Chapter 3 - THE WOMAN WHO ARRANGED MY DATE HAD BEEN USED TOO, AND DOMINIC DISCOVERED SOMEONE HAD LIED TO BOTH OF US
Dominic’s “temporary safe place” turned out to be a six-bedroom townhouse on East Seventy-Third Street.
Of course it did.
Lily walked through the front door at 1:04 in the morning, looked at the marble staircase, and whispered:
“You’re really rich.”
Dominic removed his coat.
“So I’m told.”
“You have two stairs.”
He frowned.
“What?”
“One going up.”
“One going around.”
“Those are both part of the same staircase.”
Lily stared.
“That seems wasteful.”
I turned away before he saw me laugh.
We slept.
Or Lily did.
I spent most of the night on a sofa in the guest suite, staring at the ceiling and trying to understand how my life had transformed from an overcrowded emergency room to hiding inside a rumored mob boss’s townhouse with a dead man’s microSD card in my purse.
By six in the morning, I gave up.
Dominic was already in the kitchen.
Coffee.
Black shirt.
No jacket.
Two phones.
One newspaper.
“Do you sleep?”
I asked.
“Occasionally.”
“Comforting.”
He pushed coffee toward me.
I stopped.
“What?”
“Did you make this?”
His mouth twitched.
“No.”
“Then maybe.”
He understood.
After Mrs. Delaney’s tea, I was not drinking anything handed to me casually for a while.
Dominic nodded toward an unopened bottle of water.
“Sealed.”
I took it.
At seven, a woman named Priya Shah arrived.
Mid-thirties.
Cyber-forensics consultant.
Not employed by Dominic.
Not family.
She worked for a litigation-support firm used by corporate attorneys.
Good.
Dominic had understood my requirement.
Priya examined the card.
“Encrypted.”
“Can you open it?”
“Probably.”
“How long?”
She looked offended.
“People always ask that before letting me look.”
Dominic said:
“She’ll stop asking if you answer.”
Priya stared at him.
“I understand why people find you irritating.”
I liked her immediately.
She left with the card under documented chain-of-custody procedures.
I photographed every form.
Dominic did not comment.
At 8:15, my phone rang.
Rachel Monroe.
I nearly ignored it.
Then answered.
“Where are you?”
She sounded frantic.
“What?”
“I’ve been calling.”
“My phone died last night.”
“Elena, I’m so sorry.”
My body tightened.
“For which part?”
Silence.
Dominic looked up.
I put the call on speaker without explaining.
Rachel continued:
“I didn’t know Lily left.”
“I didn’t know Mrs. Delaney fell asleep.”
“I didn’t know anything weird was happening.”
“Start with the date.”
“What?”
“How did you get Dominic Moretti’s contact?”
She paused.
Too long.
“Rachel.”
“A man from the St. Catherine’s donor office.”
Dominic’s face changed.
“Name?”
I asked.
“Martin Lane.”
Dominic shook his head.
Didn’t know it.
Rachel continued:
“He came through the hospital fundraiser last month.”
“He said he worked with private donors.”
“He heard me joking that I was trying to get you to date again.”
My stomach turned.
“You discussed my dating life with a stranger?”
“No!”
She sounded horrified.
“He was at our table.”
“You remember the trauma-wing dinner?”
I did.
I had skipped it.
Rachel attended.
“He heard your name?”
“Yes.”
“Then what?”
“A week later he emailed me.”
“Said he knew someone successful, widowed emotionally from work—”
I closed my eyes.
The exact phrase she had used.
“He gave you Dominic’s number?”
“No.”
“He gave me the number for some private concierge.”
“Luxury matchmaking.”
“I thought it was ridiculous.”
“But then they contacted me.”
Dominic’s brows narrowed.
“Name?”
I repeated the question.
Rachel checked.
“Sterling House Introductions.”
Dominic leaned back.
Now he recognized something.
“What?”
I asked.
He took his phone.
“Someone contacted my office from Sterling House three weeks ago.”
“About me?”
“Yes.”
“You knew?”
“I knew your name.”
“Not Michael’s.”
“No.”
“What did they tell you?”
“That a thirty-two-year-old ER nurse named Elena Bennett had reluctantly agreed to meet someone.”
“Widowed.”
“One child.”
“Private.”
“Not impressed by money.”
I stared.
“And that appealed to you?”
He looked directly at me.
“Yes.”
That was annoyingly honest.
“Who referred me?”
Dominic opened an email.
“Victor Raines.”
My blood chilled.
The name he had asked me about at Beluchi’s.
“Who is he?”
Dominic’s voice became flat.
“Former chief financial officer of Calder Financial.”
Michael’s company.
I sat down.
Rachel whispered from the phone:
“Wait.”
“What?”
“Victor Raines?”
“You know him?”
“He’s on St. Catherine’s corporate donor council.”
Of course.
My life had just become a diagram of invisible lines.
“Rachel.”
“Yes?”
“Did Martin Lane look like Victor Raines?”
“No.”
“I’ve seen Raines.”
“Different man.”
Dominic said:
“Lane may not be real.”
Rachel started crying.
“Elena, I swear I didn’t know.”
I believed her.
That did not make me less angry.
“Did you give anyone my home address?”
“No.”
“Mrs. Delaney’s name?”
“No.”
“My schedule?”
Rachel went silent.
My stomach dropped.
“What?”
“The ER schedule.”
“What about it?”
“It’s posted internally.”
“Anyone on the hospital network can see staffing assignments.”
Dominic and I looked at each other.
If someone linked to the hospital donor network had access to internal systems—
they could know when I was working late.
They could know when the date was scheduled.
They could have guessed I needed childcare.
Rachel whispered:
“I’m sorry.”
I breathed.
“Go to work.”
“Do not tell anyone where I am.”
“Do not discuss Michael.”
“Do not discuss Dominic.”
“Call me if anyone asks.”
“Okay.”
Then Dominic said:
“And Rachel?”
She went silent.
Apparently hearing him directly carried effect.
“Yes?”
“Do not meet Martin Lane again.”
“No problem.”
We ended the call.
I stared at Dominic.
“You were manipulated too.”
“I dislike that wording.”
“It is accurate.”
“I dislike it accurately.”
Good.
Then his expression became serious.
“Victor Raines would not arrange a date because he’s romantic.”
“Why would he want us together?”
“I don’t know.”
“What did Michael’s name mean to you before last night?”
Dominic hesitated.
Then sat.
“Three years before Michael died, Moretti Maritime discovered shipment codes being duplicated.”
“What does that mean?”
“Someone was using our container numbers to disguise freight that never moved through our system.”
“For what?”
“Money.”
“Contraband.”
“Payments.”
“I never learned all of it.”
“Who was behind it?”
“We traced several financial settlements to North Harbor Logistics.”
The name Michael apparently knew.
“Owned by?”
“Shells.”
“Eventually connected to Anthony Salerno.”
I knew that name from newspapers.
Crime.
Rackets.
Federal investigations.
A man Dominic’s world had apparently hated.
“And Calder?”
“Calder Financial processed several accounts connected to North Harbor.”
“Victor Raines was CFO.”
“Yes.”
“Michael was auditor.”
“Yes.”
“So he found it.”
“Likely.”
“Daniel?”
Dominic looked at me.
“Daniel Cross.”
The name finally gained a face.
“Who?”
“Calder’s executive vice president of internal risk.”
My stomach dropped.
Michael’s boss.
“He attended the funeral.”
I whispered.
Dominic’s jaw tightened.
“He stood beside Michael’s mother.”
“He hugged me.”
“He told me Michael respected me more than anyone.”
I suddenly felt nauseated.
“I need to speak to Ruth.”
Michael’s mother.
Dominic nodded.
“Not by phone.”
“Why?”
“Because if someone has watched you for four years, we assume your close family may be watched too.”
Fear changed shape.
“I hate that sentence.”
“So do I.”
At nine-thirty, Priya called.
“We opened part of the card.”
My hand tightened.
“What’s on it?”
“Several encrypted folders.”
“One text file opened.”
“Read it.”
She hesitated.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
Priya read:
Elena—if this got to you, I was right to be afraid. Do not trust Daniel Cross. North Harbor is laundering through cloned shipping records. Moretti’s company appears in the ledger, but I do not believe Moretti authorized it. Someone is using his network as cover.
I stopped breathing.
Dominic went completely still.
Priya continued:
Victor knows.
My hand flew to my mouth.
Daniel knows I copied the ledger.
Then one final line.
If I don’t come home, the original is not in the apartment.
The file ended.
Silence.
Dominic stared at the table.
“My company was being framed.”
I barely heard him.
All I heard was Michael.
If I don’t come home.
He knew.
Maybe not certainty.
Enough.
He had gone to work knowing there was a chance he would never see Lily again.
Never see me.
And he had said nothing.
Part of me wanted to scream at him.
Another part understood.
Fear makes people believe secrecy is protection.
Sometimes it is.
Sometimes it only leaves the people you love wandering through lies after you’re gone.
Then Priya said:
“There’s a second file.”
“What?”
“Photograph.”
She sent it.
Dominic looked first.
His face changed.
“What?”
I took the phone.
It showed a storage receipt.
Hudson Secure Archives.
Jersey City.
Box number 417.
Date deposited:
January 16.
The day before Michael died.
At the bottom, handwritten:
R.B. HAS THE KEY.
Ruth Bennett.
Michael’s mother.
May you like
I was already standing.
“We’re going to see Ruth.”
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