Chapter 6 - WHAT PETER KNEW
Peter had been stabbed.
Not fatally.
That was the first thing the emergency-room doctor told us.
It was strange how quickly your feelings can become complicated around someone who betrayed you.
I did not love Peter anymore.
I was not sure I even liked the person I had discovered he was.
But when Amy called and said he was bleeding on her kitchen floor, some old part of me remembered the man carrying Thanksgiving trays.
The man who used to leave coffee beside my laptop.
The man I had almost married.
Memory does not ask permission before caring.
He had been cut across his left side.
Deep.
Painful.
But no major organs damaged.
He lost blood.
He would recover.
Police stationed an officer outside his room.
I stood across the hallway.
Adrian beside me.
“You don’t have to see him,” he said.
“I know.”
It had become something he said often.
Not permission.
Reminder.
My choices still existed.
Peter’s attorney came out.
“He wants Molly.”
The detective objected.
“Not alone.”
“I wasn’t planning to be alone.”
We entered.
Peter looked small in the hospital bed.
Pale.
Bandage around his abdomen.
Bruising near one eye.
He looked at Adrian.
Then me.
“Hi.”
I crossed my arms.
“Who did this?”
His eyes moved toward the detective.
“I don’t know.”
“Lie.”
He flinched.
Good.
I was tired of people flinching only when powerful men spoke.
“Peter.”
His eyes filled.
“Caleb.”
The detective leaned forward.
“Caleb Moss is in custody.”
Peter shook his head.
“Not him.”
“Then who?”
“Victor.”
Silence.
I stared.
“Victor stabbed you?”
“No.”
“Then stop talking in riddles.”
Peter looked exhausted.
“Victor has another guy.”
Adrian’s expression sharpened.
“Name.”
“Ray Dempsey.”
Leo, standing near the door, immediately left.
Peter continued.
“Victor sent Ray to get the drive.”
“The drive you gave us?”
Peter nodded.
“He didn’t know I made copies.”
“Where?”
Peter closed his eyes.
“Safe deposit box.”
The detective wrote.
“Which bank?”
“I’ll tell you.”
“Why did Ray attack you?”
“I told him the evidence was already with lawyers.”
“Then why stab you?”
Peter looked at me.
“To scare everyone else.”
I almost laughed.
“Everybody in this story is obsessed with fear.”
Adrian looked at me.
Peter whispered—
“Because it works.”
I stared.
“Did it work on you?”
“Yes.”
There was no hesitation.
“From the beginning?”
“No.”
“What changed?”
“My debt.”
“Who did you owe?”
Peter looked at Adrian.
“Not him.”
“I know that.”
That mattered.
All the whispered stories about Adrian and debt collection.
Yet Peter’s real problem had been boring.
Banks.
Cards.
Private lenders.
Sports betting.
I stared.
“You gambled?”
He looked ashamed.
“Yes.”
“How much?”
“Over a hundred thousand.”
“You told me you hated gambling.”
“I did.”
“Apparently not.”
“I hated losing.”
Of course.
Peter had hidden the debt because he was ashamed.
Then Victor found out.
Offered help.
Peter accepted.
The first favor was easy.
Introduce a development analyst to Paul Keane.
Then obtain parish attendance information.
Then copy kitchen budgets.
Then encourage me to support relocation.
He had tried.
I remembered conversations.
“Wouldn’t a new kitchen be nice?”
“Imagine modern equipment.”
“St. Maren’s building is falling apart anyway.”
I had thought he was dreaming with me.
He had been selling me.
When persuasion failed, the favors became darker.
Change the flowers.
Ensure Adrian attended.
Wear a microphone.
Humiliate me.
Trigger violence.
And if necessary—
help close the kitchen.
“Did you know they intended to burn it?”
“No.”
“Did you know they intended to sabotage it?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“Health complaints. Utility problems. Insurance claims.”
My jaw tightened.
“Fire?”
“No.”
“You expect me to believe that?”
“I don’t care anymore.”
He looked exhausted.
“I don’t expect you to believe me about anything.”
At least that was realistic.
Adrian asked—
“What is Victor really building?”
Peter frowned.
“You know.”
“No.”
Something changed.
Peter looked at him.
“Empire North doesn’t care about the apartments.”
The room became still.
“What?”
“The apartments are cover.”
Adrian’s eyes narrowed.
“For what?”
Peter looked at the detective.
“Distribution.”
I did not understand.
Adrian did.
His face hardened.
“Warehousing?”
“Underground transfer hub.”
The detective frowned.
“For what?”
Peter swallowed.
“High-value stolen cargo.”
The room went cold.
Suddenly Adrian’s presence made more sense.
Trucking.
Warehouses.
Shipping contracts.
Victor had chosen property near industrial corridors.
Access to rail.
Highway.
Storage.
The luxury project was not the profit center.
It was legitimacy around infrastructure.
I looked at Adrian.
“You knew?”
“No.”
“Suspected?”
“That Empire North’s numbers made no sense.”
Peter laughed weakly.
“Because the project never needed to make money.”
The detective leaned forward.
“What cargo?”
“I don’t know everything.”
“Try.”
“Electronics. Pharmaceuticals. Auto parts.”
He glanced at Adrian.
“Anything easy to move through legitimate freight channels.”
Adrian became very still.
“They planned to use Vescari trucks.”
Peter nodded.
“Without his knowledge.”
I stared.
“How?”
Peter answered.
“Subcontractors.”
Adrian’s companies contracted hundreds of independent carriers.
If Empire North could insert compromised subcontractors into his distribution network—
stolen cargo moved under clean bills.
And if something was discovered?
Adrian Vescari already had a reputation.
The story would write itself.
Suddenly the wedding trap looked even bigger.
They did not simply want Adrian violent.
They wanted him discredited.
Investigated.
Maybe removed from his companies.
Victor could use the chaos.
Adrian looked at Peter.
“You knew this?”
“Not until last month.”
“And you stayed.”
Peter closed his eyes.
“Yes.”
Adrian did not threaten him.
That was worse.
Peter looked at me.
“I was going to tell you.”
“When?”
“After the wedding.”
I laughed.
I could not help it.
“You were going to humiliate me in front of two hundred people, get Adrian arrested, help Empire North take my parish, and then tell me?”
Peter started crying.
“Yes.”
That was so pathetic I almost stopped being angry.
Almost.
“Why marry me at all?”
The question had lived inside me since Saturday.
Peter looked at me for a long time.
“Because that part was real.”
I hated him for saying it.
He continued.
“I wanted you.”
“No.”
“I did.”
“You wanted a version of me that made you feel like a good man.”
His face changed.
I kept going.
“You liked volunteering because people thanked you.”
“Molly—”
“You liked being the handsome guy who chose the insecure curvy woman.”
His eyes widened.
Maybe because I had never said that aloud.
Neither had I.
Until now.
“You loved how grateful I was.”
“That’s not true.”
“Isn’t it?”
Silence.
“When I became confident at work, you called me bossy.”
Peter looked away.
“When I disagreed about money, you called me difficult.”
He said nothing.
“When I picked my flowers, you changed them.”
My throat tightened.
“When Victor gave you a plan, you decided my dignity was negotiable.”
Peter was crying openly now.
I did not enjoy it.
That was important.
Revenge fantasies always imagine satisfaction.
Real pain usually leaves everybody uglier.
“I loved you,” he whispered.
“I know.”
My voice softened.
“And I loved you.”
His eyes closed.
“That doesn’t mean we were good.”
I stepped back.
“And it doesn’t mean you get me back because you finally tell the truth.”
Peter nodded.
“I know.”
For once, I believed him.
Police recovered the safe-deposit box that afternoon.
Copies of emails.
Contracts.
Payment schedules.
Audio recordings.
A ledger linking Empire North executives to shell companies used for illicit cargo.
And one document that stunned everybody.
A personal memo from Victor Shaw.
SUBJECT: VESCARI NEUTRALIZATION.
It listed options.
Regulatory investigation.
Press exposure.
Violence provocation.
Criminal association.
And under “personal leverage”—
MOLLY HART.
I stared at my name.
One line beneath it:
VESCARI’S INTEREST APPEARS EMOTIONAL. LANE CAN BE USED TO TRIGGER RESPONSE.
My skin crawled.
I looked at Adrian.
He looked furious.
Not embarrassed.
Not defensive.
Furious that I had been reduced to a bullet point.
“How did they know?”
Adrian was silent.
“About your interest.”
He looked toward the window.
“I was careless.”
“How?”
“I asked people to keep St. Maren’s safe.”
“That isn’t careless.”
“I asked too often.”
I stared.
“Did you follow me?”
“No.”
“Have people watch me?”
“No.”
“Did you investigate Peter before Empire North?”
“No.”
He met my eyes.
“I promised myself your life would remain yours.”
Something in my chest moved.
“Why?”
His answer came slowly.
“Because wanting someone does not create a right to enter their life.”
There it was again.
Everything Peter had failed to understand.
Choice.
Adrian continued.
“I thought you were happy.”
“I thought I was too.”
“I had no intention of interfering.”
“Even if I married him?”
His jaw tightened.
“Yes.”
“That would have hurt.”
“Yes.”
“You still wouldn’t?”
“No.”
I stared at him.
“Why?”
“Because love that requires taking away your decision is not love I want.”
My eyes filled before I could stop them.
I looked away.
Bad timing.
Very bad timing.
I had been nearly married six days earlier.
My kitchen had burned.
My ex-fiancé had been stabbed.
Federal investigators were apparently circling a criminal freight network.
Falling for Adrian Vescari seemed irresponsible.
So naturally, that was the moment I realized I already had.
Not love.
Not yet.
But the beginning.
The dangerous little shift.
The moment someone stopped being a person in the room and became the person you noticed entering it.
I wiped my eyes.
“We are absolutely not doing anything about this.”
Adrian blinked.
“About what?”
I pointed between us.
“This.”
For the first time, Adrian Vescari looked genuinely confused.
Then he understood.
His mouth curved.
“Molly.”
“No.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You were going to.”
“I really wasn’t.”
“Good.”
“Good.”
“We’re both adults.”
“Yes.”
“We can be normal.”
His smile deepened.
“Of course.”
I narrowed my eyes.
“Stop enjoying this.”
“I’m trying.”
“You’re failing.”
“Yes.”
I almost smiled.
Then Leo returned.
His face erased it.
“Ray Dempsey was found.”
The room quieted.
“Where?” Adrian asked.
“Bus terminal.”
“Alive?”
“Yes.”
“In custody?”
Leo nodded.
“He had something.”
“What?”
Leo looked at me.
“A list of addresses.”
My stomach tightened.
“Whose?”
“Parish volunteers.”
My breath stopped.
Leo continued.
“Father Nolan.”
“Amy.”
“Your mother.”
I went cold.
May you like
Then—
“And you.”
