Chapter 2 - Don’t Feed Them
Pete waited until the breakfast rush thinned before asking me to come into the office.
I remained beside the grill.
“If you know something about my father, you can say it where I can breathe.”
He looked smaller than he had that morning.
“Arthur asked me for help.”
“When?”
“Before the store closed.”
“What kind of help?”
“He wanted someone to come with him to a meeting about the lease.”
“And you went?”
Pete rubbed his palms against his trousers.
“No.”
I stared at him.
Outside the kitchen window, volunteers pushed a stranded sedan free of a snowbank.
“He said he’d found duplicate charges,” Pete continued. “That the landlord was billing him for repairs to buildings he didn’t rent.”
I remembered the folders.
My father had carried them everywhere during those final months.
Blue elastic bands around swollen stacks of paper.
“Why didn’t you go?”
“Because I owed money on this place. Because the people arranging the meeting knew that. Because I had a daughter in college and convinced myself Arthur understood things I didn’t.”
“You were afraid.”
“Yes.”
The word cost him something.
It did not give me back my father.
“Did you know what happened?”
“Not all of it.”
“But enough to wonder.”
Pete lowered his head.
“Yes.”
I left him in the office.
Daniel was standing near the service entrance, speaking with the woman coordinating deliveries.
“I need a name,” I told him.
He ended the conversation immediately.
“Vincent Kessler.”
I recognized it.
Everyone did.
Kessler owned development companies, sponsored charity dinners, and appeared in photographs holding ceremonial shovels beside smiling officials.
“Your father’s landlord was a company associated with his group,” Daniel said.
“Associated how?”
“I don’t have a complete answer yet.”
“You had twelve years.”
His jaw tightened.
“I didn’t spend twelve years looking.”
It was a terrible answer.
It was also the first one that didn’t insult me.
Before I could reply, the diner’s landline rang.
Tommy answered, listened, then held the receiver toward me.
“Somebody asking for you.”
I took it.
“Mara Bellamy?”
The voice was polished, older, entirely unhurried.
“Yes.”
“I understand you’ve been generous to some travelers.”
“We sell breakfast.”
“Your father was generous too. People admired that.”
My fingers went numb.
“Who is this?”
“A person offering advice.”
“Then use your name.”
A pause.
“Don’t feed them again.”
I looked toward Daniel.
He saw my face and stopped moving.
“What?”
“Hungry men leave, Miss Bellamy. Comfortable men remember things they should have forgotten.”
The line went dead.
I stayed with the receiver against my ear until the dial tone began.
Daniel did not reach for the phone.
“What did he say?”
I repeated every word.
Marco appeared in the doorway.
Daniel lifted a hand without looking at him.
“No.”
Marco stopped.
Whatever he had expected to be ordered to do, he had his answer.
I placed the receiver in its cradle.
“If this turns into men settling things behind buildings, all of you leave.”
Daniel looked at me.
“Understood.”
“I mean it.”
“I know.”
He suggested we report the call.
I nearly laughed at the absurdity of a reputed crime boss telling me to contact the police.
Then I realized absurd things could still be sensible.
Pete provided the call information from the phone system. I wrote down the words while they remained sharp. A responding officer took a statement without pretending the caller had kindly identified himself.
By noon, I had spoken with an attorney Daniel recommended but did not employ.
Her name was Ruth Maddox.
Before hearing anything else, she explained that if I retained her, she represented me.
Not Daniel.
Not Pete.
Me.
I liked her immediately.
She asked what records my family still possessed.
“I don’t know.”
“Then don’t let anyone clean out an attic this weekend.”
At home that evening, my mother sat beneath a crocheted blanket watching the weather forecast.
Jean Bellamy had survived two heart procedures and a lifetime of pretending worry was indigestion.
When I mentioned Vincent Kessler, she turned off the television.
Not down.
Off.
“Who said that name to you?”
I told her.
She listened with her eyes closed.
When I finished, she asked me to bring the metal toolbox from the hall closet.
It had belonged to my father.
I set it on her lap.
From beneath a tray of old screwdrivers, she removed a flat envelope wrapped in plastic.
On the front, in my father’s handwriting, were four words.
FOR MARA, WHEN IT’S SAFE.
May you like
My mother began to cry.
And suddenly I understood that I wasn’t the only person who had spent twelve years believing silence was a kind of protection.
