Z

Samuel Pierce died before the ambulance reached Northwestern Memorial.

The bullet had entered beneath his collarbone and torn through an artery.

By noon, federal agents had taken the cassette tape, the photograph and seventeen security recordings from the foundation building.

By one, reporters were outside.

By two, three television networks were running BREAKING NEWS banners under my face.

By three, Damian Vale’s attorney released a statement suggesting Samuel’s murder proved “dangerous criminal associates surrounding Ms. Bennett were attempting to manipulate an ongoing federal case.”

Luca read the statement on his phone.

“Creative.”

I stared at the blood still dried beneath my fingernails.

“Samuel was shot in my mother’s clinic.”

“Yes.”

“Through a window.”

“Yes.”

“A window that faces another foundation building.”

Luca looked at me.

“You noticed.”

“There are only two clean sight lines from across the street.”

He remained silent.

I had spent a year surrounded by security teams.

Apparently some of it had infected me.

“The shooter knew which conference room.”

“Yes.”

“Which means they knew Samuel was coming.”

“Yes.”

“How?”

“That’s the question.”

We were back at my apartment.

Not Luca’s townhouse.

Mine.

When his men suggested moving me somewhere “secure,” I refused.

When Luca suggested temporarily doubling security, I agreed.

That was our compromise.

I paced beside the windows while agents searched Samuel’s background.

The federal task force found almost nothing.

Samuel Pierce had disappeared from official life sixteen years earlier.

No active credit cards.

No driver’s license.

No property.

A ghost.

Then Adrian called.

Luca put him on speaker.

“I found something weird.”

“That narrows it down beautifully,” I said.

Adrian ignored me.

“Samuel rented a storage locker outside Kenosha six months ago.”

“Wisconsin.”

“Exactly.”

“What’s in it?”

“No idea. Federal agents are getting a warrant.”

Luca frowned.

“That takes time.”

I looked at him.

“No burglary.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You were thinking loudly.”

His mouth twitched.

“The locker lease lists an emergency contact.”

“Who?”

“Emily Bennett.”

My aunt.

Again.

I sat down.

I remembered Aunt Emily as perfume, cigarettes and inappropriate Christmas gifts.

She hated my father.

They fought constantly after my mother died.

Then one year, she vanished.

Victor told me Emily had moved west because she “needed distance from family drama.”

Apparently family drama meant helping a crime boss fake his death.

“Find her,” I said.

Adrian sighed.

“Already trying.”

Luca walked toward the kitchen.

“You need food.”

I stared at him.

“Did you just tell me what I need?”

He stopped.

“Would you like food?”

“Much better.”

I almost smiled.

He opened my refrigerator.

“You have mustard, yogurt and champagne.”

“The champagne was a gift.”

“The mustard?”

“Private purchase.”

He looked genuinely disappointed.

“We’re ordering dinner.”

That almost-normal conversation lasted nineteen seconds.

Then my phone rang.

Federal prosecutor Rachel Kim.

“Isabella, we have a problem.”

“Another one?”

“The cassette Samuel brought you.”

“What about it?”

“It’s blank.”

I looked at Luca.

“Blank?”

“Completely.”

“That doesn’t make sense.”

“It may have been erased years ago.”

“No.”

“How do you know?”

Because my mother never trusted anything important to a single copy.

I stood.

“Rachel, I’ll call you back.”

I ended the call.

Luca understood immediately.

“What?”

“My mother.”

“What about her?”

“She backed up everything.”

“You’re sure?”

“She printed emails. Photocopied checks. Kept duplicates of tax documents in three different places.”

I thought about the cassette.

Caroline Bennett had been paranoid before people called it paranoia.

Then I remembered something.

When I was a child, my mother kept a small cassette recorder inside the pantry.

She recorded recipe notes.

Shopping lists.

Occasionally ideas for speeches.

After she died, I found dozens of tapes inside a shoebox.

My father threw most of them away.

Most.

I ran toward the hallway closet.

Luca followed.

“What are you doing?”

“Looking for something.”

I dragged out two storage boxes I had brought from my childhood home before Victor’s house burned.

Photo albums.

My mother’s scarves.

Christmas decorations.

Then I found an old wooden recipe box.

Inside were index cards written in my mother’s handwriting.

Tomato soup.

Chicken pot pie.

Lemon cake.

Luca crouched beside me.

“You’re planning dinner now?”

“Shut up.”

He did.

I flipped through cards.

Then one stopped me.

BLACKBERRY PIE.

My mother hated blackberries.

I knew because she once told me they tasted like “berries with an attitude problem.”

I turned the card over.

One line was written on the back.

THE ORIGINAL IS NEVER THE ORIGINAL.

My pulse exploded.

“Luca.”

He leaned closer.

“What?”

“The cassette was supposed to be blank.”

He looked at me.

“What?”

“She wanted somebody to find it.”

“Why?”

“Because it points somewhere else.”

“How?”

I read the recipe card.

Two cups flour.

Half cup sugar.

Seven tablespoons butter.

Four cups berries.

3-2-7-4.

A code.

I searched the recipe box.

Another card had numbers circled.

Then another.

Luca grabbed paper.

We wrote them down.

3-2-7-4.

1-9-8-8.

14-12.

None meant anything.

Then I saw the dates.

The year my mother founded the first Bennett shelter.

14-12.

December 14.

Her birthday.

Sixth Street.

The location of the original shelter.

“That building still exists.”

Luca stood.

“Where?”

“Pilsen.”

Thirty minutes later, we were standing outside a brick row house my mother had purchased almost forty years ago.

The foundation had turned it into offices.

The basement had been closed for renovations.

I knew every room.

Or thought I did.

We found the first clue behind an old photograph hanging in the original director’s office.

A brass key.

The number 3274 engraved on it.

The key opened a metal cabinet in the basement.

Inside were six cassette tapes.

Three notebooks.

And a sealed envelope with my name on it.

I sat on the concrete floor.

My hands were shaking.

Luca stayed across the room.

I opened the envelope.

Sweetheart,

If you found this, then something went wrong.

I stopped.

Luca watched me.

I continued.

Raymond Vale will believe what I gathered is evidence against him.

It is.

But that is not why he is truly dangerous.

He is protecting someone.

My heartbeat accelerated.

Below the letter was a photograph.

Raymond Vale stood beside three men.

Victor.

A younger Matteo.

And a man I had never seen.

Underneath, my mother had written:

THE FOURTH MAN OWNS THEM ALL.

I showed Luca.

He stared at the stranger.

“You know him?”

“No.”

“Your uncle might.”

We called Matteo.

He arrived forty minutes later.

The moment he saw the photograph, every bit of color drained from his face.

“Where did you get this?”

“My mother.”

Matteo looked at Luca.

“Who is he?” Luca demanded.

Matteo sat down.

For a man I had seen face armed attackers without blinking, he suddenly looked frightened.

“His name is Charles Mercer.”

I searched my memory.

“Should I know that?”

“No.”

“Then why are you terrified?”

Matteo swallowed.

“Because Charles Mercer doesn’t exist.”

Luca’s expression sharpened.

“Explain.”

“That was the name he used with us.”

“Who was he really?”

Matteo looked at me.

“A federal prosecutor.”

The floor seemed to shift.

“He protected Raymond?” I asked.

“For years.”

“Why?”

“Money. Information. Power.”

Luca stared at him.

“Where is Mercer now?”

Matteo laughed once.

Without humor.

“Washington.”

“What does he do?”

Matteo’s next words made the room feel suddenly much smaller.

“He’s a United States senator.”