Chapter 3 - THE MAN WHO ANSWERED
I had three fractured ribs.
One was displaced.
My left lung was bruised.
The cut along my side came from broken glass, not the kicking.
That was good news.
Apparently there were categories of good news after someone almost killed you.
No internal bleeding.
No punctured lung.
No surgery.
I spent the first night at Northwestern Memorial with pain medication dripping into my arm and my brother sitting in a plastic chair beside the bed like someone had bolted him there.
Ben did not speak much.
That scared me.
Ben was normally incapable of silence.
As children, he narrated breakfast.
As teenagers, he could turn taking out the trash into a ten-minute argument about municipal waste policy.
Now he sat with both elbows on his knees, staring at the floor.
At three in the morning, I woke and found him still there.
“You should sleep.”
He looked up.
“So should you.”
“I am sleeping.”
“That was unconsciousness from medication.”
“Close enough.”
He didn’t smile.
I looked toward the dark window.
Chicago lights beyond the glass.
“Is Trent in jail?”
Ben’s jaw tightened.
“Yes.”
Police had arrested him at the apartment.
Domestic battery.
Aggravated assault.
Weapons charges.
There were photographs.
Blood.
Broken furniture.
A bullet in the wall.
For once, there was evidence Trent could not explain away by smiling.
“Will he stay there?”
Ben’s silence answered.
“Ben.”
“Bond hearing tomorrow.”
My stomach tightened.
“He’ll get out.”
“I don’t know.”
“You know.”
He stood.
Walked toward the window.
“You should have called me.”
I closed my eyes.
“I tried.”
“Before tonight.”
“I know.”
“After the first time.”
“I know.”
“The second.”
“I know.”
He turned.
“Why didn’t you?”
There it was.
The question everyone asks because from outside abuse seems like a door.
Closed or open.
Stay or leave.
But it doesn’t feel like a door from inside.
It feels like a hallway that changes shape every time you try to walk down it.
“I was ashamed.”
Ben stared.
“Of him?”
“Of me.”
His expression broke.
I continued.
“Every time I went back, you looked at me like I was choosing it.”
“I was angry.”
“I know.”
“I was terrified.”
“I know.”
He sat beside me again.
“When I said that thing about carrying your coffin…”
“I remember.”
“I shouldn’t have.”
“You weren’t wrong.”
“Yes.”
His voice cracked.
“I was.”
He looked at me.
“You thought you had to almost die before I would help.”
Tears filled my eyes.
“That makes me wrong.”
I reached for his hand.
Pain stopped me.
Ben noticed and moved closer.
He took mine carefully.
“I’m sorry.”
“Me too.”
We stayed that way for a while.
Then I remembered the card.
“Where’s my coat?”
Ben frowned.
“What?”
“My coat.”
“Police bagged your clothes.”
“The card.”
“What card?”
“Luca’s.”
His face hardened.
“No.”
“What?”
“Forget him.”
“That seems difficult after he broke into my apartment.”
“His men broke into your apartment.”
“You know what I mean.”
Ben stood again.
“Clara, you accidentally contacted one of the most dangerous men in Chicago.”
“He called an ambulance.”
“That doesn’t make him safe.”
“He saved me.”
Ben looked at me.
“Yes.”
The answer surprised me.
“I’m grateful he did.”
Then his voice sharpened.
“But Moretti doesn’t do anything without a reason.”
“I asked him why.”
“And?”
“He said because I couldn’t breathe.”
Ben laughed once.
No humor.
“That’s not a reason for a guy like him to bring three SUVs across the city.”
I remembered Luca looking at the blood.
His face.
The tiny change when I told him Trent kicked me.
“There’s something else.”
Ben waited.
I told him about the blue key.
His expression changed.
“What kind of key?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did you ever see one?”
“No.”
“What did Moretti say?”
“That Trent was looking for it.”
“Anything else?”
“He told me not to go home.”
Ben gave a bitter laugh.
“First thing he’s said I agree with.”
Detectives interviewed me that morning.
Trent had admitted the beating happened but claimed I attacked him first.
Of course.
He said the gun fired accidentally when “unknown intruders” entered the apartment.
He refused to identify Luca.
That interested Detective Marisol Vega.
She was forty-something, with tired eyes and a way of asking questions that made silence feel like evidence.
“You’re certain the man identified himself as Luca Moretti?”
“He didn’t.”
“Who did?”
“Trent.”
“Did Mr. Moretti threaten him?”
“Not exactly.”
“Did his associates assault Trent?”
“They disarmed him.”
“That isn’t what I asked.”
I swallowed.
“One tackled him.”
“Anything after he was no longer armed?”
“One twisted his arm.”
“Did Moretti order that?”
“No.”
“In fact?”
“He told him to stop.”
Vega wrote it down.
Interesting.
“What do you know about Mr. Moretti?”
“Nothing.”
She looked at me.
“You live in Chicago.”
“Fine. Rumors.”
“What kind?”
“Mafia.”
She did not react.
“Anything else?”
“No.”
“What did Trent do for work?”
I hesitated.
“Sales.”
“For?”
“Different companies.”
“Which companies?”
“I realized I didn’t know.
He always said logistics, import, private distribution.
“Trent didn’t stay anywhere long.”
Vega watched me.
“Did he ever carry large amounts of cash?”
My skin prickled.
“Sometimes.”
“How large?”
“Ten thousand. Maybe more.”
“And you never asked?”
“I did.”
“What did he say?”
“Sports betting.”
She wrote something.
“Did you believe him?”
“At first.”
“And later?”
“I learned not to ask questions that made him angry.”
Vega’s face softened slightly.
Then returned to professional.
“Did Trent ever mention Moretti?”
“No.”
“D’Angelo?”
The name meant nothing.
“No.”
“Marco D’Angelo?”
“No.”
She closed her notebook.
“If you remember anything, call me.”
“Am I in danger?”
Vega paused.
That pause terrified me.
“We’re still figuring that out.”
“From Trent?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
She looked at Ben.
Then back at me.
“Potentially from people connected to him.”
That afternoon, Trent’s bond hearing happened.
He was held.
Temporary victory.
The weapons charge helped.
So did the extent of my injuries.
Ben looked almost relieved.
I wanted to be.
I wasn’t.
At six, a nurse brought flowers.
No card.
White lilies.
Ben stared.
“Who sent those?”
“I don’t know.”
He searched them like they might explode.
At the bottom of the arrangement was a folded piece of paper.
Not a romantic message.
Just handwriting.
The blue key opens a storage locker. Trent believes you know where it is. If you remember anything, do not tell anyone except Vega or me. — L
Ben read it twice.
“Vega or him?”
“Yes.”
“Why would a mafia boss tell you to trust a detective?”
“I don’t know.”
“That’s not normal.”
“Nothing about this is normal.”
Ben crumpled the note.
“Don’t contact him.”
My phone was charging beside the bed.
New phone.
Ben bought it.
I looked toward it.
“I wasn’t planning to.”
That was true for approximately forty minutes.
At 6:43, an unknown number texted.
Are you alive?
I knew immediately.
I typed:
Unfortunately for several people.
Three dots.
Then:
Good.
I stared.
Why did you come?
Longer pause.
I told you. You said you couldn’t breathe.
You cross Chicago every time a stranger sends the wrong number?
No answer.
Then:
No.
I waited.
Then why me?
A full minute.
My sister sent me that message once.
Everything inside me stopped.
What message?
His reply:
He broke my ribs. I can’t breathe.
My fingers went still.
Luca continued.
I saw it the next morning.
I stared at the screen.
Was she okay?
No answer.
I knew before he typed it.
No.
My throat tightened.
I looked toward Ben.
He had gone downstairs for coffee.
I’m sorry.
Luca replied:
So am I.
Then—
That is why I came. Not because of Trent.
I believed him.
Maybe I shouldn’t have.
But grief has a tone.
I recognized it.
Who was she?
Elena. My younger sister. 23.
I closed my eyes.
What happened to the man?
Long pause.
Then:
You don’t need that answer.
There it was.
The reason Ben was afraid of him.
I changed direction.
What is the blue key?
His reply arrived almost immediately.
A problem Trent created.
For you?
For everyone.
What does it open?
A locker at Union Station.
My heartbeat quickened.
What is inside?
He did not answer.
Instead:
Has Vega spoken to you?
Yes.
Good. Trust her.
Why?
Because I do.
That made even less sense.
Before I could ask, another text came.
Do you own a green winter coat?
I frowned.
Yes.
Where is it?
My stomach tightened.
The coat.
I had not worn it since February.
It usually hung in the hall closet.
Except two weeks earlier, Trent had thrown everything out of that closet while searching for something.
I remembered picking clothes up.
The green coat felt strangely heavy.
I assumed coins in the pocket.
Later, I moved seasonal clothes into a plastic storage bin beneath the bed.
My pulse rose.
Why?
Luca:
Clara. Where is the coat?
I looked toward the hospital room door.
Then at the phone.
At the apartment. In a bin under the bed.
Three dots.
Stopped.
Then immediately:
Do not tell anyone else.
I stared.
Why?
His answer made my skin go cold.
Because I think Trent hid the key in your coat.
Ten seconds later, Ben returned carrying coffee.
Behind him walked Detective Vega.
She looked at me.
Then at my phone.
“Clara.”
Something in her expression told me she already knew.
“Did Moretti contact you?”
I swallowed.
“Yes.”
“Did he mention the key?”
Ben stared at me.
I looked between them.
Then remembered Luca’s note.
Tell Vega or me.
I answered.
“He thinks it’s in my green coat.”
Vega’s face changed.
“Where’s the coat?”
“My apartment.”
She immediately pulled out her phone.
Ben whispered—
“What the hell is in that locker?”
Vega looked at him.
Then me.
“Evidence.”
“Of what?”
She hesitated.
“A lot of people who do not want to go to prison.”
Before I could ask anything else, her phone rang.
She answered.
“Vega.”
Silence.
Her face hardened.
“What?”
Another pause.
“Lock the scene.”
She ended the call.
“What happened?” I asked.
Vega looked directly at me.
“Someone broke into your apartment twenty minutes ago.”
My stomach dropped.
“The coat?”
“Gone.”
May you like
Then—
“So is the storage bin.”
