automatically.
My stomach growled loudly enough to betray me.
Rosa raised one eyebrow.
"Kitchen first."
"I can take care of myself."
"That wasn't the question."
I stared at her.
Vincent walked past us.
"You'll lose that argument."
Rosa called after him.
"You still owe me three coffee cups, Vincent."
He kept walking.
For the first time, I understood that there was at least one person in New York who was not afraid of him.
The kitchen smelled like bread and coffee.
Rosa placed eggs, toast, fruit, and a bowl of oatmeal in front of me.
"I can't eat all that."
"Try."
I ate almost all of it.
Afterward, she showed me upstairs.
The guest room had a bed so large I could have slept sideways without touching either edge.
There was a bathroom with heated floors.
I did not know floors could be heated.
Clean clothes waited on the bed.
Jeans.
A gray sweater.
A simple black jacket.
Nothing fancy.
Nothing that made me feel like a doll somebody had decided to dress.
I touched the sweater.
"Who picked these?"
"I did."
Rosa leaned against the doorframe.
"Mr. Moretti would have bought half of Madison Avenue and frightened you into running."
I looked at her.
"You call him Mr. Moretti?"
"Only when I'm making fun of him."
She started to leave.
"Rosa?"
She stopped.
"Thank you."
Her expression softened.
"Take the shower."
"Lock the door if it makes you feel better."
I did.
I locked it twice.
Then I stood beneath hot water until my skin hurt.
Dirt ran down the drain.
So did the smell of the subway, old rain, smoke, and months spent trying not to be noticed.
I found myself crying without making any sound.
Not because I was sad.
Because the soap was warm.
Because there was a towel waiting for me.
Because nobody was banging on the door telling me to move.
I hated myself for crying over a towel.
When I finally came downstairs, Vincent was in a study with a man I had not seen before.
The stranger was about forty, broad-shouldered, with close-cropped dark hair and a quiet expression.
A thin scar crossed one eyebrow.
He introduced himself as Julian Kane.
"Security director," he said.
I looked at Vincent.
"For the hotels?"
Julian's mouth moved slightly.
"Among other things."
"That sounds reassuring."
Vincent pointed to a chair.
"Sit."
"You really like that word."
"And you really dislike instructions."
"Good observation."
Julian coughed into his fist, possibly hiding a laugh.
Vincent ignored him.
On the desk were six photographs.
Six men.
"The rings," Vincent said.
I leaned closer.
Every man wore the same silver ring with a black stone and an M.
"Family crest?"
"Old tradition."
"You wear one?"
Vincent held up his hand.
There was no ring.
"Not anymore."
I looked back at the photographs.
I studied each face.
The man from the park had been mostly shadow.
I could remember height.
Posture.
The way he held his phone.
Then I stopped at the fourth picture.
The man was younger in the photograph, but something in the shape of his jaw felt familiar.
"Maybe him."
Julian leaned forward.
"Dominic Moretti?"
I looked at Vincent.
His face revealed nothing.
"Who's Dominic?"
"My cousin."
"One of the six?"
"Yes."
"Do you trust him?"
Vincent did not answer quickly enough.
That was answer enough.
Julian tapped another photograph.
"Could it have been Marcus?"
I shook my head.
"Too short."
Another.
"Peter?"
"No."
He returned to Dominic.
"How sure are you?"
"Not sure enough to accuse somebody."
Vincent's eyes held mine.
"Good."
"Good?"
"People who are too certain about shadows are dangerous."
I pushed the pictures away.
"Can I see Ethan?"
"Later today."
"Why later?"
"Because the hospital wants him resting."
I stood.
"Then I'm leaving."
Vincent's expression hardened.
"No."
"One night."
"It is eight in the morning."
"Technically I stayed."
"Technically you are fourteen."
That stopped me.
"Don't."
"Don't what?"
"Talk to me like you're my father."
The room became quiet.
Vincent looked away first.
"I'm not."
His voice had changed.
It was softer.
"But I am the father of the boy you saved, and someone may now believe you saw something you were not supposed to see."
Julian opened a folder.
"We checked cameras around the park."
He turned a tablet toward me.
A grainy image showed me kneeling beside Ethan.
Thirty yards behind us stood a figure near the trees.
My stomach tightened.
"That's him."
"There's more," Julian said.
He swiped to another image.
The same figure appeared near a subway entrance twelve minutes before I entered the park.
Then another.
A block away from the church where I had eaten dinner.
I stared at the screen.
"He wasn't following Ethan."
Julian said nothing.
Vincent's jaw tightened.
I looked at him.
"He was following me."
A clock ticked somewhere in the room.
I suddenly felt trapped inside clothing that did not belong to me, in a house I had never asked to enter.
"Why would anyone in your family follow me?"
"I don't know."
"That's not good enough."
"I know."
I stepped backward.
"I want my backpack."
Rosa had taken it to be washed.
Vincent nodded toward Julian.
"Get it."
Julian left.
Vincent and I stood alone.
"Lily, I need you to think carefully."
"About what?"
"Have you ever met a Moretti before last night?"
"No."
"Your parents?"
I felt something close inside me.
"My mother died when I was eight."
"Name?"
"Why?"
"Because somebody knew who you were before you knew Ethan."
I looked toward the door.
"Elena Hart."
Vincent stopped breathing.
It was only for a second.
But I saw it.
"What?"
He stared at me.
"Your mother's name was Elena?"
"Yes."
"Elena Marie Hart?"
My heart began to pound.
"How do you know her middle name?"
Vincent stepped behind his desk as if he suddenly needed something solid between us.
Before he could answer, Julian came back holding my worn canvas backpack.
"We have a problem."
He set it on the desk.
The zipper was open.
"What?"
Julian reached inside and removed a white envelope.
I had never seen it before.
My name was written across the front.
LILY HART.
My hands went cold.
"That wasn't in there."
"I believe you," Julian said.
Vincent picked up the envelope without opening it.
"Who handled this bag?"
"Rosa, two house staff, and me."
"Cameras?"
"Already checking."
I reached for the envelope.
Vincent hesitated.
"It's addressed to me."
He handed it over.
Inside was a single photograph.
Two women stood outside a summer house beside a lake.
One of them was my mother.
Younger.
Smiling.
Alive in a way I had almost forgotten.
The second woman had dark hair and Ethan's eyes.
I looked at Vincent.
His face had gone pale.
"Who is she?"
He did not answer.
I turned the photograph over.
Five words had been written on the back.
VINCENT MUST NEVER FIND LILY.
My voice shook.
"Who is she?"
Vincent finally looked at me.
"My wife."
The room seemed to tilt.
"Ethan's mother?"
"Yes."
I stared at the photograph again.
My dead mother was standing with Ethan's dead mother.
And someone had just placed proof inside my backpack that they had known each other.
Vincent reached for the picture.
His fingers stopped before touching it.
"That photograph was taken at my family's lake house."
"When?"
"Seven years ago."
I counted backward.
I had been seven.
One year before my mother died.
Vincent looked at the message on the back again.
May you like
Then he said the words that made the warm house suddenly feel colder than Central Park.
"Lily, your mother worked for me."
